“I’m not little,” he huffs.
Dean holds his hands up. “I’m sorry, you’re right. Big man.”
Daniel smiles. “I wish I could race like you.”
I resist the urge to clutch my chest. All this kid wants to do is race, but he’s stuck here, sick. Life truly isn’t fair. I watch as Dean talks to him. He seems different with Daniel. I’m not sure why. There is this look of almost longing that’s in his dark green eyes that makes me want to comfort him somehow.
“Well, maybe you can one day. How about I see if I can get you a special trip to the Charlotte race coming up? What do you say?” He glances up at Daniel’s parents, who beam at him and nod in agreement. The PR team who’s with us starts to hustle to make that happen, and begins to make plans with Daniel’s parents.
We take more pictures and give him some signed merch before we start to head out of the building. I’m still a bit surprised that he did something like that for Daniel, but also, it’s nice to see this side of him.
“That was really nice what you did for that little boy.”
“It’s nothing. Just wanted to do something nice for him. He just reminded me—” He trails off. “Never mind. Just wanted to give him a nice experience.”
Remind him of who?I wonder.
I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about that, so I let it slide. We make it back out to the parking lot and Gwen, the PR manager, catches up to us.
“Alright, let’s do one final photo of you two to show we are on good terms, yeah?” Gwen says. She coordinates all the outside events for SCORS. “Come on, closer,” she coaxes, pushing some of her dark hair away from her face. “Dean, put your arm around her. Just pretend you like each other.”
Dean turns to look at me. His green eyes shine in the sun. “Well, you heard the lady.”
“Fine,” I grumble, giving in with an eye roll.
He puts his arm around my shoulders, smiling wide for the camera, and I do the same. My stomach pitches when he touches me, the warmth of his hand seeping through the sleeve of my blue team polo. I’m not sure if it’s from disgust or something else.
Disgust. It has to be disgust, right?
He’s so close that I can smell his cologne. It’s mixed with a scent of laundry soap and something else, something more…masculine. Something musky.
I kind of like it.
After Gwen is done with the photos, I quickly step away from him. I turn to look at him again and he seems almost disappointed that I put space between us. Not sure why, but I kind of feel the same way.
ELEVEN
DEAN
The door chimesto The Meadows Diner, my second job when I’m not at the race shop or at the track. The extra income is necessary to keep my racing goals alive. Sure, when I win I make money, but most of that goes right back into the team itself, and I need to be able to pay my other living expenses.
I’ve been working here since my brother’s racing accident. Since that day, I’ve been on my own. That day changed everything.
The Meadows Diner is a 1950s style diner that still has a modern vibe to it. It’s a hole-in-the-wall type of place, so I know no one I know personally will ever find it.
I barely catch a glance at the two new customers who just walked in and sit down at a booth along the front windows, picking up their menus to decide what they want to order. When I get closer, I’m in shock to see Regan Brady with another girl who is almost her opposite, with dark black hair and even darker eyes. Not just in looks they are opposite, but in their styles, too. Regan wears light colored jeans and a red shirt. Her friend wears all black: black pants, a black concert shirt from a metal band that I recognize, and of course, blackboots. I also take notice of her nose piercing. I try not to stare, but that’s not usually how the customers we usually see dress.
Get a grip, man.
I walk up and Brady’s jaw almost immediately hits the floor when she sees me waiting with my pad and pen to take their drink orders.
“Dixon? What are you doing here?” she asks. I have to refrain from rolling my eyes at her dumb question.
“What does it look like, Brady? I’m working. What do you want to drink?” I ask flatly.
We are still staring at each other when her friend kicks her under the table to break her trance-like state.
“Ow! I’ll take a Diet Coke, please,” she says, rubbing her shin under the table. I write it down and turn to her friend.
