Barbara Dunlop - Overheated

He laughed and gave it to her, resting his gaze on her clinging swimsuit. Fact was, he’d buy her a hundred smoothies, or anything else she wanted, no race necessary.

He hopped out of the pool beside her. She was taller than most women. He had maybe four inches on her, and he couldn’t help thinking she was the perfect height.

“Do I get a rematch?” he asked.

“Not today.” She made a show of stretching out her arm muscles.

He smiled at that. He didn’t have a rematch in him today, either.

They strolled across the deck in silence, stopping at the bank of lockers for their towels.

Larry draped his around his shoulders and retrieved his wallet. “You live in Charlotte?”

She nodded, rubbing her towel over her hair before securing it at her waist. “I grew up here. Funny that we’ve never met before.”

“I don’t spend a lot of time in the garage.” When he came to a race, he was often in a motor home or up top with his son Steve who spotted for his nephew Kent, another NASCAR Sprint Cup Series driver.

“And I’m usually somewhere else,” she said, as they headed for the all-weather carpet and white plastic deck furniture of the snack bar.

“Do you watch the races at all?”

“If I’m at my parents’ house, yeah. My dad hasn’t missed one in about thirty years.”

“But you don’t come out to watch at the track?”

She shrugged. “Occasionally.”

They crossed into the snack bar where a dozen tables were clustered in an atrium. About half were full of families or couples.

“Ever seen a race from the pits?”

“You mean a hot pass?” She stopped beside the semicircular counter and gazed up at the painted menu.

“A hot pass,” he confirmed. The pits during a race had to be experienced to be believed.

“Never had one of those.”

It was on the tip of Larry’s tongue to make the offer. She was obviously cleared through track security for her job. He could get her a hot pass for Sunday, and they could watch the cars thunder down the straightaway together. But it would be almost like asking her on a date. And he was pretty sure that was inappropriate.

“I’ll take a strawberry-banana,” she said to a teenage clerk with short, streaked hair and a silver ring through her eyebrow.

Just like that, the moment was lost.

“Pineapple-mango,” said Larry, dropping his credit card on the green Arborite.

“I guess you have access to everything behind the scenes,” she said.

There it was again, another opportunity to invite her to the track. “Some things,” he said, wondering if he could phrase it in a way that didn’t make it sound like he was coming on to her. He could invite her to meet the family-his brother Dean, son Steve and nephew Ken. Would that make it better or worse?

The whine of the blender filled the air.

“Do you like racing?” she asked.

“I love it,” he answered honestly.

“But you’re not involved?”

“I love it as a spectator and a fan. But I’m not mechanically inclined, and I’m definitely not a driver.” Larry had learned a long time ago that his brain liked concepts better than hands-on. He might be able to help design a racing engine, but somebody else had to put it together.

Crystal looked him up and down. “You’d look cute in one of those uniforms.”

Even though he wasn’t crazy about the “cute” adjective, his breath caught again on her smile. “I have absolutely no desire to go 180 miles an hour. My family knew early on I’d never be a driver.”

Then he rethought the burst of honesty. Did it make him sound timid? Nerdy?

The clerk slid the smoothies across the counter, and Larry signed the credit card slip.

“I’d try it once,” said Crystal, capturing the plastic straw between her white teeth. “Just to see what it felt like.”

Larry’s gaze caught on her red lips as they wrapped around the straw and took a pull on the thick drink.

Then she grinned. “Of course, there’s every chance I’d scream my head off.”

She stirred the straw through the drink as she turned away. He watched her long legs, the sway of her hips, and the smooth skin of her bare shoulders. She was gorgeous enough to be on a Paris runway. And for the first time since his wife died three years ago, Larry felt a rush of sexual desire.

He tore his gaze from her body, scooped the other smoothie from the countertop, and followed her.

Crystal chose a corner table between a potted fig and a glass wall that overlooked the park. The ceiling was lower here than in the pool area, dampening the echoes of the growing swim crowd.

Larry rushed forward to help with her chair, and she turned to give him a bemused smiled. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He took the chair opposite, setting his drink on the table.

“So, you bucked the family business,” she began, dabbing her straw up and down.

“I did,” he agreed, struggling to keep his gaze from straying below her neck.

“Were they disappointed?”

“That I became a professor instead of a mechanic?”

She tipped her head sideways. “It sounds strange when you say it that way.”

“Only to people who don’t understand the value of a good mechanic.”

“And you do?”

“I became a professor, because I’d make a lousy mechanic.”

“And I became a parts driver, because I made a lousy model.”

“You were a model?” It didn’t surprise him.

“For a couple of months. I hated it.”

He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to continue.

“The sum total of your being is reduced to the size of your waist and the length of your legs.”

He couldn’t help it, his gaze dipped down. Luckily, she didn’t notice.

She wiggled forward in her chair. “I felt like some kind of a mechanical Barbie doll. Face this way. Walk that way. Frown, pout, stare. And all those people.” She shuddered. “Ogling you. They pretend it’s about the clothes, but half of them are checking out your body.”

“Why did you try it in the first place?”

“I was in college, and the money was good.”

“What was your major?” he asked, feeling himself relax in a way he rarely did around women.

“Creative writing, plus some history and anthropology.”

“But you became a parts driver?”

“Unlike you, I didn’t buck the family business.”

He nodded, remembering the logo on the side of her van. “Softco Machine Works.”

“Mom and Dad are good for a paycheck.”

“Do you write at all?” He knew it was tough to make a living as a writer.

She nodded, sliding her fingertip through the condensation on her glass. Larry had to remind himself to take a drink of his own melting concoction.

“Short stories mostly, based on the lives of the women who settled the South. That’s why I like driving for Softco. It’s part-time, and the hours are flexible. If I’m working on a story, I can come in late or take off early.”

“That sounds fascinating,” he told her honestly.

“Mostly it’s traffic lights and getting cut off by sports cars.”

“You know what I meant.”

“It’s fascinating,” she agreed. “Particularly the interviews. And I’m working on a cookbook and anthology that my publisher thinks might pay off.”

“Tell me about it.” Larry took a long pull on the pineapple-mango smoothie, wondering how he could possibly segue from a cookbook to a date.

ON SUNDAY MORNING, CRYSTAL had to settle for bran cereal instead of cold, leftover pepperoni pizza. On the bright side, she now had a dozen cans of dog food, a shiny black dog dish and a leather leash dangling from one of the hooks beside her kitchen door. On the down side, she might have to ask her mother for an advance this week.

Rufus was curled up, asleep on the woven mat in front of the fireplace. It would have been a picture-perfect scene, if the fireplace had worked, if it wasn’t ninety degrees outside and if Rufus hadn’t snored like a longshoreman. The dog had remained aloof for the past two days. He was polite, but clearly confused, and he still had an air of watchfulness and waiting about him.

The phone rang, and he jumped to his feet.

“It won’t be for you, boy,” she said, then added, “Sorry.”

Still, he watched her closely while she crossed the faded, yellow linoleum to retrieve the cordless phone from the top of the washing machine. The readout showed it was her mother from downstairs in the office.

She clicked the talk button. “Hey, Mom.”

The computerized lathes and milling machines rumbled in the background. “Are you up?” called Stella Hayes.

“I’ve been up for an hour,” said Crystal. It was way too hot to sleep late.

“Good. Norman’s been up since four this morning machining a backup axle for Dean Grosso, just in case, and we need a delivery driver.”

Crystal experienced a moment’s hesitation.

The Dean Grosso garage might bring her into contact with Larry again. Not that that was a bad thing. It was simply a…strange thing.

There was something about the man that made her restless and edgy, not to mention uncharacteristically expansive. When she thought back over their conversation, she couldn’t believe how much she’d rattled on about her Colonial cookbook and anthology project.

She also couldn’t believe a man who was helping the world explore the asteroid belt had been interested in her writing project. Looking back, she worried that he’d simply been humoring her.

When she’d asked, he’d admitted he was consulting on an ion propulsion engine for NASA. Although most of the technicalities escaped her, Larry explained how a blue beam of light that could barely push a piece of paper on earth could eventually propel a spaceship to thousands of miles an hour. The man was a bona fide rocket scientist.

“Crystal?” her mother prompted.

“Sorry, Mom.”

Rufus gave up and went back to the mat.

“Can you drive today?”

“Sure.” Everybody pitched in during race week. Besides, Stella was as practical and no-nonsense as they came. Crystal could hardly explain that she didn’t want to go because she got a funny feeling from a man who might be at the track.

“Give me fifteen minutes?” asked Crystal.

“The axle will be ready when you are.”

Crystal set down the phone and gazed at Rufus. She’d taken him for a walk first thing this morning. But for some reason, he hadn’t seemed able to find the right spot to do his business. She didn’t dare leave him inside or load him into the truck without walking him now.

She slipped into a pair of running shoes and retrieved the leash.

“Walk, Rufus?” she asked.

His uneven ears perked up.

She jingled the leash.

He came to his feet, looking at least a little bit interested in the activity as he padded toward her.

“Good for you,” she crooned, scratching him on the head as she clipped onto his worn, leather collar

She scooped her purse from the counter, popped a cap on her head, then locked up behind her.

She led him down the long staircase to the paved parking lot behind the office. They crossed to the wooded area out back, taking the trail that skirted Stanley Pond.

Happily, as soon as she let him off the leash, Rufus got right down to business.

Afterward, she clipped him back on and took the long way around to the bay door and the delivery truck. She might be committed to temporarily fostering Rufus, but her mother would find a dog entirely impractical. And Crystal wasn’t ready to have that argument just yet.

So she hustled him into the passenger seat and shut the door before tracking down the shop foreman to get the paperwork for the delivery.

While she drove, she tried not to think about whether Larry would be at his brother’s garage. He’d said he didn’t spend much time down there. And, really, it was of little consequence.

He was a nice guy, sure. And they’d had a fun chat over smoothies. She was impressed by his intellect and, she’d admit, she kind of liked his formal, courteous manner.

The man had actually pulled out her chair. She smiled at the memory. Even more impressive, they’d carried on an hour-long conversation. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had shown such a strong interest in her thoughts and ideas. Simon never had.

Which meant she was probably hanging out with the wrong kind of men. Something to think about for the future.

She swung north on I-85, glancing at her watch, thinking maybe she’d try to stay at the track for the race. There was no law that said she had to watch it from her parents’ living room. She could buy a ticket for the grandstands, or maybe she could wrangle a pit pass, and maybe she’d meet up with Larry again.