In the Groove (12 page)

Read In the Groove Online

Authors: Pamela Britton

Tags: #Contemporary, #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Man-Woman Relationships, #Love Stories, #Contemporary Romance, #Sports & Recreation, #Automobile Racing Drivers, #Motor Sports

BOOK: In the Groove
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"You've dated two-hundred-and-twenty-one men?"

"No," she said miserably. "That's just what it feels like."

"So tell me about them."

"Nah. You don't need to hear all my horror stories."

"Why not? I'd like to know what I'm up against."

"But if you hear about all the losers in my life, you'll only use it as ammo against me for reasons I should date you."

"Try me."

"No. It'll make me feel dumb."

"You're not dumb. You're a kindergarten teacher, which is as noble a profession as being a doctor, in my opinion. You couldn't look dumb to me if you tried."

"You might be surprised."

"Tell me," he ordered.

She debated with herself, but for all the arguments there were against telling him about her former boyfriends, there were just as many arguments for it.

Frankly if she told him the truth, maybe he'd realize how serious she was about not getting involved again.

"Well, let's see," she said, looking away from him because she couldn't, just couldn't, look him in the eyes. "There was my very first boyfriend, a guy who threatened to kill himself when I told him I was breaking up with him. I didn't believe him, but when I was riding my bike home later that week, he pulled his own bike up alongside of me and threatened to dash out into oncoming traffic if I didn't go out with him."

"What'd you do?"

"Told him to aim for a semi. He'd die faster."

Lance chuckled, though that wasn't the reaction she'd been aiming for.

"The next memorable loser was the campus hunk, a man that spent more time checking his reflection in his rearview mirror than he did looking out the front windshield. Boy, was I ever pleased with myself for snagging his attention. We would study together, but then he passed calculus, at which point he dumped me."

Lance grimaced.

"Then there was Peter, I dated him my last year of college. He was funny and sweet. And then one day I used his computer and discovered his Temporary Internet File was filled with porn sites—and I'm not talking adult porn sites, either. He was the one who released the photos of me, and the idiot still sends me e-mails to this day, but I refuse to open them."

"You're better off without him."

"Then there was Ron, the toupee-wearing Judas." And the wound, apparently, was still fresh from that one because her stomach twisted. "The man that refused to believe that I didn't take my clothes off for those photos. He was on the school board, the same board that voted to have my contract terminated by unanimous decision."

"What a putz."

"Yeah," she agreed. "But, see, that's just it. He didn't seem like a putz when I first met him. I even thought that maybe, just maybe, he just might be..."
The One.
But she couldn't finish the sentence. It still hurt when she thought about it. Still stung when she recalled the condescension on his face. The way he'd acted so sanctimonious while she'd tried and tried and tried to tell him that she was
not
the woman in the magazine. Well, she was, but not really.

"It still hurts, huh?"

When Sarah met his gaze, she felt an unmistakable burning in her eyes.

"It does, doesn't it?" Lance asked again gently, concern and caring in his eyes.

And all Sarah could do was nod.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

She was going to cry.

Lance could see it in the way she looked immediately away from him. She was going to cry and he was helpless to make her stop.

Maybe not
completely
helpless.

He got up from his chair. Her gaze shot to his again, her eyes widening when she saw him cross around toward her.

"Lance," she said, her tone low and almost a warning.

But he ignored her, just went to her and drew her up, telling her with his eyes that he was going to kiss her and if she truly thought this was going to be a bad idea, if she truly didn't want him to do it, he gave her time to protest.

But she didn't. What she did was close her eyes right before his lips connected with hers. To be honest, he didn't want to kiss her out of any sort of physical desire. He wanted to kiss her because he felt an overwhelming need to comfort her.

That lasted until the moment their lips met.

Zap.

That's what it felt like. Whether it was a static charge from their two bodies touching, or some kind of physical reaction, he didn't know, all he knew was that the moment his lips touched hers all good intentions went out the door because he couldn't believe how instantaneously hot he became for her. Nothing,
but nothing,
prepared him for kissing Sarah Tingle.

He felt her body tense, too, wondered for a moment if she might pull away. But she didn't. Instead her body seemed to collapse against his own, her hands going up and around his neck with seemingly no hesitation.

This was how kissing someone should be.

The thought popped into his head and he increased the pressure of his lips. This was how it should be between a man and a woman. There should be a connection, an instantaneous recognition that the person they kissed was perfect for them.

He drew back, staring down at her upturned face, feeling not so much wonder and awe, but confusion mixed in with a sudden surge of desire. What was happening between them?

Her eyes slowly opened, her pupils so dilated they looked almost black. He saw a look of confusion in those eyes, too, and a hint of fear. No, not fear, concern and, yes, he was almost positive, the same amount of sexual interest he himself felt.

"I'd hold on to you even if I saw a picture of you wearing three breasts."

Which made her eyes widen a bit, made a laugh pop out of her and her eyes soften. "I bet you'd like a three-breasted woman."

"I bet you I would, too," he said gently, lowering his head again. And this time when they kissed it wasn't gentle, it wasn't passive, it was a kiss that instantly proved the two of them were like high-octane fuel, their flesh sparking off each other in such a way that Lance felt the purely caveman urge to pick her up and carry her to bed. Except he wasn't in his own motor coach and so all he could do was kiss her, snuggling his hips up against her, showing her what she did to him and how much he wanted more. She didn't draw away. No. She pressed herself tighter against him.

Her mouth slipped open then, the vanilla taste of her causing him to groan again and one of his hands slid up her side at the same time he removed his lips from hers, the smooth skin at the side of her neck tasting as deliciously sweet as the rest of her.

His hand dropped to her waist only to slip beneath her shirt, his fingers sliding over her ribs.

"Lance," she said softly.

But he couldn't tell if she said his name in protest or desire. Desire, he decided when she didn't pull away. He found her lips and this time she opened for him instantly. Their tongues met, slid against each other's, entwined. The world seemed to slip away until all that was left were the two of them touching each other and stroking each other and—

"Stop," she said, pulling back and then stepping away.

"Sarah—"

"No, Lance. Don't. Don't try and confuse me."

"I'm not trying to confuse you," he said. "I'm trying to show you how I feel."

"But that's just it," she said, and he could hear her take a deep breath, see her fight for control. "It's just feelings. Physical feelings. They don't mean anything."

"How do you know that?"

"I don't, but I'm guessing I'm right. I mean, c'mon, Lance, we both know I'm hardly the type to hold your interest for long."

"You don't know that for sure."

"No, but I bet I'd never have to worry about you surfing the Internet for pictures of naked girls. I bet women send you pictures of their naked selves all the time."

He grimaced and then shrugged. "There's nothing I can do about that."

"Exactly. And there's nothing I can do about the fact that I don't want to get involved with you. I
like
you, Lance, but that doesn't mean I want to date you."

He could see how serious she was by the look in her eyes. What he didn't expect was the disappointment he felt.

"I'm sorry," she said as she slipped out, Lance staying behind for half a second before following her.

"Sarah, wait!"

But by the time he stepped out of Becca's motor coach, she was rounding the front end. He chased after her for a few steps before realizing she didn't want to be caught.

"Damn it," he said.

"Problems?" someone asked.

Lance turned, thinking the voice had belonged to Becca. But it didn't. It was Courtney, his PR rep. She must have followed him from the garage because she had the look of someone who'd been waiting for him for a while, her ever-present clipboard in hand, brown eyes shielded by a pair of sunglasses, long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail.

"It's nothing," he said, waving his hand dismissively. But his eyes found Sarah again, watching as she made it to the end of the asphalt road, where buses were parked on either side. She paused there for a moment, a golf cart filled with crew members nearly running her over.

Where was she going?

But then she turned right, disappearing from sight

"Is she your girlfriend?"

Lance started, having forgotten Courtney's presence. "Girlfriend?" Was she? Did he want her to be? "No," he said. "She's just a friend."

"Are you certain?" Courtney asked, looking at him from above the rim of her sunglasses, blond brows lifted. "You seem awfully distracted for someone who just got in an argument with a friend."

"We weren't arguing."

"No?"

"It's nothing, Courtney. Don't worry about it."

"Have you told her about the Bimbos Calendar Girl contest you're judging?"

"No. Why would I do that?"

"Just curious."

"Courtney. It's nothing. She's just a friend. Stop worrying."

But Courtney looked dubious, not surprising since she'd been a PR person for more years than Lance had been on the circuit. She'd seen it all, and right now she thought she was watching a driver get in over his head with a woman when his
head
should be focused on racing.

"What did you need?"

Courtney's eyes disappeared behind the sunglasses again. "I wanted to go over your media appearances on race day."

"Fine. Let's do it."

But as Courtney guided him through his schedule, Lance found himself looking around for Sarah, and wondering where she'd gotten to, and thinking that he probably should tell her about the Bimbos contest because if she wasn't his girlfriend, what did it matter?

But therein lay the crux of the problem.

Because it would matter to her. She wouldn't approve. He was certain of it. And so he didn't want her finding out about—

"Lance?"

When he looked up, Courtney was staring at him over the rims of her glasses again.

"Sorry. Lost my train of thought."

She stared at him for a long moment, Lance growing more and more uncomfortable, especially when all she said was, "Uh-oh."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Race day.

Sarah had planned to watch it on her hotel TV, but a call from Sal, Lance's business manager, had changed all that.

"He wants you at the track."

"What? Why?"

She'd slunk away and off to her hotel room after their last encounter, telling herself that she'd made the right decision in choosing not to get involved with him. The fact that Lance hadn't argued was proof of that. He hadn't called her, either.

And now he was having Sal issue her orders.

"He didn't give me a reason why," Sal said. "He just wants you here."

"But—"

"No buts, Sarah. There's a lot at stake and so if Lance wants you in the garage, you better go."

"Okay, fine."

But she was
not
happy about it. It meant leaving her hotel room and walking to the infield, something that didn't look easy what with the thousands of race fans making their way to the track. Obviously, race day would be better attended than she'd thought

And so she'd walked, blending in with the stream of people out on the sidewalks. But where they wore colorful shirts splashed with various car numbers and sponsor's logos, she wore plain jeans and a white cotton top—and her precious credential stashed in a shiny plastic holder.

"At least this race is at night," she heard one woman say to her husband/boyfriend/guy pal.

"Yeah, but it's still hot."

And it was, Sarah admitted. It was late in the afternoon. The race wasn't due to start for an hour and a half, but the clouds of the previous days had melted away, literally melted away, giving way to high humidity and blazing hot asphalt.

And still, people poured into the track.

Her cell phone rang. "Are you on your way?" a voice asked.

Lance.

"No," she lied. "I'm still in my hotel room."

"What?"

She smirked into the phone, not that he could see. "Kidding, kidding. But it would serve you right if I decided not to come. I'm not a walking rabbit's foot, Lance, and I don't like to be ordered around."

"But I need you." And he sounded so desperate, so afraid that Sarah stopped walking.

Someone bumped into her. She mumbled an "Excuse me" and said to Lance, "You're going to be fine."

"I feel better when you're here."

"That's just because you think I'm bringing you good luck."

"No. It's because I'm a better driver when you're around."

"You are a good driver, Lance. You've just forgotten that fact."

"See, that's what I'm talking about. You give me confidence."

"You could find that confidence all on your own."

He was silent for a moment, almost as if he were trying to absorb her words. But then he said, "Please, Sarah. Please come and watch."

She struggled with herself, struggled and finally gave up because no matter what might or might not lie between them, she couldn't turn her back on someone in need. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

He exhaled something that sounded like relief. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Another silence. "Careful on your way in. A few people in the garage have had run-ins with security here."

"I've got my credential."

"Just be careful."

She thought it would be simple: walk up to the infield entrance, show her pass and away she'd go.

And it probably would have been that easy—if she'd remembered her driver's license.

A man wearing a yellow shirt with SECURITY emblazoned across the chest in black letters glared at her when she explained that she left her photo ID back at the hotel. No amount of cajoling, I know Lance Cooper (yes, really I do), I work for a driver, I'm part of a crew did one bit of good. The security guard, an Incredible Hulk of a human—except he wasn't green, and his hair was blond—took great pleasure in telling her to get lost.

There were a few small trees to the right of the infield entrance, cars and RVs that were still streaming into the inner sanctum emitting noxious fumes. Sarah plopped down on a curb and dialed.

"I forgot my ID," she said before he could say a word.

"Uh-oh."

"I'll have to go back to the hotel and get it, which means I might miss the start of the race. It's packed out here."

"You can't be late."

"I'm sorry, Lance, but there's nothing I can do."

"Let me talk to security," he said sternly.

"You think they're going to believe you're really Lance Cooper?" she asked, putting her finger in her ear when a particularly loud vehicle rolled by.

"It's worth a try."

"Lance, please, you can call me before the start of the race if that'll make you feel better—"

"Put him on."

"This is a bad idea," she said
sotto voce.
"This guy's in a really bad mood. I can tell." And then a moment or two later she said, "Excuse me, Mr. Guard," to the man who was busy checking credentials of a young couple decked out from head to toe in racing apparel.

"What?" the guy asked, his expression full of impatience.

"Um, someone wants to talk to you."

"What? Who?" he cried impatiently, his craggy face and droopy eyes tightening with displeasure.

She held up her cell phone.

"Lady, I don't have time for this—"

"It's Lance Cooper."

To her surprise, that made him smile, and believe it or not, it didn't make him look one iota friendlier.

"Yeah, sure it is. And I'm channeling Dale Earnhardt right now."

"He doesn't believe me," Sarah whispered into the phone.

"Put him on," Lance said tersely.

"Here," Sarah said.

She had no idea what Lance said, but she could hear the security guard perfectly because what
he
said was, "I don't have time for this shit," just before he crushed the phone in his big hands with so much force, the battery on the back came off. He slipped the thing in his pocket before handing her the mangled carcass.

"Get out of here."

"But I need my battery—"

"Now," he all but roared.

People stared at her. Sarah felt like a mongrel about to be kicked out of the house. But she didn't teach kindergarten for nothing. "You really shouldn't use that tone of voice with me," she admonished. "We're all friends here and friends treat other friends with courtesy and respect."

"That does it." He grabbed her by the arm and led her to a curb, growling. "Sit here!"

"Why?" she asked, pulling her arm away. It stung where he'd clasped it.

"You can stay there until the police arrive."

"Police?" she said, torn between horror and outrage. "But I didn't do anything wrong."

The guy gave her a look that would wilt poison ivy.

She stared up at him for a moment in disbelief, thinking,
this can't be happening.
This really, truly couldn't be happening. She wasn't about to be carted off to jail for assaulting a security officer with her cell phone, was she?

It would appear so, and if Sarah thought people were staring before, it was nothing compared to the way they looked at her while forced to sit next to a bright blue Porta Potti, the security guard standing over her as if she were a suspected ax murderer and not a kindergarten teacher. There were literally hundreds of people passing by. She smiled at a few of them as if to say, "No problem. I'm okay."

Only she wasn't okay. It was humiliating. It made wearing someone else's private parts feel like a Hallmark card. She was going to go to jail. She knew this as soon as she heard the security guard speak into his radio and say, "I've got someone here who needs an attitude adjustment."

"Look. I really think you're making a mistake," she tried again.

Uh oh. The frown he shot her clearly said, "Lady, one more word out of you and I'll be tempted to find some duct tape."

She felt a burst of fear then, followed by an urge to cry, except she refused to let the guard have the satisfaction of seeing her break down. Besides, it wasn't as if she didn't know anyone in town. She'd call Lance just as soon as she was allowed to make a phone call.

Lance. This was going to upset him. And maybe throw off his race.

A tear pooled in the corner of her left eye. No. She would not. She. Would. Not. Cry.

She turned away, facing the Porta Potti like a truant child. The thing gave off an iridescent glow that turned her skin the color of a Smurf's, and its smell wafted toward her as the sun beat down on her. Terrific. Now she was blue. By tomorrow she'd be red.

Beep.

She heard the sound, but not really.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

It was one of those annoying sounds you ignore until it gets on your nerves to the point that you finally look around. She turned toward the infield tunnel.

"Lance!" she cried, darting up.

"Hey!" The security guard said, trying to force her back down.

Lance leaning on the horn of a careening golf cart, tore out of the checkerboard exit hole like a Sunday morning linebacker, the ball cap and sunglasses he wore doing nothing to conceal his face.

"What the hell?" he yelled. "Don't touch her like that!" he ordered as he tore around the security shack in the middle of the two lanes of traffic. Jumping out of the golf cart—stopping a minicamper in its path—he went right up to the guard, saying, "What the heck do you think you're doing?"

Sarah felt her eyes well with tears, though they weren't tears of humiliation or anger. They were tears of joy.

He'd come for her.

"He's taking me down to the station," she said, her voice sounding wobbly even to her own ears.

"What?" Lance asked, his eyes darting between hers and the security guard's. "Why?"

"For handing him my cell phone," Sarah offered as an explanation.

"Wait a second," the guard said, "It was more than just that."

"More than that?" Lance repeated as his eyes narrowed. He did
not
look happy. "She's a kindergarten teacher. Somehow I doubt it was more than that."

"Hey," she heard one of the pedestrians passing by say, a quick turn of her head revealing that it was a man. A race fan man. "That's Lance Cooper," he said, Sarah feeling her eyes widen that he'd been recognized. Lance was in his pre-race garb—white polo shirt with the team logo on the pocket and jeans. Yet, still, the fans knew him.

That was evident when someone else said, "It
is
Lance Cooper."

There was a rush of people, which made the security guard give a shout of warning. Nobody listened. It was like feeding time at the ranch, scraps of paper pulled from who-knows-where and waved in Lance's face, people crying out, "Mr. Cooper, will you sign this?" and, "Mr. Cooper, can you sign that?"

Lance held up his hands, saying, "I'm not doing a damn thing until somebody apologizes to Sarah," which made the crowd go quiet, then turn as one to the security guard who, Sarah noticed with a certain measure of glee, looked like a man who'd been forced into underwear four sizes too small.

"Is that his girlfriend?" she heard someone say.

"Say you're sorry," Lance ordered.
"Now."

To her surprise, the man did exactly that, looking like nothing more than a petulant schoolboy. "You could have told me you were his girlfriend," he said.

"I'm not his girlfriend," she muttered.

"You okay?" Lance asked, a gaggle of people having trailed in his wake.

"I'm fine," she said.

She thought he might touch her then, could plainly see the urge to do so in his eyes. But his hand fell back to his side.

"Now, who wants an autograph?" he asked, turning away from her.

He was almost late for a media appearance, but that was okay. Sarah was with him and so all was right in the world. His secret weapon was back by his side.

"I feel like I'm in the way," Sarah said after he'd finished doing a radio interview.

"You're not," he said, heading back to the hauler, Sarah trailing behind him, Lance stopping occasionally to sign an autograph.

"The crews look like they've contracted typhoid," he heard her say when they started off again.

"There's a lot at stake," he confessed, thinking he'd never been this chatty on race day. Usually he did the driver's meetings, spoke to whatever reporter wanted him (which lately, hadn't been all that many), then hid out until it was time for driver introductions. But not today. Today he felt the need to show her around,

"There was a man back there with a car on his head. An actual plastic car. I wanted to ask him what would happen if he sat on his hat? Would that qualify as a rear ender?"

Lance smiled, nodding to a man who used to work on his crew but who'd moved to another team, as people in this industry often did. Same bat time, same bat channel, so the saying goes.

"You might be surprised at some of the things fans wear."

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