The outdoor wedding was a great idea, she thought with satisfaction. The cool scented breeze off the ocean rippled the luxurious white tent coverings and made the hundreds of hanging flower arrangements sway majestically. Her ears filled with the happy chatter of guests and the romantic melodies of the live band. She actively absorbed as many sensations as she could, trying to imprint every last one on her mind to remember always.
With everything that had happened in the last few months, this was the best conclusion to it all she could imagine.
Telly looked as if she'd agree to that for herself as well.
She looked as radiant as Stanna felt, in a bizarre jewel-toned wrap that showcased her superb sense of style. Her date couldn't keep his eyes off her, that was for sure. She couldn't blame him any more than she could blame Telly's neglect of the wedding festivities in favor of ogling her handsome date. A mechanic and aspiring racecar driver, Telly had told her earlier. He did have a certain rough appeal. Not that he held a candle to her... husband.
The word caused dozens of warm fuzzies to whirl happily inside her.
Ever since he'd shown up at her apartment to finally declare himself, those fuzzies were never far away. She supposed she'd just have to get used to them, she thought with satisfaction.
Everyone she knew in Los Angeles was here to witness her happiness. She looked around with interest. No, there was one missing person. Ian.
But then, he would hardly be there, as she hadn't invited him. She hadn't heard from him since the one last unsettling call to the magazine when he’d said he needed to take his medication. It was as if he'd disappeared.
Stanna and Jake had decided not to press charges. If Ian had the good grace to disappear and stay out of their lives, then they could live without sending the old guy to jail.
He would've been so surprised to see the latest Men's Weekly change. Hell, she was still surprised that Jake had agreed to it. Surprised and thrilled: A His and Hers column writing on opposite sides of a subject. She wrote what she pleased in "Woman's Word," and Jake presented the opposite, manly take on the matter in his "Hear the Man." A perfect solution for them.
From the challenging glint in his eyes when he’d agreed to it, they'd never run out of material. Jake was too fundamentally masculine. Sometimes he even edged into chauvinist territory.
Nothing she couldn't handle.
A lock of blond hair brushed against her cheek and tickled her skin gently, but this time she didn't mind. She just tilted her head until her cheek rested against the broad shoulder of her husband, replacing the tickling sensation with the solid warmth of Jake, giving her a vast, inexhaustible contentment.
From his satisfied growl and the way his arm immediately rose to fold her against him, she could tell he felt exactly the same way.
The End
About the Author
An award-winning writer, Christina Crooks lives with her husband in Portland, Oregon. She has a bachelor's degree in English literature and is a member of Romance Writers of America.
Christina's work has been recommended by Booklist and has received commendations including an honorable mention in the Year's Best Fantasy and Horror, a Reviewer’s Choice Award from Two Lips and a Staff Pick from Powell’s Books.
Christina's books have been published by Kensington, Samhain, and Five Star Publishing. Her short fiction has appeared in Hot Blood #13: Dark Passions, Space and Time Magazine, Nossa Morte, Quantum Kiss, and elsewhere.
Please visit Christina at www.christinacrooks.com.
Where sparks fly and rubber burns.
Thrill of the Chase
© 2010 Christina Crooks
Sarah’s a whiz at tuning engines and winning races. Winning Craig, the local drag race hero, proves more difficult. He only has eyes for gorgeous women who are hot in the sack, not grubby tomboys. Sarah’s world gets an overhaul when her father hires Gordon Devine. Soon she’s torn not only between two men she wants, but between the drag race winner she is and the woman she feels pressured to become.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Thrill of the Chase:
Powering up through the gears, Sarah felt all the muscles in her body tighten with readiness and excitement before the two turns. She gripped her Mustang’s custom wood-lacquered shift knob with one hand, the thick steering wheel with the other. Though the late morning traffic was light, she checked her side mirrors twice and carefully scanned from left to right through her windshield, alert for any movement. There were no cars nearby. And, of course, no pedestrians. Nobody walked in Huntington Beach’s industrial-zoned “automotive alley.”
Jerking the steering wheel to the right then pulling it smoothly left, simultaneously heel-toeing the clutch and brake pedals with the edge of her running shoe, she felt her car’s tires break free from the pavement’s friction. The car slid sideways.
Maintaining the throttle pressure to keep her wheels spinning, she steered into the same direction she slid. She spotted the large, faded red letters of Big Red’s Auto Performance Shop’s sign out of the corner of her eye.
Right on target.
The four-wheel drift positioned her to race up the exact middle of the entrance to the shop’s parking lot.
With a satisfying screech of tires, she floored the gas to gather more speed, then whipped her car into the second and final turn.
Another four-wheel drift, pressing her back into the firm, curved racing seats she’d installed. She grinned as she piloted the sideways-hurtling car with an instinctive touch, lifting off the gas pedal and feathering the brakes to bleed off her speed.
The yellow Mustang slid to a halt. It was positioned perfectly in the middle of her parking space.
“Yes!” Energized, she leapt out of the car. Another day’s commute concluded.
Sarah pushed the building’s tinted front door open, humming. She jogged through the shop’s retail area, neither seeing nor expecting to see anyone manning the front desk. Matt was probably in the back again, complaining to the technicians. He pretended to be a gearhead, but she knew they saw through it. What he should be doing was unpacking and stocking those magazine shipments she saw lining the front wall in boxes, or cleaning the grimy glass display case. He should be sitting on that padded stool answering the ringing phone. Her dad hadn’t hired him to hang out.
She shrugged. Matt didn’t know a 9/16th from a hole in the ground, but he wasn’t her main problem.
Still, his absence added a new bounce to her gait. How nice that he wasn’t lounging in the short hallway staring at her workout bra–flattened chest as she returned from her Friday morning routine. As she trotted into the back, a gust of motor oil–scented air cooled her forehead. She wiped at it absently.
It was perfectly acceptable for the techs to sneak a peek—surreptitiously, of course—but Matt didn’t even try to be subtle. She rolled her eyes at the memory of his creepy peeping as he’d challenged her to arm-wrestle him. As if the scrawny weasel would win. Since she’d started working out she had arms of steel, powerful as any man’s. Useful for lifting transmissions into place, and carrying flywheels without having to always ask assistance from the guys in the back.
“The ‘ho is on the flo’,” she announced, trotting past the small group of men gathered around the engine stand gazing at a shiny small-block motor.
“Don’t I wish,” the taller mustached blond answered. He winked at her as she passed, but his attention remained firmly fixed on the small block. The shiny chrome seemed to have them mesmerized. “Shake some ass, already. We wouldn’t mind a little help.”
Flipping Will off even as she began to veer toward the object of attention, at the last moment she kept moving towards her own locker area, the converted women’s restroom. She was late again, but first she had to swap out her damp gym T-shirt. While she had no problem assaulting the guys with her version of ladies’ perspiration, her white shirt was miraculously unstained by grease. Best to keep it that way. Remembering with chagrin the last time she’d w
orn a shop shirt on the weight machines—she’d left black grease smudges on three of them before the trainers threw her out—she was already beginning to pull it off as the bathroom door hushed shut.
Yanking on her jeans along with a faded shop-shirt, she spared just enough time to splash cold water onto her face, pull her disarranged hair back into a neater ponytail, and run a strawberry-flavored ChapStick over her lips before rejoining the guys. “Is this a new engine build or a refresh job?” she asked no one in particular.
“Refresh,” Lee answered, fingering the pen behind his ear. He edged his small body to one side, making room for her next to the parts-covered workbench. He smiled shyly at her, the bright chrome flashing in his eyes.
She clapped him on the back, but softly so as not to frighten him. Then, looking around: “Where’s Matt?”
It became very quiet.
“What? Did he forget to show up?” No, that wasn’t it. As she peered at the familiar faces around her, she knew. “The weasel pissed Dad off.” She said it with some awe. Her father was not easy to rile. Which was his best quality, in her opinion. Easygoing Red Mattel had a reputation in the industry for fair, laid-back evenhandedness when dealing with his customers and technicians alike. It was a major element of his performance shop’s survival in a city where lesser mechanic garages went belly-up after only a year or two in business.
“What did he do?” All four guys looked pointedly away from her. Lee actually blushed. “What, damn it?” Now she was really curious.
Will finally answered her. He spoke quickly, looking at the ceiling. “This morning Red was showing the new guy around storage, when—”
“What new guy?” Sarah demanded.
“Patience, patience,” Will said, teasing her. “All things, ah, come to those who wait.”
At the inside joke, the guys guffawed, then fell into embarrassed silence.
“Tell me what the hell happened with Matt or I’ll start beating on you,” she threatened, laying her hand on a long, lumpy camshaft. Then she watched, mystified, as all four of them broke into gales of laughter.
“Beating. Oh man,” Will gasped, his face flushed from laughter.
“No. No way.” Sarah snatched her hand away from the part. She was beginning to get the picture. “He didn’t.”
“He sure did. With a wad of shop rags and a pile of American Rodder’s Mechanic of the Month fold-outs. And guess whose picture was on top?”
“Please no,” Sarah said. She knew. It was just like the little weasel to do something so gross right in her own shop. Nearly her own shop, she reminded herself again. “You shouldn’t have snapped that stupid picture of me cleaning the transmission spill. I looked like a bimbo in a wet T-shirt contest.”
“Just Craig’s type. What will your Romeo have to say about all this?” Will asked, shaking his head. His eyes twinkled with humor.
She suddenly felt restless and irritable as she thought about Craig. “Probably nothing. He doesn’t have a jealous bone in his body where I’m concerned.”
“Guess not. Anyway, your dad and the new guy—Gordon—were so unimpressed by Matt’s taste in T-shirted, smudge-faced ladies that Matt was kindly asked to accompany them up to Red’s office for his last paycheck. Last I saw, Matt was trying to cling to that pull-out poster of you like it was a treasure, but Red relieved him of it before booting him out the door.”
“Flattering,” she said, picking up the work order and scanning the specs for the refresh job. “Well, at least we’ll have someone decent to handle the front. The glass needs cleaning.”
Will cleared his throat. “Didn’t get the impression that’s what the new guy’ll be doing.” When she looked at him quizzically, he plucked the work order from her fingers. “Red said to tell you to go on up when you get in. That was about an hour ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me!” she growled, punching him in the arm as she passed him. She pulled the blow at the last moment. She didn’t want to damage her people. And she liked Will. She liked them all. Except Matt. And now he was gone.
She nearly danced up the stairs to her dad’s office.
Sitting across the desk from Red, Gordon felt the tingling in his veins that he always got with a good idea, but magnified. This one was it.
He gazed at the big man who’d just made his business instincts snap to attention. Like his name implied, Red had the requisite strawberry-blond mop of hair sitting atop a head that pushed up past Gordon’s own six-foot height by at least a few inches. The man who filled his swiveling cloth chair to capacity, dwarfing it, seemed to be offering Gordon a shortcut to his dreams.
“You’re offering something different from what we discussed on the phone.” Gordon spoke plainly. “Why?” He interlaced his well-manicured fingers together over his pressed slacks. The business suit gave him a sense of security that boosted his confidence, though the clothes seemed desperately out of place in this shop. Even Red, the owner, wore jeans. But then again, Red had openly admitted that he had no experience in taking his shop to the next level.
Gordon did.
Red answered him with matching directness, but with a slow drawl. “You’re overqualified for the tech position, which I think you know.”
“I am, but the job is important.” Working here was more important than he’d wanted Red to know during the phone interviews. After slaving his butt off and now going to night school to earn his advanced business degree, this was the next step. And if he played his cards right, Big Red’s Auto Performance Shop would be the answer to his business dreams.
“I like your attitude, Gordon. That’s why I’m offering the supervisor position, and if that goes well . . .”
Gordon leaned back in his chair, hoping to look nonchalant. “I’m listening.”
“I need someone with your business acumen to run things after I leave.”
“What about your daughter? I understood that this was a family company.”
“It is. And she’s sharp as a tack, but she’s not interested in anything that doesn’t have four wheels attached to it.”
Gordon envisioned a tomboy in grimy overalls. From his experience in the automotive industry, chances were good she answered that phone he’d seen up front. Women—even tomboys—generally weren’t natural additions to the rougher circle of mechanics who did the real work. “I understand completely, sir.”
“Don’t get me wrong. She knows her way around the shop better than anyone, and Lord knows I pay her enough, but all she wants to do is race.” Red’s expression when he looked at Gordon was mostly inscrutable, but Gordon thought he detected a certain resignation. “She’s close, so close, to being what this shop needs. But close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, am I right?” He waved his hand as if dismissing the topic. “I believe that’s her I hear pounding up the stairs as we speak.”
Expecting to see an overweight tomboy in the predicted grimy overalls from the clomping sound of the footsteps, Gordon couldn’t help being surprised at the sight of the slim young lady who pushed open the doors to Red’s large office without so much as a polite knock. She was the same T-shirted woman as the one in the glossy photo pullout he’d first seen down in the storage room, and which was now curled into Red’s trashcan. That was his daughter? No wonder Red had looked like he’d been ready to punch the guy.
But evidently Gordon had surprised her too. Her easy grin segued into a confused stare as she took in his suit. Gordon rather enjoyed the frank scrutiny. Her wide, pale lips and her pulled-back hair couldn’t disguise an earthy femininity, and her clear eyes when they rose to meet his questioningly were a striking shade of emerald that he’d never seen before.
“Sarah, dear,” Red said, rising. “This is our newest member of the company, Gordon Devine.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Sarah said, immediately crossing the floor and extending her hand to him before he could get to his feet. The scent of orange hand cleaner wafted up as she gripped his hand firmly.
Then, s
o quickly that he could only watch, she turned her back and strode toward Red. “Just got here. Last night’s race ran late, so I slept in. Will sent me up.” When she saw Red darting nervous glances at Gordon, she turned toward him again with curiosity.
Somewhat at a loss for words, and marveling at the rare sensation of being caught off guard, Gordon belatedly rose to his feet. “It is indeed a pleasure to meet Red’s capable daughter. He tells me that you’re a valuable asset to the shop.” He watched her tilt her head up to him, her wheat-colored ponytail glinting even in the office’s fluorescent light.
She was slightly older than the sixteen or seventeen he’d first assumed. Her lack of makeup and jewelry lent her an unsophisticated air. Quite unlike the women he preferred to date.
“I try,” she said dryly. Her lips twitched, as if she were suppressing a grin. She nodded at his suit and raised a pale eyebrow at his leather-bound briefcase leaning against the chair. “You look too polished for this shop. Are you sure you don’t mind getting dirty?”
“Sarah, dear. Be nice.”
Red’s mild chastising had no visible effect on the girl.
“No, Red, it’s okay.” Gordon gazed down at Red’s spoiled little daughter—for that’s certainly what she was, spoiled rotten—and spoke with precise enunciation, as if to a slow child. He smiled warmly. “We all have our uses.” He made sure her eyes followed his as he looked pointedly at Red’s trashcan and what lay within.
Her blush was lovely to behold. He wasn’t sure until that moment that she knew exactly how her image had been utilized.
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