A Fast Track Novel
As a tribute to her late journalist father, Tuesday Jones is planning a career benefit, auctioning off racing memorabilia and meet-and-greets with drivers.
Ex-racing star Diesel Lange has had his own brush with death, and is determined not to waste another minute of his life...especially when he meets Tuesday. He wants nothing more than to shift their romance into high gear, but he knows she’s still grieving.
Can Diesel do the one thing he could never do on the track and take it slow?
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Tuesday Jones was feeling both grateful that her toast as maid of honor was behind her, and that her orange bridesmaid dress looked remarkably better under the muted ballroom lights. Heading for the bar, because one glass of champagne clearly wasn’t enough, she veered at the last second to the dessert table. She was supposed to meet Evan Monroe, the man who had been smart enough to marry her best friend, Kendall, and throw her a big old wedding reception four months after their impulsive elopement. When Evan had commented during dinner that women couldn’t do shots of whiskey, Tuesday felt it was her duty, orange dress and all, to stand up for her gender.
But first she wanted a piece of cake.
To coat her stomach for the liquor.
Or maybe just because she liked cake.
She had to admit she was feeling weird, happy for Kendall, but also like she still wasn’t totally enjoying herself. Like she couldn’t. Yet for the first time in the three weeks since her dad had died, she didn’t feel like she might burst into tears at any given moment, so that was progress. Baby steps. Little tiny almost non-existent baby steps, because there was nothing easy about losing her father. Death sucked. Grief sucked.
Grabbing a piece of cake from the assortment displayed on the table, she crammed it into her mouth on that very unpleasant thought.
And discovered that she had chosen the damn coconut slice, one of her very least favorite foods ever. There was good, there was bad, and then there was coconut. Her mouth automatically opening in horror, she looked around for a napkin, the flavor invading and offending every single one of her taste buds. Feeling like she might gag, she worked the cake forward with her tongue, debating just chucking it out of her mouth and into her champagne glass.
A hand shot out in front of her mouth and Evan said, “Just spit it out.”
She only paused for a second before depositing the vile waxy coconut hunk into Evan’s hand. “Oh, my God, thank you. That was so freaking gross-
Tuesday forgot the rest of her sentence when she realized that it wasn’t Evan next to her. It was Diesel Lange. Retired driver. The man she had cried on at her father’s funeral.
And the man she had now just spit chewed up cake into his outstretched palm.
Oh. My. God. She felt heat flood her face as she stared at him, trying to think of something, anything to say. “Sorry,” was the best she could manage. “I thought you were Evan.”
It was a lame explanation, but how did you really explain regurgitation onto total strangers?
His eyebrows furrowed. “Why would you think I was Evan?”
“Because I was meeting Evan.” Tuesday licked her lips, still tasting the coconut, still feeling like an ass. “I don’t usually just spit out food into random people’s hands, you know.” Food she realized he was still holding. “God, that’s so gross, I’m sorry.”
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