Barbara Dunlop
Overheated
A book in the Nascar series, 2008
Dear Reader,
My husband and I were high school sweethearts-gymnasium dances and drive-in movies. At the tender age of fifteen he introduced me to the exciting world of auto racing. He was an automotive technician, also an avid fan of internal combustion, acceleration and NASCAR.
We grew up in Vancouver, British Columbia, mere miles from the Westwood road-racing circuit and half an hour from the Mission Raceway drag strip. He also raced autocross at an abandoned airstrip, off road in a custom-built jeep and tried ice racing on the frozen lakes of the province’s interior.
So when I was asked to be part of Harlequin’s officially licensed NASCAR romance series, I couldn’t wait to get started. I’d watched hundreds of NASCAR races. I knew the sights, the sounds, the smells of racing. I’d been in the pits and garages, watched the green flag drop and the checkered flag wave. Thanks to my husband, this was a world I knew I could put on the page.
I loved writing
Barbara
For my husband
Everyone’s talking about the recent engagement of Motor Media Group public relations spokesperson Anita Wolcott and PDQ Racing’s new owner, Jim Latimer. But there’s no gossip juicier than the romance-or rather, the twenty-two-year age difference-between Larry Grosso and Crystal Hayes.
CHAPTER ONE
CRYSTAL HAYES WAS GLAD OF the familiar chaos as the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series teams arrived for the race at Charlotte. The town was abuzz with activity, and the fast pace of track deliveries from Softco Machine Works kept her mind off the little things-like her bank balance.
Thursday morning, she swung the company delivery truck out the bay door of Softco’s east shop. The complex had grown from its humble beginnings as a single bay garage to an impressive complex of three modern machine shops, two warehouses and a ten-person office. There was an apartment over the office, where Crystal had lived since her husband, Simon, died two years ago.
But she wasn’t thinking about that today. In particular, she wasn’t stressing about how long a twenty-eight- year-old woman could live above her parents’ business without looking pathetic. Today, she was headed for the speedway in Charlotte and the Dean Grosso garage to be part of the pulsating hive of activity surrounding a premier NASCAR event.
She pulled the truck onto Deerborne Street and headed north toward the interstate. When she got up to speed, she popped a vintage Creedence CD into the player, in the mood to get nostalgic. Her father had played Creedence, Pink Floyd and Nazareth in the truck when Crystal was a child riding along on deliveries, and she still had a soft spot in her heart for classic rock.
She toured past the Rondal Bicycle Factory and the Pearson Furniture Warehouse before traffic increased and the landscape turned to retail businesses. The bright red, Treatsy-Sweetsy ice-cream parlor sign rotated slowly in the distance, its stylized, red
She smiled to herself as Creedence rasped on about the calm before the storm.
She thought about the forty-odd dollars in her pocket. She’d planned to treat herself to a pizza on Saturday night, which would leave her with just enough for groceries until her next Softco paycheck. If she splurged on a cone, she’d have to compromise somewhere else.
A part-time job as a delivery driver, combined with the occasional advance check on her short stories, didn’t exactly provide for a high lifestyle. But she wasn’t touching Simon’s military widow’s pension and life insurance policy, not even to relive the childhood memory.
The rotating sign loomed closer.
She could taste the velvet smooth ice cream, the crisp waffle cone-made daily on site, as they had been for thirty years. She could feel the melting butterscotch oozing over her fingers in the hot, May sunshine.
Oh, to hell with the pizza.
She stomped on the brakes, gluing the unwieldy box of a vehicle to the hot pavement. The tires protested with a screech, but she made the corner, parked across four marked spaces in back of the lot and shut down the diesel engine.
She rounded the building and approached a small patch of garden between the street and the front entrance. There was a black Lab tied to a spindly shrub at one edge of the sparse lawn. Somebody had brought him some water in a Treatsy-Sweetsy ice-cream bowl, but he wasn’t drinking it.
He was staring off down the sidewalk, twitching at the end of his lead.
He watched one car approach, brows up, ears quirked. Then it passed without slowing, and the anticipation leeched out of his body. He moved onto the next car, growing alert, obviously expecting his owner to appear at any second. He had gray fur around his muzzle, and a chunk missing from one floppy ear, testifying to a long, probably less than pampered, life.
Crystal drew his attention, and he watched her with big, brown eyes. For a second, she was tempted to buy him a burger. But she quickly reminded herself that she was broke. She’d already compromised her Saturday night pizza. Plus, she reasoned, the owner might not appreciate random strangers feeding his dog.
The small Treatsy-Sweetsy dining room was a whole lot cooler than outside. It was also completely empty, so she walked straight up to the counter. She looked up at the menu board, debating between a regular and a large cone. She wasn’t worried about the calories, only the price. She had a naturally thin frame, and a metabolism that was very forgiving of her abuses.
“Help you?” asked a young, ponytailed girl in a pink and white striped blouse and dangling white, plastic earrings.
“A large butterscotch cone.”
The girl nodded and rung the price into the cash register. “Two seventy-five.”
Crystal handed her a twenty and glanced back at the dog.
He was still standing at the end of the yellow rope, twitching at something he saw down the street, his expression hopeful.
“Your change,” said the girl, and Crystal turned back.
“What’s with the dog?” she asked.
“Animal Control’s coming for him.”
