“Interesting.”
“That’s not what most people say.” Most people’s eyes glazed over at the mention of his profession.
She grinned, and something about her smile warmed him inside.
“You here to do laps?” he asked.
“Three times a week.”
“You can burn up to eight hundred excess calories doing an hour of freestyle.”
She glanced down at herself.
He cringed. “Not that I’m suggesting…That is, of course,
She chuckled at his horrible faux pas. “Trust me. I do it to feel good. I couldn’t care less about the visual pleasure of others.”
She moved to the next lane and sat down, dangling her feet and calves in the water.
Larry noticed that she was providing him with all kinds of visual pleasure at the moment, from the curve of her tanned hip, to her nipped-in waist, to the hint of cleavage. Visual pleasure didn’t get much better than this.
“Guess I’d better get going,” she said, slipping into the water.
“And I’d better get back at it.” He’d never stopped in the middle of a workout before. It simply wasn’t a logical thing to do. He quickly decided he’d better add a few laps to get his pulse rate back to optimal.
“See you later,” she called, pushing off the wall, arms curling, legs scissoring, gorgeous derriere poking out of the water.
Larry cursed between clenched teeth. The woman’s derriere was absolutely none of his business. He stretched into his own length, deciding three extra laps would do it.
He arrived at the far wall of the pool and was surprised to discover he hadn’t passed Crystal. Logic told him to stick to his own pace, but his ego urged him to swim a little harder. In a rare move, his brain let emotion override logic.
But at the end of the next lap, she was still ahead.
He pushed harder, determined to catch her.
Five more laps, and they were even at the turn.
She flashed him a smile that said she was onto him then pushed hard off the wall, obviously prepared to give it all she had. They moved neck and neck the entire length, both laughing when they reached the wall.
“How many’ve you got to go?” she gasped.
“Forty-five,” he responded.
“Might want to pace yourself,” she suggested.
“What about you?”
A competitive gleam grew in her green eyes. “Looks like we tied in the sprint. I’ll race you again for distance.”
“Forty-five laps?” he asked.
She nodded toward the scattered tables of the on-deck snack bar. “Loser buys fruit smoothies.”
“You’re on.”
Larry pushed off with determination.
At ten laps, he was surprised by her strength.
By twenty laps, he realized she must have done a whole lot of swimming in her life.
By thirty laps, he began to fear she might actually beat him.
But by forty laps, her speed began to slow.
He drew a deep breath of relief. He could have kept up the pace right to the end, but he might not have been able to walk afterward. He let himself slow down with her, and touched the final wall mere inches ahead of her.
She smoothed back her slick, dark hair, smiling brightly at him, looking like something out of a fantasy movie. “You’re very good,” she acknowledged.
“What about you? I take it you’ve done some swimming in your time?”
“Wesleyan College swim team.”
“You telling me I’ve been hustled?”
“Fork over the smoothie, baby.”
“I’d call it a tie.” He was prepared to be gracious.
She placed her palms on the pool deck, slipping her slick body out of the water. “Photo finish, but I won.”
“You sure?”
“I’m positive.”
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.
