Burn For You (Boys of the South) by Marquita Valentine

talking about shit. Undoubtedly, this has everything to do with his fiancée, Rae.
    Wyatt would recommend a therapist that I have no intention of ever using. Narcotics Anonymous is enough for me, and so is being his sponsor.
    Her smile is sincere as she says, “I’m a great listener, and with the non-disclosure agreement I signed, no one will evah know all the deep, dark secrets you’re keeping.”
    I want to trust Landry, but I’m gun shy. All these protective feelings she’s bringing to the surface are happening way too fast. The last time I moved this fast, trusted my feelings, and just went for it, was with Paisley.
    Besides, why should we trust each other? We’ve done nothing to earn it.
    “Or not.  I’m still waiting on our reset button to be mutually pushed,” she says wryly. “I still think we should firmly bury our feelings for each other.”
    Not happening. I want to know exactly how she feels about me. So, I invite her to the one place where I’m always in charge, where I always feel comfortable, and at the top of my game.  “How do you feel about speeds topping out at 200 miles per hour?”
    ***
    T he racetrack is practically deserted when we walk on it. Heat comes off the blacktop in waves, though it’s only May. The ride over here was non-eventful. Well, if you don’t count the three wrecks I nearly caused because I was too caught up in staring at the passenger of my truck.
    “Are we really riding in your car?” Landry asks.
    “No, mine is at the shop, but I have driven this one in a race before.”
    “Did you win?” she asks, and I level her with a look. Shaking her head, she says, “Of course you won. How dare I think otherwise.”
    “And don’t you forget it.” I tuck my helmet under my arm. “This car is specifically reserved for Ride Alongs and Driver Packages fans like to purchase for special occasions. Remington thought it was important that we made the car look identical to the one used in a real race for the people who spent their hard-earned dollars—with the exception of a passenger seat, of course, and it’s a little more luxurious.”
    As we get closer the car, she literally starts dragging her feet. I can hear them as they scrape over the asphalt. Concerned, I turn my attention to her and catch her clenching the strap of the helmet so hard that her knuckles are white.
    Shit.
    “Shouldn’t I wear a suit or something? You know, in case we crash and the car catches on fire?” Her voice cracks a little on the last word.
    “You think we’re going to have a fiery crash?”
    “Anything’s possible.” She keeps moving toward the car, slowly. Very, very slowly.
    “Yet you’re still going to climb into the car with me?” I can’t fathom this. It’s obvious she’s nervous. Her entire body is shaking, with excitement and fear.
    “Yes,” she says simply.
    “I won’t go over eighty.” Even with my need for speed, I’ll go slowly with her. “Most people are comfortable with that.”
    “Whatever you think is best,” she says, circling the car once. “You’re the professional.”
    “Stand still.” I push the helmet down on her head. It frames her gorgeous eyes. Her head tilts back to look up at me when I straighten to my full height.  “I promise to keep you safe, Landry.”
    Her eyes crinkle at the corner, so I know she’s smiling. “A little less talking and a lot more driving before I lose my nerve, Mr. Montgomery.”
    After getting her situated in the passenger side, I ease in the driver’s seat and mentally go over my checklist. After strapping on my safety harness, I start the engine. Our in-helmet speakers and microphones click on.
    She coughs, waving a hand in front of her face. I flip her visor down.
    “The fumes will go away as soon as we start driving.”
    Another cough and then a sharp intake of breath. “We can talk to each other?”
    I laugh as her voice fills my head. “Yeah.”
    “Your name looks nice on the windshield.”
    “Do you