“Carrie scary.”
Porthos clasped Aramis’s arm. “Chucky-doll scary.”
Athos rubbed his temples. “My point is, I can’t figure out why you didn’t make a beeline for the girl. You went stark raving mad when you saw her.”
“I did not go stark raving mad,” insisted Clarke.
Aramis looked at Porthos. “He never really does go stark raving mad, does he?”
Porthos shook his head. “I don’t know how he manages it. I find it difficult to not go stark raving mad.”
“All right,” Athos said, “maybe not what would constitute stark raving mad for either of you. But for him.”
Porthos and Aramis eyed each other and then nodded.
“Yeah,” agreed Aramis, “you’re right, Athos. For him, that was stark raving mad.”
Clarke sighed.
“So,” Porthos asked, “what happened after you ran off with her?”
“Come on.” Aramis grinned. “Spill the tea. How far did you get with her? Please don’t tell me you got no further than kissing.”
Athos shoved Aramis. “Why would he want to kiss the woman responsible for that abysmal end to last season? And at Silverstone no less.”
Aramis returned the shove. “Because of the bet. He had to make a move.”
Athos shook his head. “Kissing is much too intimate. A move means something direct, transactional. Nothing sentimental or romantic. Go straight for the honeypot.”
Aramis nodded. “I get your point. Hit that cookie.”
Porthos likewise nodded. “Dive your face smack into that muffin.”
Athos and Aramis stared at Porthos.
He shrugged. “Just a figure of speech, you know.”
Clarke cringed, recalling what Ceci had said about men likening women to desserts.
Athos crossed his arms. “The only reason we went up to her was to run interference for you with Tilney. Otherwise, the douche would have monopolized her. We did it to give you a fighting chance.”
“Well,” Aramis said, “that’s not the only reason. I would have liked to dance with her.” He paused. “Actually, I would have liked to do more than that.”
“Me too,” Porthos said. “That girl is fine.”
Athos sighed. “Okay, I’ll admit she’s attractive. But that’s not the point.”
“She’s more than attractive.”
“She is.”
“That is not the point.” Athos threw up his hands, directing his gaze at Clarke. “I can’t figure out how a guy can get into over seventeen hundred pounds of carbon fiber and drive it around a track at over two hundred miles per hour and be too timid to face a five-foot, six-inch woman—”
“Five-foot-five,” Clarke corrected him.
Aramis grinned. “You measured the girl?”
“I just know. I can tell.”
