In the Groove (11 page)

"Why?"

Rebecca crossed her arms in front of her, the smile on her face one that was as amused as it was pitying. Why did she pity her?

"Because one thing about race-car drivers— they're all superstitious. If you baked him cookies and he drove well, he's going to want those cookies every day now. Well, every day he has to drive."

It was no more than Allen had implied, but hearing Rebecca say it concerned her. "Why the heck is that?"

Another car came roaring into the garage, Rebecca and Sarah watching it pass.

"Because all professional athletes are superstitious, some more than others," Rebecca admitted after the engine shut off. "And Lance is at the top of the superstitious meter. The whole garage knows about his purple underwear."

"Purple
underwear?''

"Only on race day," Rebecca said, her words all but a giggle. "And only at Daytona," she added. "Seems he was wearing them when he won here a few years back and so he wears them every time now, although they don't seem to be working as well. Todd Peters says that's because he ripped them last year when he wrecked and so now they don't work anymore."

Sarah felt speechless for a moment, but then she felt laughter well up inside of her. "Well, if he asks me to make cookies for him every week, I'll be sure to do it before I come to the track."

"Oh, yeah?" Rebecca asked. "Why's that?"

Sarah looked into her eyes and she knew Rebecca knew the truth. She even saw the woman's eyes flicker. "Like that, is it?"

How had she guessed. "Like what?" Sarah asked, pretending innocence.

"Don't give me that, Sarah Tingle. I might have just met you, but I'm not blind. Besides, Lance is one of the nicest drivers in the series. To be honest, I'm surprised someone hasn't snatched him up yet. Then again, racing's pretty much consumed his life. But, still."

"I haven't snatched him up."

"No, but he
wants
you to snatch him up."

"No, he doesn't."

Rebecca rolled her eyes. "Of course he does. He wouldn't invite you into the garage, give you a radio, and send you up on his hauler if he didn't want to impress you. Drivers may be men, but in some ways they're still little boys. They always,
always
like to impress the girls with the toys on their playground."

"No," Sarah said. "Seriously. He's just being nice to me."

But her words were drowned out when Lance started his car with a crack and a vroom that made Sarah jump.

"You going back up top and watch him again?" Rebecca nearly yelled, a knowing look in her eyes.

"No," Sarah said, watching as Lance backed out a few seconds later, and when he did, Sarah watched to see if he waved goodbye to her.

She
wanted
him to wave goodbye to her.

What. An idiot.

So when the garage had gone quiet again—or as quiet as a NASCAR garage could turn, what with whirring mechanisms and rumbling generators— she said, "I was actually going to leave."

Had she just heard Lance say her name on the headset which still rested on her shoulder?

She lifted one of the blue earpieces, but it was just Allen talking about a spoiler adjustment.

Rebecca cocked a brow at her, the look in her eyes asking, "Why are you so anxious to hear what they're saying if you're not interested in Lance?"

And that was the whole problem because she thought she'd done a pretty good job of disguising her attraction. Allen's words—
he's not about to let you go
—had filled her with an instant panic that had made her want to flee, because if Lance insisted she accompany him to the track on practice and race days, she wasn't certain she'd be able to stop herself from doing something stupid.

"To be honest, I'm kind of bored by all this," Sarah lied. "And I thought I heard my name on the radio. That's all."

"Well, if you were going to leave, why don't you join me for some tea?"

'Tea?" Sarah repeated, surprised. "I thought only Brits drank tea."

"The British and people who don't like the taste of coffee and need a little caffeine. C'mon. We can get to know each other over a steaming cuppa," she said, mimicking an English accent.

"Oh, no. I couldn't do that..."

"Nonsense." Rebecca checked her watch. "Practice will be over soon. The car I own is total crap—"

At which Sarah's eyes widened because a) Rebecca Newman didn't look like the type to say the word
crap,
and b) she had no idea she'd owned the car.

"And to be honest," Rebecca finished, "I'm in need of female companionship. If you hadn't noticed, there's a lot of men around this sport."

There were, but Sarah had noticed quite a few women, too, although none appeared to be working with Rebecca.

"Come on," Rebecca said. "Cece's not here— Blain's wife," she added at Sarah's obvious confusion, "And so you're it."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

And the funny thing was, Sarah was flattered that Rebecca Newman had decided to adopt her. She left with the woman, telling one of Lance's crew members that if Lance asked for her, to tell him she'd gone back to the motor coach.

When they got to Rebecca's own million-dollar motor coach, one that was every bit as luxurious as Lance's—only in a feminine way—she didn't protest when Rebecca turned on the TV. The engine sounds coming from the speakers didn't match the sound of the cars out on the racetrack, thanks to a five-second time delay, but it was still kind of neat to know that what was being televised was happening outside. And Lance did even better this time around, even the announcer sounding excited. In the end Lance had a lap that was a full second faster than the previous year's qualifier.

"Looks like your cookies really worked," Rebecca said, the smell of cinnamon tea filling the air. She had a whole bunch of different kinds of tea, Sarah noticed, making idle chitchat as she boiled water in a shiny black microwave, then pulled down cups from an off-white cabinet with crystal door handles.

"It wasn't the cookies."

"That's what you think, but the truth is something happened today that must have worked. I haven't seen him hold on to a car that loose in almost two years."

"Don't tell me that," Sarah mumbled, putting her head in her hands.

"You like him, don't you?" Rebecca asked, setting a delicate floral cup and saucer down in front of her.

It was on the tip of Sarah's tongue to deny it again, but after being so sweet, not to mention making her tea, Sarah realized she couldn't. She despised fibbing, and if the truth were known, she desperately needed another woman's advice. And since she didn't have a sister, or even a close friend, Rebecca Newman was it.

How sad was that?

"I'm such an idiot," she admitted, pouring sugar into her tea and then moaning as sugary-sweet cinnamon flavor burst onto her tongue. "Oh my gosh, that's to die for."

"It is, isn't it? I buy it from a tea shop in Charlotte. You should try the lemon." She placed her spoon down on the edge of the saucer with a delicate clink, and Sarah thought Rebecca Newman had to be the most elegant woman she'd ever met. She had good taste, too, because her motor coach was stunning. The interior was decorated in pale greens, the color exactly matching Rebecca's eyes. If someone had told her she'd be sitting down in a million-dollar coach, confessing her deepest, darkest secrets to a woman she'd only just met, she'd have called them crazy. But there you had it. That's exactly what she found herself doing.

"He's the nicest guy I've ever met."

"He is," Rebecca agreed, taking a sip of her own tea, French manicured fingers holding the cup gently.

"But he drives race cars for a living and, come on, I'm hardly the type to hold his interest for long."

"You think not?" the woman asked.

"I
know
not."

Rebecca set her cup down. "Let me show you something," she said, getting up from the table to go to a drawer in the kitchen. "Where is it?" Sarah heard her mumble. "I just saw it the other—ah. Here it is." She turned back to Sarah. "Look at this." She placed a photo on the table between them.

Sarah looked. A woman with tied back hair and a funny half smile on her face stared back at her with all the wide-eyed innocence of a virgin about to be pushed into the maw of a volcano—well, maybe not
right
before she was about to be pushed. "Is that your sister?" she asked, suddenly seeing the resemblance.

"No," Rebecca said. "That's me."

Sarah sat up straighter, cocking her head to get a better look. "Wow. You've..." Changed, she almost said, except she didn't want to sound insulting. "You look different," she finished at last.

"I look like a housewife," Rebecca said. "Not that there's anything wrong with that, I just wanted you to see that I didn't always dress like this and get my hair done and my nails painted on a regular basis."

"You didn't?"

"Nope. But then my husband became very,
very
famous, and believe me, it only takes a few times hearing yourself described as a dowdy housewife before you decide to change."

"Someone called you a dowdy housewife?"

"That and more. And the higher my husband's star climbed, the worse it was for me."

Their gazes caught, Sarah saying, "Well, as much as I wish it were otherwise, I don't think a haircut and some new clothes are going to help me with
my
looks."

"You sell yourself too short."

"And I wouldn't change," Sarah added. "Not for any man."

"No?"

And Sarah suddenly remembered the way she'd felt when she'd overheard those two women talking about her.

"Well, maybe."

Rebecca smiled, the light that ebbed in from a window to their right turning her red hair a burnished blond. "That's what I thought. But I didn't show you that picture because I thought you should change."

That was good, because Sarah was just beginning to wonder if she should be insulted at the direction this conversation was taking.

"I showed you that photo because I wanted you to see what the woman who married Randy Newman looked like. When we met, he was already a rising star. He'd won the Busch championship and everyone predicted he'd win a Cup championship, too. But he didn't choose to date some leggy blonde, or glamorous starlet, he chose to date me. I think, at heart, a lot of drivers feel that way. What they want is a woman who will love them for them, not what they do for a living. You told me you didn't know anything about racing and so I bet Lance is liking you a whole lot more than the fans that constantly throw themselves at him. Toss in the fact that you're cute and you're a dead duck."

Oh, great. "But he hasn't done anything to make me think that he wants to, you know... that he wants to
date
me."

Rebecca just looked at her. Sarah had to shift her gaze.

"Nothing?" Rebecca asked after a lengthy pause.

"Nothing," Sarah lied.

It was apparent Rebecca didn't believe her. And when she leaned back and said, "The man I saw talking to you in the garage was not a man who thinks of you like a sister."

"You saw us talking?"

"Mmm-hmm. And let me tell you something else. I have never, ever heard of Lance inviting a woman to watch a practice. Never."

"Oh," Sarah said, the word spilling out of her mouth before she could think better of it. "This is not making me feel better."

"Why not? You should feel flattered," Rebecca said, leaning forward again and taking a sip of tea. Sarah did the same. It really was good tea, and it felt good on her suddenly queasy stomach.

"Look," Sarah said. "It's not that I don't think Lance would be a great boyfriend because, obviously, I do. It's just that I'm not sure I could deal with the whole racing thing. I'd worry that when push came to shove Lance wouldn't be able to commit to someone like me."

"Why not?"

"Because I just don't have
it."

Rebecca smiled. "No, but you seem nice, and that's twenty times more important. And as you can see, Randy didn't marry me for
my
looks." She smiled, but the grin turned melancholy. And then sadness entered her eyes, so much of it that Sarah felt her heart clench in sympathy.

"I'm so sorry, Rebecca."

Rebecca smiled, saying in a low voice, "Call me Becca. And don't be sorry. Randy's death was tough, but I'm over the worst of it now. It still hurts from time to time, but not as bad."

And Rebecca wanted
her
to date a driver.

Some of what she felt must have shown in her eyes because Rebecca gave her a half smile. "With all the new safety devices the drivers have on board their chances of getting hurt are actually pretty slim. I suspect it'll only get better in the coming years."

But Sarah was frowning and shaking her head. "The danger of his sport doesn't worry me." And it was true because the more she talked to Becca, the more Sarah realized the whole professional driver thing had her scared. The publicity. The fans. The traveling. "I just don't think I'm cut out—"

A knock startled them both. Sarah looked at Becca with wide eyes.

"That'd be Lance," Becca said.

"What would
he
be doing here?"

"Word gets around and I'm sure someone told him you and I trotted off together." Becca got up and walked to the door as she spoke, Sarah cringing when she opened the door and said, "Hey, Lance. What brings you here?"

Becca turned back to her, giving her a smug grin, Sarah trying to tell the woman without words that she didn't want Lance to know if she was here. She mimicked cutting her throat, which, in Sarah's opinion, was the universal sign of don't-you-dare-tell-him-I'm-sitting-here.

But when Lance said, "I'm looking for Sarah,"

Becca didn't act surprised, and she didn't pretend not to know who "Sarah" was.

What she said was, "Sarah? Sure. She's here," stepping back from the door to let Lance in.

So much for their burgeoning friendship.

Some of Sarah's pique faded when she saw the look on Lance's face. He all but charged up the steps, an expression on his face of unmistakable concern. She swallowed hard.

"Thank God," he said. "I thought something had happened. Jeesh. You shouldn't have left like that. I blew my last few laps, I was so worried about you."

"I—you what?"

"I was worried about you."

"Well, I think I'll give you two some time to chat. I have to go back to the garage anyway where I can listen to my charming driver complain about the inferior equipment we give him and how his crew chief is a complete waste of a salary."

"Becca," Sarah said, half sitting up.

But she was gone.

"I didn't know you knew Becca Newman," Lance said, still standing over her.

"I don't," she said. "She just sort of... adopted me."

"She's like that," he said, his eyes darting to the chair Becca had vacated before pulling it out and sitting across from her. It felt better to have a table between them, kind of like a lion tamer probably felt when he had a chair in his hand.

"She's nice," Sarah said.

"Yeah, but she's been struggling with that team of hers."

This was good. Nice, impersonal conversation. This she could handle. "I didn't know she even owned a race team. Of course, I didn't even know who
you
were before I came to work for you."

"Randy, her husband, owned a truck team when he died. She sort of expanded the operation, more to keep her busy, I think. This is her first year Cup racing and I think she regrets it. The driver they promoted isn't up to snuff, which means she'll probably have to find someone else to drive. That's never an easy thing to do."

"What isn't?"

"She's going to have to demote her driver. Send him back to racing go-karts. He probably knows it's coming, which is why he's complaining about everything, but the garage knows the truth. Mike doesn't have the goods."

"Is that his name, Mike?"

Lance nodded, fiddling with the spoon that he'd picked up from Becca's abandoned cup of tea.

"You left."

She looked up sharply, surprised by the abrupt change of conversation.

"I couldn't see anything up top there."

"You could have moved to the lounge."

"I couldn't have done that. That's your office, or your crew's office. I don't belong there."

"Yes, you do."

She felt herself color again. Felt the need to look away. Felt suddenly, ridiculously shy in his presence. Jeesh, she hated the way he could do that.

"Lance, look. You've been really nice to me—"

"Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

Sarah felt her eyes widen in shock. She didn't know what to say at first because, sure, he'd been acting all concerned and what not, but this was the first time that he'd actually asked her out on a date.

"Lance, I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

And so it came to this. "I'm not ready," she said.

"Nobody's ever ready for a relationship," he said, the same light that had turned Becca's hair blond making his own hair snowy white. Gray eyes stared, so clear and serious Sarah felt the urge to look away as he peered across at her.

"Is that what we would have?" she asked. "A relationship? Or would I be a quick fling, Lance?"

"I don't know," he said, setting the spoon down and enfolding her small hands in his big one. He was warm, the air-conditioning in Becca's motor coach perhaps a little too cool. Or maybe it was just that whenever he touched her it felt like his fingers charged her own with a heat she couldn't explain.

"I don't know," he said again. "I just know there's something about you that I like and I think maybe you feel the same way. But I don't know where it'll lead. We might discover one of us loves broccoli and the other hates it and that'll be that."

He smiled and Sarah felt the dread all over again. "I can't," she said with a shake of her head. "I just can't, Lance. I have the worst luck with men and I worry you'd be mistake number two-hundred-and-twenty-two."