by Aimee Carson
Feeble...what an apt description.
After all her stupid, prudish attempts to keep him at arm’s length, it only took a single nip to get her to drop her ideals faster than she could scroll past an unsuitable online match.
Cutter straightened up, but Jessica kept her eyes closed and somehow found her voice. “I do not want to see one ounce of smug satisfaction on your face.”
His voice managed to convey the emotion anyway. “Agreed.” Jessica opened her eyes and met his gaze as he went on. “I’ll just say I told you so and leave it at that.”
That was because the brash look in his eyes was all he needed.
Jessica, still wobbly and too shell-shocked to engage in further conversation, allowed Cutter to take her arm as he led her back up the empty hallway. As they neared the lobby, she finally managed to move under her own strength.
With a sinful expression on his face, he gazed down at her. “You look like you could use a drink,” he said. She’d never seen him so animated before. “Why don’t you hunt your sparkling conversationalist of a date down, and I’ll tell the waiter to bring you more champagne.”
She narrowed her eyes at him and repressed the utterly unfamiliar and completely undignified urge to stick out her tongue. They passed into the lobby, and, after tossing her his signature almost-grin, Cutter turned in the direction of the bar.
From seemingly nowhere a reporter from the Miami Insider materialized in front of him, and an irritated expression, mixed with resigned acceptance, crawled up Cutter’s face.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Thompson,” the reporter said. The bad toupee and snarky smile didn’t look any better teamed with a tuxedo. “The sporting world was beginning to think you’d avoid the press forever.”
Cutter’s face closed down, all pretense of patience gone. “I’ve been working on a project.”
Undaunted by Cutter’s attitude, the journalist’s smile grew bigger. “Just one question.”
Cutter’s green eyes went to granite, and Jessica held her breath as the reporter went on.
“Why did you bump Chester?” the reporter said.
Cutter frowned, his tone dismissive. “It doesn’t matter. He won and I didn’t.”
Hoping that was the end of it, Jessica blew out her breath. But when Cutter tried to continue into the lobby, the reporter stepped in front of him, blocking his path.
“But Chester had been pushing the lines of fair play, and most of the drivers were calling for ASCAR to step in.” The journalist shot Cutter a meaningful look. “There was a lot of bad blood building between you two.” The reporter paused, but when Cutter refused to reply the man continued. “Some say it was your competitive nature going for the win. Some say you took one for the team to teach Chester the rules of the track.” The pushy newsman cocked his head. “So why did you take the risk?”
A scowl now permeating his every pore, Cutter stepped around the man. “At this point, the reason is irrelevant.”
The reporter watched Cutter get about ten feet away before calling after him, the words sinking Jessica’s heart. “It is when it turns ASCAR’s number-one driver into its biggest has-been.”
CHAPTER FIVE
HAS-BEEN.
Washed up.
Springsteen’s voice wailed in the garage. Hips pressed against the ’Cuda as he leaned forward under the yawning hood, Cutter wrestled with the bolt on the air filter. It didn’t need changing as much as he needed something to keep him from pummeling the car in anger.
Used to be he would have taken out his feelings with a practice run around the track. It was zooming two hundred miles an hour in his car that had gotten him in the zone. Made him feel alive and eased all the black emotion.
But that wasn’t an option anymore. Ever since he’d screwed up his life, he felt as if he’d been bound and gagged. And with the release valve of racing now gone, the pressure of negativity was building in his chest, making him downright surly.
Not that he’d ever done cheerful.
After he’d left the aquarium Saturday night, he’d spent Sunday beneath the car. His ribs still sent crippling reminders of the grueling twelve hours of overexertion. The two-hour exercise binge this morning hadn’t helped either. By his tenth set of bench presses, his shirt was stuck to his damp skin, and his chest screamed in protest. In a way, the constant agony was a relief, keeping his thoughts from drifting back to the reporter’s question. Still, Cutter knew it was going to be a major ibuprofen, ice-pack kinda day.
Struggling with the bolt, irritated at the filter’s stubborn insistence to remain locked in place, Cutter tossed a cuss word at it, just for good measure.
Tally so far? ’Cuda one, Cutter zilch.
“Maybe you should try sweet-talking it,” a voice called from behind him.
Jessica.
After a brief pause, he gripped the wrench tighter. “I don’t do sweet,” he said as he continued his tussle.
And he was in no mood to chat with the beautiful lady. The pain in his chest mirrored the chaos churning in his mind, and neither was leaving him in a sociably acceptable mood.
Or more accurately, his mood was even less social than usual.
“I’m not going away just because you’re ignoring me,” she said.
The sound of heels tapping was followed by the death of a guitar on the stereo, and the resulting silence vibrated in the air like a washing machine set on spin.
Her voice came from behind and was soft, yet stubborn. “Burying your head beneath that car is not going to fix your problems.”
The lady didn’t know the half of it, and Cutter just managed to suppress the scowl. “Didn’t say it would.”
“That’s the problem,” she said. “You’re not saying anything at all.”
Jessica leaned on the front of the car next to him, her spicy scent invading his senses, turning him on, revving him up. His emotions. His lust. Even the bitterness. But it was the memory of her beautiful face as she came that swamped him the most.
Cutter raked a frustrated hand through his hair. He didn’t need a damn do-gooder coming around trying to do-good on him. What he needed right now was to be left alone. And if Miss Sensitivity couldn’t pick up on that, he might as well go take that shower he should have taken after he pumped iron this morning. Might ease the pain knifing him in his ribs.
After straightening up, he tossed the wrench at the tool box, and it landed with a loud clatter. “Talking doesn’t change a thing.”
“You don’t know that until you try.”
He stared at her lovely face. The wide, expressive brown eyes looked at him with uncertainty—wariness mixed with a generous dollop of fear. No need to wonder why.
After the aquarium episode, she clearly didn’t trust herself around him. The speed with which she’d come apart in his hands had been stunning. And if it had shocked the hell out of him, there was no guessing the size of the jolt she was recovering from.
The thought brought a large measure of satisfaction that almost chased away his foul mood, but the compassion in her face brought it all back. Her sundress exposed the creamy skin of her shoulders, and her long, leggy look ended in a pair of flat sandals. Feminine. A girly girl. A lady who loved to roll out a spotlight and shine it on every feeling. Analyze it from every angle.
“Sunshine,” he said, his voice deceptively quiet as he stepped closer. Her lids flared briefly, as if unsure what he’d do next. Good, she should be nervous. “If you’re smart, you’ll scram.” He shot her a look he hoped would end their conversation and headed towards the door. “I’m going to take a shower.”
Absently gnawing on the inside of her cheek, Jessica watched Cutter disappear inside the house. Why was she even here? She should definitely go. But when the reporter had called him a has-been, the look on Cutter’s face had st
olen her breath. And it was that expression she kept seeing. That and the one of smug satisfaction after he’d brought her to her figurative knees...while she was out on a date with another man.
The memory rolled in her belly. Granted, the only reason Phillip had agreed to go to the affair was to push his business at the function. But still, her part in the incident left her slightly queasy. When Cutter requested help with his flirting responsibilities, she’d called him unromantic and unethical, but what did her actions make her?
She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Probably best not to answer that question. But just as divorce didn’t preclude her belief in forever, one little indiscretion...
Jessica’s mind drifted back to the monumentally sensual moment by the shark tank, a shiver coursing up her spine.
Okay, so little was a gross understatement. But one brief moment of weakness...
The excuse died, cut off by the memory of her clutching Cutter, desperate to bring his mouth back to hers, prolonging their contact and drawing it out, until she practically demanded he finish the job.
Okay, so it hadn’t been brief either.
With a grimace, she racked her brain, searching for a better platitude.
Ah yes, the oldie but goodie: We learn from our mistakes and move on. That one worked nicely. Thank God for rationalization.
With a small breath, Jessica rubbed her forehead, staring at the closed door Cutter had disappeared through. Instinct told her to go, to leave him to his brooding. But the only reason he’d gone to the party, and had hence been waylaid by the reporter, was to help her with her publicity problem.
With a forced exhalation, she crossed the garage and went up the flight of stairs to the living area. Down the hall a door was open, and she heard a cabinet door close and water running. Her belly exchanged nausea for anxiety as she slowly approached the doorway and leaned against the frame.
The bathroom was done in gray marble dotted with gold fixtures. Glass blocks enclosed the shower, water spraying from the showerhead and steaming up the enclosure. Cutter stood at the double sink, hands on the hem of his T-shirt, as if about to take it off.
Their eyes collided in the mirror, locked, and—for a brief moment—the intimacy of their surroundings almost chased her away. The dark expression on his face hardly helped. But she persevered.
“Even Cro-Magnon man, limited though his vocabulary was, probably expressed a feeling or two when he was upset,” she said.
He dropped his hands to his sides, and his gaze slid to the sink. “I’m not upset.”
She slowly entered the room. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me.”
“Why?”
“Maybe I feel responsible for dragging you to the function in the first place.”
His gaze crashed into hers again. “Consider the shark tank payment in return.”
A burning sensation hit her between the legs and in the face, all at the same time, though they had vastly different meanings. Ignoring his suggestion, she went on. “So what’s bothering you?” Jessica studied him in the mirror. “The loss of a career, the injury...or is it the loss of the adoration of a tabloid journalist with a bad toupee?”
His scoff was one part disgust and two parts skeptical amusement. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about the press and their opinion.” Cutter leaned forward and braced his arms against the counter. “And yeah, I’m ticked my racing career is over.” There was a tiny lift to his eyebrows. “Not all of us can be optimists.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
He looked at her dryly. “I’m stating facts.”
True. It was all she knew how to be. After a period of mourning over her parents’ divorce, she’d looked for the positive, grateful their split had been amicable. After grieving over the death of her marriage, with Steve’s help she’d dusted herself off and redefined herself.
What other choice had she had?
She tipped her head curiously. “Why did you let the reporter’s questions upset you?”
After a quick pivot, Cutter opened the shower door and cut off the water. He turned and leaned back against the glass blocks, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans. His T-shirt clung to his every muscle, his ankles crossed. The stance was casual. Easy. His life might be in turmoil, but he was at home and sure of his physical presence. He was the epitome of masculine beauty.
But his eyes were directed somewhere beyond her, his gaze distant. And when he finally spoke, the words surprised her. “I have no memory of the wreck.”
She stared at him, the last droplets of water dripping to the shower floor as she processed the news. But, given an option, who would choose to remember such a frightening ordeal? “That’s probably a good thing.”
“Is it?” he said, slowly shaking his head. He still refused to look her in the eyes. “One minute I was in the lead and the next I woke up in agony, my left hand weak.” The muscles in his jaw tensed. “And I knew my racing days were over.” It was clear from his tone that the realization had been worse than the physical pain. His expression was hard, though his voice was soft as he went on. “I made a decision that ended it all, and I can’t even remember why.”
She studied him for a moment. “It would be tough to lose a career.”
“It was more than that.” He swiped his hand through his hair, as if frustrated, and then crossed his arms, finally meeting her gaze. “Since I was a teen, I’ve never been a laid-back kind of guy. I don’t go along to get along. I don’t smile if I don’t feel like it. And the track...” He gave a faint shrug, as if searching for the right words. “The track was the one place where I could be myself.”
After a brief pause, she lifted an eyebrow wryly. “Disagreeable?”
Instantly, his lips twisted in a repressed smile. “More like I didn’t have to pretend to be agreeable.” The seconds ticked by as she turned his words over in her head. It was impossible to picture Cutter going out of his way to be pleasant. “Racing suited me,” he said simply, and a shadow crossed his face. “And now it’s gone.”
Gone.
The short word was long in meaning, and it struck a chord in Jessica. This was something she could relate to. The end of her marriage wasn’t quite the same, but there were definite similarities. Been there, felt that.
Jessica went to stand beside him, leaning a hip against the counter. “Cutter, I know what it’s like to feel lost.”
His voice sounded unconvinced. “You’re comparing my injury to your divorce?”
She folded her arms in front of her chest. “I know you think marriage is a bunch of bunk, but it was the loss of my dream.” His brows scrunched together with doubt. “And regardless of whether you agree with my choices, I still had to pick myself up and move on,” she said. The sarcasm on his face eased a touch, and he took on a more thoughtful look, as if considering her words. Encouraged, she pressed on. “And you’ll only find your way again by taking active steps. Which isn’t possible if you’re hiding from the world by burying yourself beneath your car.”
“Right now all I have is the ’Cuda. When that’s done, what do you suggest? I find another career? Racing is all I’ve ever known. It’s all I’ve ever done. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“You find something else you love, too.”
“I don’t love anything else.”
“Then you find something you love almost as much. But if all you do is concentrate on what you’ve lost, you’ll never be able to see what you have left. And Cutter,” she said, taking a small step closer, “your negative attitude is blinding you from the possibilities.”
He looked at her as if she was nothing short of crazy. “What possibilities?”
She brushed her hair from her face in exasperation. “I don’t know,” she said, dropping her hand to her side. “Only you can fi
gure it out.” She took another step forward, holding his gaze with hers, enunciating each word for emphasis. “But that won’t happen until you stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
Cutter stared down at her face for what felt like two eternities, and then some. Finally, his lips twitched again, losing a little of their edge. The hard set to his face softened with a hint of humor. And the light in his eyes was a definite improvement over the bitter skepticism. “No one likes a whiner, huh?” he said.
Amazed by the transformation, a smile slipped up her face before she could stop it. “No.”
The cereal-box trademark suggestion of a grin infiltrated his face, sending electrical signals tingling along her nerves. When he took a small—but very meaningful—step in her direction, the tension in the air shifted, taking on definite sensual undertones.
After swallowing hard, she pushed away from the counter. “I’ll leave you to your shower.”
“Wait,” he said, reaching into a drawer and pulling out scissors. “Right before you appeared to dispense a dose of that sassy sympathy of yours...” The light in his eyes grew bigger, as if still amused by her accusation of self-pity. He certainly didn’t look offended. “I tried to take off my shirt and discovered how bad a number I did on my ribs during my workout. I can’t lift my arms without experiencing all kinds of pain.” He held out the scissors, the teasing expression back in full force. “Cut my shirt off for me?”
Heart tapping in her chest, she frowned at the obvious setup. She glanced at the ASCAR T-shirt covering his chest. “You’ll ruin it.”
“Sunshine, I’ve got a million of them.” His brow crinkled in amusement. “What about a little compassion for a man in pain?”
Jessica narrowed her eyes. “You know,” she said, swiping the scissors and pointing them at Cutter. “You deserve it for continuing to push yourself before you’re fully healed.” Eyes fixed on her task, she began to snip from the hem towards the neck, the stretchy cotton parting to display a flat stomach and nicely defined pectorals. The vision was more disturbing than she’d prepared for, than she could ever prepare for, her fingers growing clumsy as his chest was revealed. The mix of musky cologne tinged with motor oil was mesmerizing. She stepped back, the shirt now completely split, the sleeves clinging to his shoulders.
