In the Groove by Pamela Britton Page A
Authors: Pamela Britton
Tags: Fiction, General, Romance, Contemporary, Contemporary Romance, Man-Woman Relationships, Love Stories, Sports & Recreation, motor sports, Automobile Racing Drivers
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her—but when she held out the aluminum tray and said, "Want one?" he forgot all about weak knees and strode forward to grab an... animal cookie?
She'd baked him animal cookies?
He almost laughed, almost leaned down and kissed her. It was amazing how close he came, considering all the times he'd told himself in the past few hours to forget about her. The cookie he plopped into his mouth melted on his tongue. Sugar and butter flavored his mouth, causing him to purr. "Mmmm," he said.
Her smile turned genuine. He could see her tension fade, although she didn't look him in the eye for a second or two. Instead she busied herself with taking the cookies off the tray.
"The secret is waiting for the tray to cool down in between batches. A tray that's too hot will burn the bottom and so I wash my tray off before I put another batch in."
He watched as she did exactly that, grabbing another cookie from the cooling plate while her back was turned to the sink.
"I saw that," she said.
He laughed. And, man, he almost felt like crying, so good did it feel. His tension just seemed to melt away, the smell of fresh-baked cookies so familiar and from such an achingly good time in his life that he wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her in gratitude.
What you should do is marry her.
He jerked as if the thought had dive-bombed his head.
But he couldn't deny how good it felt to stand there watching her bake cookies. It made him want to do something to ensure that feeling happened again... and again, not because he was falling in love with her or anything, but because he needed the calm she provided after the chaos of driving a car.
"Sarah Tingle, you're a woman after my own heart."
She peeked up at him. It was one of the things he loved about her. There were no boldly sexual looks of invitation on her face, just a sweet innocence that made him want to cuddle her.
Innocent?
Remember, Lance, she'd been wearing someone else's privates a few weeks ago.
Okay, well, maybe not that innocent, but certainly less worldly than the women who'd been a part of his recent past.
"You looked nervous on TV."
Ahh, so she'd been watching. "I was."
Her expression turned serious for a moment. "It's just a race, Lance."
He took the tray of cooling cookies with him as he sat down at his bar. "Only someone who doesn't understand racing could say that."
She looked stricken.
"No, no. Don't look like that. I know you don't get racing and so let me explain," he said, placing a half-eaten cookie back on the plate. She gave him a kindergarten teacher frown. "Sorry," he said, moving the cookie back to his hand.
"We don't spread our germs by putting half-eaten food on other people's plates."
He almost laughed. "Okay, Miss Teacher. And like I was saying, you have no idea how important this is—at least to me."
"No?" she asked.
"No."
"Then tell me."
"I don't think I can," he said with a frown. "I don't think I can explain how it makes me feel to go 190 MPH down the front straightaway. What it's like to know that you're right on the verge of spinning out of control, but that if you hold on to it, you'll come out in front, maybe. What it's like to feel that adrenaline rush during the last few laps when you know you might just win, or not, but finish good enough that you might get a shot to race for the championship. There's nothing like this, nothing like this in the world."
"Yes, but what if something happens? What if you're not able to drive again? What will you do then?"
He shrugged.
She shook her head. "Look," she said. "If I asked the average fan who won the championship in 1968, assuming there was a championship back then—"
"There was. David Pearson won it, one of the few to snag two in a row."
"Okay, you know who won, but do you think the average race fan would know?"
"I don't know." He shrugged a bit. "Probably. Maybe."
"And that's my point. Probably. Maybe. You're not curing cancer here."
"Ouch."
"I'm sorry," she said, running her
She'd baked him animal cookies?
He almost laughed, almost leaned down and kissed her. It was amazing how close he came, considering all the times he'd told himself in the past few hours to forget about her. The cookie he plopped into his mouth melted on his tongue. Sugar and butter flavored his mouth, causing him to purr. "Mmmm," he said.
Her smile turned genuine. He could see her tension fade, although she didn't look him in the eye for a second or two. Instead she busied herself with taking the cookies off the tray.
"The secret is waiting for the tray to cool down in between batches. A tray that's too hot will burn the bottom and so I wash my tray off before I put another batch in."
He watched as she did exactly that, grabbing another cookie from the cooling plate while her back was turned to the sink.
"I saw that," she said.
He laughed. And, man, he almost felt like crying, so good did it feel. His tension just seemed to melt away, the smell of fresh-baked cookies so familiar and from such an achingly good time in his life that he wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her in gratitude.
What you should do is marry her.
He jerked as if the thought had dive-bombed his head.
But he couldn't deny how good it felt to stand there watching her bake cookies. It made him want to do something to ensure that feeling happened again... and again, not because he was falling in love with her or anything, but because he needed the calm she provided after the chaos of driving a car.
"Sarah Tingle, you're a woman after my own heart."
She peeked up at him. It was one of the things he loved about her. There were no boldly sexual looks of invitation on her face, just a sweet innocence that made him want to cuddle her.
Innocent?
Remember, Lance, she'd been wearing someone else's privates a few weeks ago.
Okay, well, maybe not that innocent, but certainly less worldly than the women who'd been a part of his recent past.
"You looked nervous on TV."
Ahh, so she'd been watching. "I was."
Her expression turned serious for a moment. "It's just a race, Lance."
He took the tray of cooling cookies with him as he sat down at his bar. "Only someone who doesn't understand racing could say that."
She looked stricken.
"No, no. Don't look like that. I know you don't get racing and so let me explain," he said, placing a half-eaten cookie back on the plate. She gave him a kindergarten teacher frown. "Sorry," he said, moving the cookie back to his hand.
"We don't spread our germs by putting half-eaten food on other people's plates."
He almost laughed. "Okay, Miss Teacher. And like I was saying, you have no idea how important this is—at least to me."
"No?" she asked.
"No."
"Then tell me."
"I don't think I can," he said with a frown. "I don't think I can explain how it makes me feel to go 190 MPH down the front straightaway. What it's like to know that you're right on the verge of spinning out of control, but that if you hold on to it, you'll come out in front, maybe. What it's like to feel that adrenaline rush during the last few laps when you know you might just win, or not, but finish good enough that you might get a shot to race for the championship. There's nothing like this, nothing like this in the world."
"Yes, but what if something happens? What if you're not able to drive again? What will you do then?"
He shrugged.
She shook her head. "Look," she said. "If I asked the average fan who won the championship in 1968, assuming there was a championship back then—"
"There was. David Pearson won it, one of the few to snag two in a row."
"Okay, you know who won, but do you think the average race fan would know?"
"I don't know." He shrugged a bit. "Probably. Maybe."
"And that's my point. Probably. Maybe. You're not curing cancer here."
"Ouch."
"I'm sorry," she said, running her
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