Slow Ride (3 page)
She knew he was single.
And she knew herself well enough to know that she needed to get the hell away from him as soon as possible.
But he held his arm out for her. Like a gentleman does to escort a woman somewhere. “Lead the way, Tuesday,” he told her.
There was no way to avoid slipping her own arm through his without being totally rude, so she did, clutching the empty glass in her free hand, and trying not to look up at him. He had used her name. Did that mean he did remember her or he had just heard her name announced as maid of honor at the beginning of dinner?
But she was Tuesday Jones, damn it, and even though she hadn’t felt stronger than a wet napkin the last few months, she at least needed to thank this man. “By the way,” she told him, forcing her head to lift to look at him, “thanks for letting me bawl on you in the cemetery. I appreciate you tolerating the crazy girl.”
He sidled a look down at her that she couldn’t read. It was sympathetic, yes, but there didn’t seem to be any pity in it. It was something else, another emotion, but then again, maybe it was just the light playing off his pale blue eyes.
“No problem. I’m glad I could be there for you. Your dad was a good guy, and I’m really sorry for your loss.”
Tuesday drew up short a foot from the bar. He knew her dad? Well, duh, of course he knew her father. Over the years her dad had probably interviewed him a dozen times. Her brain wasn’t firing at full neurons lately. “Thanks,” she murmured, setting the champagne glass down on the bar before it slipped from her sweaty palm.
“What the hell took you so long?” Evan asked, grinning from ear to ear as he swaggered over to them, his tie askew. “Change your mind, wimp out on me?”
Her emotions were swirling close to the surface, thoughts of her father’s extensive career as a sports journalist suddenly thrust in front of her by Diesel Lange, and she wiped her hand down the front of her pumpkin-colored dress. Who thought of pumpkins in August? It made no sense. But the orange color scheme was what Kendall had wanted, and Tuesday guessed maybe it was supposed to be more tropical than fall foliage.
Evan’s grin started to slip. “Are you okay?”
No, not really. She was feeling far from okay. And that feeling like she might cry at any given second had returned full force. “Yeah, of course I am. Bring it on, Monroe.” She turned to Diesel. “Do you want to do a shot with us?”
He shook his head. “No, thanks.”
Why was he looking at her like that? Those eyes just bore into her, like he was seeing something she didn’t want anyone to see. Tuesday was intensely aware of how close he was standing to her, how tall he was even though she was five foot eight. There weren’t a lot of men who towered over her, but he did. He had a presence, too, that seemed to surround her, that made her want to both lean on his chest for comfort, and strip him naked and get thrown against a wall.
Neither of which were appropriate to do at the moment.
“Don’t be a wuss.” Evan tried to hand a shot glass filled with whiskey to Diesel. “It’s my wedding and I never see you anymore, so I say you owe me.”
“Seriously, no thanks. I take pain meds and trust me, it ain’t a good combination.” Diesel shrugged. “I’ll take a Coke though.”
Tuesday thought about the limp she had seen Diesel use at the cemetery. For some reason, she had assumed that’s all it was, that there wouldn’t actually be pain anymore. It had been at least two years since his accident, if she was remembering correctly. But if he limped, she imagined it was because he was in pain.
Yet he always looked so calm.
Suddenly confused, her emotions pinging in multiple directions, Tuesday turned to the bartender. “Can we get a Coke, please?” She took the shot of whiskey Evan was holding out to her. God knew the last thing she needed was to throw back some Jack, but the truth was, she felt a little afraid of the direction her thoughts and feelings were going in. Maybe the liquor would take the edge off.
“Are you sure your wife doesn’t want a shot?” Tuesday asked Evan.
“Are you kidding? Kendall can’t hold her liquor. She’s not drinking at all tonight because she doesn’t want to wind up trashed and doing the worm on the dance floor in her wedding dress.”
Tuesday sniffed her drink. “So that’s what you have me for, right? I’ll be the one making an ass out of myself in a few hours.”
Evan grinned. “We can only hope.”
Unfortunately, given the way she was feeling, Tuesday thought that might not be that far from the truth. For a split second, she hesitated. Maybe the whiskey was a bad idea on top of the champagne. But then Evan lifted his glass and tossed it back and she was just competitive enough that she had to follow suit, taking it cleanly and quickly. As the burn raced down her throat, she tried not to wince.
Diesel raised his eyebrow, his soft drink lifted to his lips. “You don’t play around.”
No, she didn’t. And she wasn’t going to let this night descend into melancholy for her. It was Kendall and Evan’s wedding, for crying out loud. New beginnings, a celebration of hope and love and the future. She needed to shake the sadness off.
“Hell, no,” she told him. “You have to take drinking seriously, you know. You want to dance?”
He shook his head. “No.”
It was amazing how fast alcohol could loosen her limbs. She ought to be worried, but the truth was, she was glad the knots in her shoulders had unfurled just a bit. “What? Well, that’s just rude. Why wouldn’t you want to dance with me?”
“I can’t dance.”
“Pfft.” She looked at Evan. “He can’t dance, and he does it anyway.”
“I can so dance. I own that dance floor. If Lange won’t dance with you, I will.”
Tuesday would rather spend more time with Diesel, but he was shaking his head. She ought to be offended, but there was something about the way he looked at her, she just couldn’t believe it was that he didn’t want to be with her. There was that something . . . there was a word for it but she was starting to suspect she was drunk because she couldn’t figure out what it was.
“Okay. Let’s polka.”
“But they’re playing Donna Summer,” Evan protested.
“Perfect. We’ll polka and hustle at the same time. It’s all about creating your own path, my friend.” Tuesday leaned over the bar. “Another champagne, s’il vous plaît.” Oh, yeah, she was drunk. Busting out high school French was always a sure sign of that.
“See you later,” she said to Diesel, taking her drink from the bartender. “Stay away from coconut.”
Did that make sense? She wasn’t really sure, but he just nodded. “Have fun.”
“Always.” Not exactly true, but if she stated it often enough, maybe it would become true.
Fun. Yeah. That’s what she was having.
Tuesday grabbed Evan by the arm and went to prove it.
DIESEL
watched Tuesday head out onto the dance floor with no small amount of regret. He had thought about her a few times since her father’s funeral, wondered if she was okay, felt compassion for that grief he knew all too well. She was a gorgeous, vibrant woman, a daughter her father had spoken very proudly of, but she had Diesel curious. He suspected that she was very close to the edge of cracking at this wedding, and he didn’t imagine that a shot was going to prevent that from happening.
watched Tuesday head out onto the dance floor with no small amount of regret. He had thought about her a few times since her father’s funeral, wondered if she was okay, felt compassion for that grief he knew all too well. She was a gorgeous, vibrant woman, a daughter her father had spoken very proudly of, but she had Diesel curious. He suspected that she was very close to the edge of cracking at this wedding, and he didn’t imagine that a shot was going to prevent that from happening.
Dancing was probably good for her though. Leaning on the bar, Diesel discreetly bent his knee to ease the stiffness in it. It was really giving him hell today for some reason, prompting him to take the pain meds he usually avoided before he’d left for the wedding.
“Hey, what’s up?” Ty McCordle sidled up to him. “What are you drinking?”
“Coke.”
Ty raised an eyebrow. “Boy Scout, huh? I need a beer myself.”
Diesel fought the urge to sigh. He hated explaining himself. He hated admitting that he couldn’t do certain things like dancing or drink. Not that he had ever danced before his crash, but hell, he would like the option. Now he couldn’t, plain and simple. It was annoying. But it was what it was. No sense whining about it.
“So Evan finally took the plunge. Have to say I didn’t see that coming.” When Diesel had been driving in the Cup series with Evan, he had always thought of him as a perpetual bachelor. Unlike some of the other guys, he’d never had a serious girlfriend.
“Did you know he and Kendall were an item ten years ago?” Ty took his beer from the bartender and took a sip. “Guess they were supposed to be together all along.”
He shouldn’t say anything, shouldn’t draw attention to himself, but Diesel couldn’t resist. “Do you know Kendall’s maid of honor?”
“Sure. She’s Tuesday Talladega, the blogger. Bob Jones’s daughter. She actually just asked me to do an interview about her father, give some memories of him. She’s arranging some kind of cancer benefit in his name.”
“Really?” Diesel thought it sounded like a great idea, and a positive way for her to channel her grief. Unlike whiskey.
He watched her doing maneuvers on the dance floor that seemed to defy gravity, her hips swiveling and her body dropping down between her bent knees. He coughed into his palm. Jesus, he had just felt a kick of lust, his junk jumping into a semi-erection faster than he would have thought possible.
Not cool. He was supposed to be showing her sympathy, not a tent in his suit.
“Wait a minute.” Ty nudged him. “You got the hots for Tuesday, don’t you?”
He hadn’t thought about it that way. He had thought he’d been feeling sorry for her pain and loss. But at the moment, as she booty-grinded on the dance floor, he thought maybe there was something a little more primal drawing him to her than just sympathy.
“I don’t know Tuesday.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“No, I don’t have the hots for her. I just feel bad for her because she lost her father.” And maybe he was a little attracted to her. And technically, that could probably be called the hots.
“Uh-huh. Whatever.” Ty slapped him on the shoulder. “I know that look, buddy. You should go dance with her. Dancing is the gateway to sex, you know.”
“No, thanks.” He wouldn’t even if he could. Wasn’t his style. “And why is it whenever a guy is in a relationship, he’s always trying to fix his friends up with whatever single woman is standing around? Jefferson was trying to pawn me off on Kendall’s cousin.”
Ty grinned. “Because we don’t want single friends reminding us of our lost freedom.”
“Is that what it is? Then sign me right up.” Diesel hadn’t had a serious girlfriend in almost four years and he had to admit, he missed knowing he had someone to go to the movies with, or say, a wedding reception. But most men bitched about being trapped. It was just expected. Standard guy talk.
“Aside from being with the woman I love, the best thing is regular booty.” Ty cleared his throat. “Can’t beat that, man, I’m telling you.”
Diesel wasn’t even sure he remembered what sex with a partner felt like. It was safe to say he hadn’t been getting out much. “Hell, I’d settle for irregular booty.”
“Well, there it is, waiting for you out on the dance floor.” Ty gestured to Tuesday. “She’s looking for donations of items for a silent auction for the cancer benefit. You should donate something, like an engine rebuild or some of your vintage parts. It’d give you a good excuse to talk to her, and it’s for a good cause.”
Diesel had been rebuilding vintage stock cars and selling them since his accident. It kept him busy and gave him something to do with his hands. He liked the idea of somehow helping Tuesday’s cause. “Yeah, I could do that.” In fact, he could actually donate a completely rebuilt car. That would bring in a shitload of cash. “I’ll talk to her about it after she’s done dancing.”
Which didn’t look like would be happening any time soon. Tuesday was breaking it down with a guy who was at least a hundred and twelve. He was just shuffling in front of her in awe, a shit-eating grin on his face while she shimmied all around him.
There was no denying that Diesel would give anything to stroll out there, grab her, and kiss the stuffing out of her. In fact, if he were totally honest, he wanted to throw her down on the nearest table and lift her ugly orange dress.
“She’s a live one,” Ty commented. “Good luck with that.” He grinned. “Sucker.”
Diesel was about to remark that Ty was the one planning the wedding of the decade with his fiancée Imogen, but just as he opened his mouth, a pack of kids hell-bent on hitting the chocolate fountain went flying by him. Or three of them did anyway. The fourth plowed right into Diesel, the impact causing his knee to buckle as the boy tried to shove back off of him.
“Sorry!” he said without a backward glance, his shirttail untucked and floppy hair bouncing as he ran to catch up with his friends.
For a split second, the pain was so bad Diesel thought he might puke. But the sharp biting agony settled down into a standard throb and he took a deep breath. It was cool. He was cool. No big deal.
Ty was looking at him in concern, but much to Diesel’s relief, didn’t actually say anything other than, “Punk kids. We were never that rowdy.”
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