A NASCAR Holiday 2: Miracle SeasonSeason of DreamsTaking ControlThe Natural

by Pamela Britton

  MIKE MORGAN SAT next to her. And they were going to the beach.

  He sat next to her.

  Yes, he’d sat next to her before, but that had been in a professional environment. This was different. For one thing, she could smell him. He smelled like cinnamon and cedar. She loved cinnamon.

  She glanced over at Mike, and when she did, she caught him looking at her, the expression on his face one of thoughtful consideration.

  “How long have you worked for Miracles?”

  “About eight years,” she answered. Okay, this she could handle. As long as they kept things impersonal, she could keep her mind off things that were distinctly personal—like how long his fingers were. And how rock hard his thighs looked—

  Maggie.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  “I love it.” It was the best job in the world…and the worst. The kids they worked with were so sick, more than a few of them didn’t make it. When that happened it was like losing a close friend. Frankly, it sucked.

  “Indi tells me it’s a tough job.”

  Indi was her best friend and fellow Miracles worker. Although that was due to change, too, Maggie thought with a pang of sadness. Indi would be moving to North Carolina right after she got married. In the next few weeks Maggie would have to find someone to take her place, although to be honest, Indi could never be replaced.

  “It is,” she said. “Sometimes I wonder why I do it.”

  Cripes. Had she said that aloud?

  “You do it because you’re special,” he said. “And all I can say is thank you for doing a job not many people want to do.”

  She had spoken the words aloud. “Thanks,” she said, the edginess returning.

  Darn it. Why did he make her feel this way? She’d met plenty of other good-looking celebrities before. Why was Mike Morgan different?

  “Um, when’d you meet Indi?” Maggie asked to help cover her discomfort.

  “At the awards banquet last year.”

  She looked away, felt her tummy flutter, knew that her face burned. Why was he having this effect on her?

  But she knew why he affected her this way.

  He might not drive stock cars anymore, he might not be as famous as he once was, but the sheen of his successes clung to him in a way that turned Maggie on. She’d reasoned out long ago that that was why she—and millions of other women—lusted after him. He’d been one of the biggest names of the NASCAR NEXTEL Cup Series before the accident off the track that had stolen part of the vision in his left eye.

  “How long have you been with Helping Hands?” she asked.

  “Since May.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s a job.”

  She could tell it wasn’t a job he wanted. Oh, she didn’t doubt he enjoyed working for a charity organization just as she did, but she could tell he wanted to do something else.

  Drive.

  So the rumors that he was talking to people about racing again were true. Interesting.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he added. “I love helping people, but I miss being at the track.”

  And in that, they were vastly different. Maggie loved her job. She could never see herself doing something different. Yeah, the pay wasn’t all that great, but each time she helped grant the wish of a terminally ill child, she was reminded of what was important in life. She had her health and happiness. So did her daughter. She couldn’t ask for more.

  “Do you think you’ll find another ride?”

  Another ride. NASCAR lingo for being hired to drive another car. Amazing how much she’d learned in her few short years as a fan.

  “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “After the accident, my team owner promised I’d have a job when I got better. I even went and had surgery that is supposed to restore my vision, although we won’t know the results of that for a few weeks yet. My owner doesn’t want to put me back in a car with my vision being the way it is. I’ve done some testing for other owners, but they all say the same thing—wait until we get the test results back. They’re too afraid of me wrecking and so I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Before his accident he’d been one of the best. A legend. She’d had no idea he’d been more or less forced into retirement.

  “I heard you might be forming your own race team.”

  He nodded, glancing at her again. She’d started to breathe normally, the hands she’d placed in her lap relaxing atop her jeans. He was just a man, she reminded herself. Someone who’d had ups and downs, like her. It made him seem real. That, she realized, was part of her attraction to him. When she’d first met him she’d been surprised at how down-to-earth he was. The second time she’d met him, just this past Friday, she’d admitted to herself that she could get herself into some serious trouble obsessing over him at night. How ironic that she’d end up sitting next to him the very next day.

  “Well, whatever you end up doing, Mike, I wish you luck.”

  Try to remember, Maggie, that he comes from a different world than your own. One day, he might be back in the limelight. He might once again make it to the top of his field. She hoped that he did, but she knew that life would never include her. She almost laughed at herself. As if she had a chance at catching his interest.

  “Where is it you wanted to go?” she asked, because talking about what he did for a living depressed her. “You know, after we drive by the beach.”

  “I promised a friend of mine I’d look in on someone while I was here.”

  “Oh.”

  “You don’t mind tagging along with me, do you?”

  She supposed at this point she really didn’t have a choice. “No.”

  “Good. I hear the speedway in Watsonville is a nice track. You’ll be able to sit in some nice grandstands if you want.”

  “What did you say?”

  He smiled. “Speedway. We’re going to a race.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  MIKE EXPLAINED on the way to the track that from time to time he did some scouting for NASCAR team owners. When one of his friends, Blain Sanders, had heard Mike was going to be in California, he’d asked him to stop in on a local driver to see if he was any good. Mike had agreed and so that was that.

  The speedway in Watsonville was nestled near the base of a tall mountain range, one colored dark green by redwoods and California pines. Maggie knew this because they were at the track well before the sun set, the stop at the beach along the way so brief Maggie wondered if Mike’s main goal for the day had always been to get to the track as soon as possible.

  Sightseeing. Hah.

  Brooke would be sorely disappointed when she learned that instead of her and Mike strolling along sandy shores, they’d pulled to a stop at an overlook, peered out the front window at the gently rolling waves, then drove off. Mike’s only comment was that it looked different than the beaches of North Carolina. Well, okay then, Maggie had thought.

  So now she found herself at the track, Mike piloting his car down a side road that lead to the pits. The speedway doubled as fairgrounds for a few weeks during the year, so sheep and cattle pens were part of the landscape, as was a massive grandstand along the front stretch of the track.

  “You’ll have to go up to the office with me to get your pit permit,” Mike said.

  He parked in front of a minioffice set up by a chain-link fence that kept spectators out of the racetrack area. In front of them, near the backstretch, were rows and rows of race rigs. Even though they were some distance away, Maggie could still hear the sound of revving motors. People buzzed around the rigs and colorful cars, some team members wearing color-coordinated outfits, others in jeans and T-shirts.

  “Lead the way,” she said.

  They walked by a couple of guys who’d obviously just gotten their own permits because they were in the midst of tucking them into the back of their pants. One of them did a double take when he saw Mike. Maggie watched as he nudged his friend. The guy turned, followed his friend’s ga
ze, then stopped dead in his tracks. Maggie knew how he felt. Nobody had told her she’d be working with Mike until their first meeting at an off-site conference room. When she’d walked in the room, she’d just about dropped the file she’d been carrying.

  “Hey, there,” Mike said, his tone just as friendly as it’d been when he’d met her for the first time.

  “Wow,” one of the guys said. “You’re Mike Morgan.”

  Mike smiled but kept on walking.

  Those two weren’t the only ones to do a double take. One of the women working the booth did the same thing. She was an older woman, but her eyes were as giddy as a schoolgirl’s when she asked Mike to sign in.

  “I’ve always been a big fan,” she said as she pointed to a blank line.

  “Really?” he asked, his name nothing more than a scribble. “Thanks.”

  “You here to look someone over?” the woman asked.

  “Yup.”

  “Who?”

  “Jerry Talbot.”

  “Oh, yeah…he’s good.” The woman’s gaze moved past him to settle on Maggie. “You’ll need to sign here, too,” she said, pointing to a spot right below Mike’s name.

  Maggie did as asked, but she suffered through a moment of embarrassment when the lady said, “That’ll be twenty-five dollars.” She hadn’t brought that much cash.

  “Here,” Mike said, coming to her rescue.

  She looked up and caught Mike staring at her. He tucked the change in his pocket. “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready,” she echoed.

  “Don’t forget to put on your wristbands,” the woman behind the counter said, handing them two pink plastic strips.

  “Here,” Mike said, “I’ll put it on for you.” He fastened the wristband on her, then took her hand.

  Every muscle in Maggie’s body froze. She glanced up at him, surprised to find him staring into her own eyes intently.

  “If you don’t get it right the first time, you can’t remove them,” he said.

  “Oh,” she muttered, unable to pull her eyes away from him.

  Settle down, Maggie. You’re acting like a teenager.

  “There you go,” he said, releasing her.

  It took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to rub the spot where he’d touched her. “Thanks,” she said, forcing herself to look away. There was a man standing behind Mike, a look of barely contained excitement on his face.

  “Mike Morgan,” said the man, who looked about twenty years older than Mike, at least judging by his sun-wrinkled face and gray hair. “It really is you, isn’t it,” he said, holding out his hand when Mike turned around.

  “Hi, there,” Mike said, taking the guy’s hand and shaking it.

  Maggie was no stranger to celebrities being recognized. Just about every time she fulfilled a sick child’s wish involving a famous personality someone came up to them and shook their hand, or asked for an autograph or a picture. What she wasn’t prepared for was the warm way Mike appeared to greet everybody. He appeared genuinely pleased to meet anyone who knew his name.

  “I’ve been watching you race since you were a kid. The speedway in Dartmouth was spitting distance from my house.”

  “No kidding. Imagine that,” Mike said with a wide smile.

  “How’s the eye?” the guy asked.

  “Better,” Mike replied. “Thanks for asking.”

  “You getting behind the wheel again?”

  “Just as soon as I can,” Mike said.

  “Well, good. I look forward to it,” the man said, patting Mike on the back as if he’d known him forever. “Good luck when you do. I’ll be watching.”

  “Your fans love you,” Maggie noted as they walked away.

  “Yeah. I’ve always considered myself fortunate to have their support,” Mike said. He slid behind the wheel of his car again. They would be parking inside, along the perimeter of the track which, fortunately, had a retaining wall around it that would keep cars from sliding off the oval.

  “Do you miss it?” she asked.

  He stared out at the track. His hand was on the ignition key, but he didn’t turn on the motor. Instead he looked at her.

  “Yeah,” he said, his hand sliding back to his lap. “I miss it. A lot. Maybe one day I’ll go back to it….”

  When he looked into her eyes, Maggie felt something inside her still for a moment. “I’m sure you will,” she said.

  There it came again, that funny feeling in the pit of Maggie’s stomach. She told herself to look away, worried that if she didn’t, he might see something in her eyes, something that might cause him to think she had the hots for him.

  You do, Mags.

  Yeah, but she’d never let him see that. No way. She’d sworn off men when Brooke’s father had walked away. She’d done a pretty good job of avoiding entanglements ever since. The last thing she needed was to become embroiled with a man, especially when that man was a celebrity.

  Suddenly Mike Morgan was leaning toward her. He was drawing so near that she could smell cinnamon and cedar again. His mouth was getting closer, ever closer.

  He kissed her cheek. “I appreciate your support.”

  She had to bite back a sigh of disappointment, especially when his lips rested against her heated flesh for about 1.9 seconds—which wasn’t long enough! When his hand lifted to pat the top of her head, she bit back a groan of dismay.

  “You’re a good listener,” he said.

  She wanted to do a heck of a lot more than listen. She wanted to rip his shirt off and have her wicked way with him. She wanted to run her hands through his hair and see if it felt as soft as it looked.

  “Oh, ah…” She struggled with what to say. “Thanks.”

  Obviously, she’d been without sex for far too long.

  Take heart, Mags. At least you have some new fodder for your fantasies.

  Yes. There was that.

  When he started the car she drooped against the seat, her heart beating hard. When he put the car in gear and the side of his hand accidentally brushed her leg, she just about gasped. But when he shot her an impersonal smile that clearly said, “Oops. Sorry,” she just about groaned.

  He wasn’t the sorry one. She was.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HE’D JUST ABOUT kissed her, and not on the cheek.

  Damn, Mike thought, steering the car toward the row of cars lined up near the pits, that’d been the first time in a long time he’d felt the urge to do something completely impulsive. Usually he liked to do things in small steps. And usually he liked his women a little more—he glanced at Maggie, at her unkempt, nearly wild curly hair, makeup-free face and casual clothes—polished. And yet the urge to lean in and try to kiss her again had him gripping the wheel as though he were about to start a race.

  “You can stay in here if you want,” he said, shutting off the motor.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I, um, think I’ll take a look around. I’ve never been on this side of the wall before.”

  “Be careful,” he said. “When they start to hot lap cars will be buzzing in and out of here. If you’re not on your toes, you might get run over.”

  “On second thought,” she said, seeming to sink down in her seat. “I’ll stay here.”

  He had to bite back a smile. “No, no,” he said. “Why don’t you come with me?” And then he winced because there he went again. It was just like at her house. One moment he was telling himself to take her giveaway items and run, the next he was inviting her along.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “It’s probably better if I let you conduct your business on your own.”

  Walk away, Mike.

  But instead he traveled to her side of the car, held out his hand and said, “Come on.”

  “Oh, no. Really.”

  He reached in. She reluctantly placed her hand in his. He was almost sorry to have to let her go.

  “Come on,” he said, having to almost physically restrain himself. People did double takes as he walked by,
but he was used to that. It happened in the garage all the time.

  He glanced down at her, taking in her wide-eyed look of wonder when they emerged from between two of the race rigs.

  “Have you seen Jerry Talbot?” he asked some guy in the midst of tuning a revving motor.

  “Over there,” the guy said, not even lifting his head, his gaze intent upon the timing marks on the front of the engine.

  Mike finally gave up and grabbed Maggie’s hand again. He felt her try to pull away, but it wasn’t a hard pull, more like a you-can-let-go-if-you-want-to tug.

  He didn’t want to. That shocked him to the point that he almost let go. Almost.

  “There he is,” Mike said, recognizing the paint scheme from the résumé the kid had sent Blain Sanders, one of racing’s best-known NASCAR owners and Mike’s would-be silent partner if this kid looked good. The plan was to run a partial schedule, Jerry trading seat time with another driver—maybe even Mike himself—in one of the NASCAR Craftsman Truck Series cars, but that was only if the kid raced half as well as his résumé made him sound. Word on the street was that he did.

  “Is Jerry around?” Mike asked a big guy with dark hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. He wore a yellow team shirt already stained by dark oil.

  “Damn,” the guy said, just about dropping the part he held. A rear-end gear by the looks of it. “You’re Mike Morgan.”

  “And you’re Brian,” Mike said, glancing down at the name of the shirt.

  “You made it,” Brian said, still sounding incredulous. “You’re really here.”

  “I’m really here.” Mike glanced down at Maggie and gave her a smile. “This is Maggie,” he said.

  “Hi, Maggie,” Brian said, and Mike noticed this time he wiped his hands on the front of his black pants before he clutched Maggie’s fingers.

  “When Jerry said you might come by, we all couldn’t believe it. I think even Jerry thought it might be a joke. I mean, you’re Mike Morgan. What are the odds that you’d come to a race all the way out in California to see our driver race.”

  “Pretty good considering I’m here.”

  “Yes,” Brian said with a grin that strung itself from ear to ear. “You are. Come on,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to Jerry. Man, is he ever going to freak.”