The Chase (32 page)

No wins on the track could ever make up for the loss of her marriage, and no life would ever be full and complete without Evan by her side.

Hadn’t she spent the last ten years learning that lesson?

She spotted him strolling towards pit road, looking handsome and adorable and maybe just a little embarrassed. A little worried.

But then he spotted her and he smiled. “I’m not much of a singer,” he started to say.

Kendall just leaped up into his arms and wrapped herself around him like a monkey, interrupting him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t want to lose you.”

When his arms held her tight and he looked into her eyes and said, “Oh, baby, I don’t want to lose you either,” Kendall knew it was going to be okay.

And she vowed that they were going to cross that finish line together.

 

EVAN
sat on the grass on the edge of the lake, next to Kendall, her head on his shoulder. He sighed deeply with contentment. It had been a twisting road, with a few caution laps along the way, but they’d made it to the end.

Or more accurately, the beginning.

It was a gorgeous Monday in Charlotte, spring in full bloom, the morning after his impromptu and badly done Rod Stewart serenade. “I’m never going to be able to go on YouTube again,” he said. “I’m sure someone has posted me singing and I’m equally sure everyone has slammed me for it.”

Not that he cared. It had gotten Kendall to talk to him and that was all that mattered.

Kendall laughed. “Don’t listen to haters. I think it was beautiful.”

“That’s because you love me.”

“I do.”

He turned and looked into her rich amber eyes. “You do, don’t you?” He knew she did, but he wanted to hear it again. And again. Every day for the rest of his life.

“Yes. I do. I love you, Evan Roscoe Monroe.”

Without his stupid middle name would have been nice, but he was feeling so smug in love, he’d take it. “I love you, too, Kendall Carolina.”

After they shared a deep kiss, intimate and tender, Kendall ran her fingers across his lips. Evan instantly went hard, sure she was coming on to him.

But instead she gave him another kiss on the lips and said, “Mmm, you taste good. But don’t ruin the sentiment with my middle name. It’s so singsongy.”

“You said my middle name first, sweetheart. Besides, yours is cute, like you.”

She made a face. “Thanks.”

“What’s wrong with cute?”

“It’s just so . . . cute.”

“Actually, I think you’re cute and drop dead gorgeous and sinfully sexy and pinup worthy, but I don’t want to swell your head.”

He was trying to make light, but she studied him searchingly. “I’m insecure, do you know that? Have I ever mentioned that?”

“I know you are.” He did. He saw that now in a way he hadn’t before. “I’ll do my best to reassure you.”

“And I’ll do my best to trust who I am and what I have.”

Evan kissed the top of her head. “I know this won’t be easy for you. I’m sorry that you have to deal with this pregnancy. But I thank you for sticking with me.”

“I love you,” she said simply. “And I’ll love your baby.”

His throat was suddenly tight. “After this season, it’s just going to be all about you and that baby. I want to support your career and be there for my daughter. Then I’m thinking about team ownership a few years down the road. Or maybe a driving school. For girls. What do you think?”

“I think that’s a great idea. But only if you’re sure about leaving driving.”

He was. It had actually been something of a relief. “I am. Carl didn’t even have a heart attack when I told him. I think he’s glad to see me go.”

“That’s not true. I went to Carl and talked to him yesterday. He said you’ll always have a car at Hinder if you want one.”

Evan pulled back to look at her. “You went to Carl? For what?”

His wife shrugged sheepishly. “I went to chew him out for letting you go, only he informed me you weren’t forced out, you quit.”

That gave him a great deal of satisfaction and he held her closer. Knowing she had his back meant everything to him. “Thanks for doing that.”

“It was the least I could do after the horrible way I handled the pregnancy news. I’m always going to support you, you know. From here on out.”

That meant everything to him. “Likewise.”

“So what are they doing with our commercial, by the way?”

Evan shrugged. “They’re airing it. Going to milk our marriage and my last season for all they’re worth. They did invest a fair amount of money, so it’s only fair.”

Not that he really cared much about any of that at the moment. And considering that Kendall made a noncommittal sound, he didn’t think she really did either. They were just enjoying the day and each other.

“Can I have my ring back?” he asked her. That had been bothering him, and he wanted that symbol of their marriage back on his finger.

“Let’s get you a new one. I didn’t like that cheap one anyway. And maybe we should have a wedding reception for our friends. A party.”

“Now you’re talking. That would be nice, to celebrate with our families and our friends.”

Kendall’s finger came out and she pointed. “Hey look, the ducks are back. And they have babies . . . how cute.”

The family of ducks was swimming in the lake, the mother and father and four fuzzy, awkward little ducklings. “They’re kind of goofy looking,” Evan remarked. He’d never really understand the attraction humans had to those noisy things.

“Sometimes families don’t always look perfect. That doesn’t mean they don’t work.”

Well, that was the truth.

And it was their future.

“I bet that momma duck can change a tire faster than the daddy duck.”

Kendall grinned. “I bet she can.”

 

 

TUESDAY
Jones was feeling both grateful that her toast as maid of honor was behind her and that her orange bridesmaid dress looked remarkably better under the muted ballroom lights. Heading for the bar, because one glass of champagne clearly wasn’t enough, she veered at the last second to the dessert table. She was supposed to meet Evan Monroe, the man who had been smart enough to marry her best friend, Kendall, and throw her a big old wedding reception four months after their impulsive elopement. When Evan had commented during dinner that women couldn’t do shots of whiskey, Tuesday felt it was her duty, orange dress and all, to stand up for her gender.

But first she wanted a piece of cake.

To coat her stomach for the liquor.

Or maybe just because she liked cake.

She had to admit she was feeling weird—happy for Kendall, but also like she still wasn’t totally enjoying herself. Like she couldn’t. Yet for the first time in the three weeks since her dad had died, she didn’t feel like she might burst into tears at any given moment, so that was progress. Baby steps. Little tiny almost nonexistent baby steps, because there was nothing easy about losing her father. Death sucked. Grief sucked.

Grabbing a piece of cake from the assortment displayed on the table, she crammed it into her mouth on that very unpleasant thought.

And discovered that she had chosen the damn coconut slice, one of her very least favorite foods ever. There was good, there was bad, and then there was coconut. Her mouth automatically opening in horror, she looked around for a napkin, the flavor invading and offending every single one of her taste buds. Feeling like she might gag, she worked the cake forward with her tongue, debating just chucking it out of her mouth and into her champagne glass.

A hand shot out in front of her mouth and Evan said, “Just spit it out.”

She only paused for a second before depositing the vile waxy coconut hunk into Evan’s hand. “Oh, my God, thank you. That was so freaking gross—”

Tuesday forgot the rest of her sentence when she realized that it wasn’t Evan next to her. It was Diesel Lange. Retired driver. The man she had cried on at her father’s funeral.

And the man whose outstretched palm she had now just spit chewed-up cake into.

Oh. My. God. She felt heat flood her face as she stared at him, trying to think of something, anything to say. “Sorry” was the best she could manage. “I thought you were Evan.”

It was a lame explanation, but how did you really explain regurgitation onto total strangers?

His eyebrows furrowed. “Why would you think I was Evan?”

“Because I was meeting Evan.” Tuesday licked her lips, still tasting the coconut, still feeling like an ass. “I don’t usually just spit out food into random people’s hands, you know.” Food she realized he was still holding. “God, that’s so gross, I’m sorry.”

She reached out and grabbed the cold, mushy, spit-filled blob off his hand. It left a slimey smear across his skin. “Crap, sorry.” She was tempted to lick it off, but figured that would make it worse. A lot worse. She didn’t imagine any man wanted a woman to just lick him at a wedding reception.

Then again, maybe men did.

The oven her face had become burned a little hotter.

But he just gave her a lopsided smile. “Quit apologizing. I’m the one who stuck my hand out. I don’t like coconut either, so I’m glad I could help. The texture makes me want to hurl.”

She felt slightly better, or at least she would when that saliva trail across his hand was gone. First she snotted on his dress shirt at the funeral, now she spit on him. Classy.

“Let me get you a napkin.” Which, now that she was glancing around, she saw there were plenty of on the corner of the table, but they were blending into the tablecloth, creating this moment of horror for her. “Here.” She grabbed several off the top of the stack and scrubbed at his hand with them. “I can’t believe I spit on you.”

His other hand reached out and stilled her, wrapping loosely around her wrist. “Stop. A little saliva never killed anyone.”

“I don’t have any communicable diseases, just so you know.” Oh, God, did she really just say that? Tuesday downed the rest of her glass of champagne.

Diesel burst out laughing. “That is good to know. But I wasn’t worried.”

Then he just . . . looked at her. Tuesday wondered if he remembered who she was. Wondered if she was supposed to acknowledge that she had cried on him. But what if she said something and he didn’t recognize her? She glanced ruefully into the bottom of her empty glass.

What was the most disconcerting thing of all was that she had never been the type of woman who worried about things like this. She was no stranger to voicing her opinion and she had never lacked for confidence. You couldn’t be missing either quality if you wanted to be successful in the field of sports reporting. So why she was standing there wide-eyed and mute like a Precious Moments figurine she did not understand. That shit had to stop.

“I was meeting Evan at the bar, I should head on over there,” she said. “Come with me and I’ll buy you a drink.”

“It’s an open bar.”

She grinned. “I know. But it’s the thought that counts.”

He smiled back, a crooked smile that sent a shiver racing up her spine. Hello. She’d just felt the first jolt of sexual interest she’d had in months. It had been instantaneous when the corner of his mouth rose slowly and slyly, and Tuesday cleared her throat, suddenly unnerved. He was tall, with shaggy dark blond hair and some short facial hair that she felt the urge to touch to test its softness.

She knew he was single.

And she knew herself well enough to know that she needed to get the hell away from him as soon as possible.

But he held his arm out for her. Like a gentleman does to escort a woman somewhere. “Lead the way, Tuesday,” he told her.

There was no way to avoid slipping her own arm through his without being totally rude, so she did, clutching the empty glass in her free hand and trying not to look up at him. He had used her name. Did that mean he did remember her or he had just heard her name announced as maid of honor at the beginning of dinner?

She decided that she was Tuesday Jones, damn it, and even though she hadn’t felt stronger than a wet napkin the last few months, she needed to at least thank this man. “By the way,” she told him, forcing her head to lift to look at him. “Thanks for letting me bawl on you in the cemetery. I appreciate you tolerating the crazy girl.”

He sidled a look down at her that she couldn’t read. It was sympathetic, yes, but there didn’t seem to be any pity in it. It was something else, another emotion, but then again, maybe it was just the light playing off his pale blue eyes.

“No problem. I’m glad I could be there for you. Your dad was a good guy, and I’m really sorry for your loss.”

Tuesday drew up short a foot from the bar. He knew her dad? Well, duh, of course he knew her father. Over the years her dad had probably interviewed him a dozen times. Her brain wasn’t firing at full neurons lately. “Thanks,” she murmured, setting the champagne glass down on the bar before it slipped from her sweaty palm.

“What the hell took you so long?” Evan asked, grinning from ear to ear, his tie askew. “Change your mind, wimp out on me?”

Tuesday’s emotions were swirling close to the surface, thoughts of her father’s extensive career as a sports journalist suddenly thrust in front of her by Diesel Lange, and she wiped her hand down the front of her pumpkin-colored dress. Who thought of pumpkins in August? It made no sense. But the orange color scheme was what Kendall had wanted, and Tuesday guessed maybe it was supposed to be more tropical than fall foliage.

Evan’s grin started to slip. “Are you okay?”

No, no, not really. She was feeling far from okay. And that feeling like she might cry at any given second had returned full force. “Yeah, of course I am. Bring it on, Monroe.” She turned to Diesel. “Do you want to do a shot with us?”