“This is the heart of racing.” He gestured at the sea of hot rods behind him. “Cars.”
Her mouth dropped open. Then snapped shut. She frowned.
He looked amused. “You don’t look impressed.”
“Do you think I’m an idiot?”
He leaned his hip against his car and crossed his arms. “Doyouthink I think that?”
Her frown deepened.No.
“Miss Fischer—”
“Monica.”
“Miss Fischer,” he repeated, seemingly unperturbed that she didn’t like the way he said it. It should be infantilizing. It was…not. It was engaging. Arousing. Distracting. “Is it possible that part of your problem is a rush to get to the finish line, in every sense of the word? You want me to deliver racing to you in a neatly tied up package, but it’s not neat. It’s long days and long nights of nothing but the love of grease and exhaust and growling engines. Of tires and repairs and the very specific kind of envy that sparks deep in your gut when you realize that someone else had a better idea than you.”
She blinked, and maybe her frown softened. She wasn’t sure, because he was closer to her now. He’d stopped leaning on his car and prowled towards her as he talked, and now he set his hands on her shoulders and turned her around.
“See that green car over there?” He pointed past her with one arm outstretched.
She nodded, ignoring the wild heat that blazed across her chest as his other hand—still on her shoulder—squeezed a little.
“That’s a vintage Mustang. I used to own one of them. Sold it so I could buy this car. I’d like to own another some day. That car makes me curious, and curiosity is at the core of racing.”
She glanced at his black Gran Torino. “Do you wish you’d painted your car to look like the inside of a children’s arcade?”
He laughed, then gently pressed his fingertips to the small of her back, pushing her forward. “What I envy is not on the outside. Let’s take a look at the engine. See if I might beat him in a race.”
Next to the Mustang was a little hatchback, a Gremlin, and Josh pored over both engines. He sweet-talked their drivers in the same confident way he’d coached the pit crew earlier—the same way he was managing her demands to learn more about racing.
When a car backfired nearby, and she jumped, he caught her hand and pulled her close.
The early quivers of a crush were forming like the smooth, inevitable cresting of a wave. It swelled inside her. Dangerous, yes. Her father wouldn’t approve.An understatement.Her father would be livid if he found out she was messing with one of his mechanics.
But her father wasn’t here tonight, and this wasfun.
“I’ll catch you in the pit lines,” Josh said, having firmed up a race buddy. Then he caught her hand again and gave her his full attention. “Come on. It’s time to get our tickets.”
He was only holding her hand to tug her along, to keep her safe around souped-up cars rocking on their modified suspension and boisterous fans.
For a girl who had grown up around racing, this was nothing like anything she’d ever experienced.
And it apparently showed on her face.
Josh laughed at her as they stood in line to get wristbands. “You’ve never been to a drag race track?”
She shook her head. “Only…”
He nodded. Only the fancy racing circuits, with celebrities in the paddock.
“I think my father must have done racing like this when he was younger?” She shrugged. “A long time before I was born.”
Her mother was his third wife, and the first one who had convinced him to have a child. His final wife, he said, although he was only in his sixties and he didn’t like to be single, so Monica was braced for him to announce he’d decided to re-marry.
Although he might not re-marry, since all of his ex-wives have seats on the board of Fischer Racing, and lately, he’d started chaffing at their input, since he no longer could control it.
“Monica…”
