They pulled into a winding drive that led to a white, antebellum mansion. “I thought we were visiting a racetrack,” Camila said.
“We are, but I figured I should let the owner know that I planned to trespass.” He hopped out of the truck and came around to open her door.
“You’re just going to walk up to the owner’s door, unannounced?” She accepted the hand he offered.
“Sure. Why not?”
Why not, indeed?
He rang the doorbell, and immediately the quiet was broken by a series of hysterical yips and yaps that sounded as though fifteen tiny dogs were hovering, shivering and barking, on the other side of the door. Except when it opened, only two tiny, long-haired dachshunds stood at their human’s feet, although they were, indeed, shivering with excitement.
The white-haired, bearded, elderly man with not a stitch of excess fat on his body grinned, and his eyes lit up.
“Tommy, m’boy! What a pleasant surprise!” He opened his arms, and Tommy embraced the man like they were old friends. Which, she supposed, they were. Tommy said his first race had been on this track, and he’d been involved in this sport since he was five. That was a lot of years in which these two lives had intertwined.
“Burt, good to see you, man,” Tommy greeted warmly.
When they separated, the older man’s gaze zoned in on Camila. “And who do we have here?”
Tommy chuckled and shook his head. “She’s just a friend, Burt. Don’t get any ideas.”
“If she’s just a friend, I’m certainly getting ideas.”
Tommy slugged him on the arm, hard enough that Camila winced. Burt rubbed the offended spot and nodded. “My apologies, ma’am.”
Did he just say ma’am, as if she were an old, southern lady?
“Burt’s originally from South Carolina,” Tommy explained, once again reading her mind.
“Can’t take the southern out of the man,” Burt said proudly.
“And every race fan in Michigan appreciates that,” Tommy replied. “By the way, this is Camila Alverez. Camila, Burt Rogers, proud owner of Rogers Raceway, one of the most famous tracks on the Motocross Championship circuit.”
Burt ignored her proffered hand and pulled her into a hug that left her breathless before he released her and said, “Well, come on in, boy. Let me get you a beer. Do you drink, Camila?”
“Yes, but not a fan of beer.”
Tommy arched those unfairly gorgeous brows. “You’re a bartender and you don’t drink beer?”
She shrugged. Burt said, “Your girl’s a bartender? I bet she fits right in with our crowd.”
Tommy wagged his finger under Burt’s nose. “First, she’s not my girl. Second, she’s not a motocross fan.”
Burt batted the offending appendage away. “Well, what do you drink, Camila who isn’t Tommy’s girl?”
She snorted and said, “Pretty much anything, so long as it’s decent liquor.”
Burt nodded approvingly and then waved at them to follow as he made his way through a whitewashed foyer, with the two dogs trotting at his heels. He led them into a sunken room that looked like a cigar lounge with its dark paneling and leather furniture. Both dogs hopped onto a chair and curled up together, seemingly relaxed but still keeping an eye on the company.
Burt pressed a button concealed in the base of a lamp and one of the panels opened to reveal a hidden wet bar displaying a variety of bourbon choices. Camila whistled.
“Wow. Some of these are worth thousands of dollars.”
Tommy raised his brows again, while Burt gave her a look that she could only describe as approving. “I may need to divorce my wife and ask you to marry me.”
Tommy coughed, drawing their attention. “Don’t listen to him,” he said. “Burt is convinced Lana hung the moon in the sky over Rogers Raceway.”
Burt nodded solemnly. “The boy’s right. Which would you like to try?”
For a career bartender who appreciated the wares she sold, it was like offering a kid free rein in the candy store. “Um, how about the Pappy Van Winkle Family Reserve?”
“Neat, I presume?”
“Of course.”
Burt poured smooth, rich bourbon into two lowball glasses and handed one of them to Camila. “This one’s a keeper, Tommy, my boy.”
“What part of ‘just friends’ did you miss?” Tommy asked.
Burt chuckled and handed her the drink, then pulled a bottle of Bell’s Best Brown Ale from a refrigerator under the bar and offered it to Tommy. After snagging his own glass, he nodded at the nearby couch, then settled himself into the chair where the dogs separated enough to allow him to sit, then curled up together on his lap.
“To what do I owe this unexpected visit?” Burt asked.
“I heard you’re selling the track,” Tommy replied.
Burt’s jovial countenance immediately drooped. “I can’t do it anymore. I’m tired, Tommy, my boy. I want to go to Arizona when the snow flies, not sit in my office and negotiate sponsorships and contracts for the next season. And the damn weather here in Michigan nearly gives me a freaking heart attack every single year.” He shook his head. “Stupid severe thunderstorm warning two hours before start time last week.”
“It ended up going south of us, and the sun came out with ten minutes to spare.”
Burt pointed at Tommy with his glass. “From your perspective, that was nothing but added adrenaline. For me? It shaved ten years off my life. Fans book for the next year based on the experience they have during this one. And they tell their friends and family and co-workers. If I don’t have a sellout crowd, I’m not the best anymore, am I?”
“The experience is more than just the weather,” Tommy argued. “It’s the
