There were, in Vicky's opinion, three types of men: Those that made you go, "Eww." As in, yuck, I wouldn't touch that with a ten-foot pole and a pair of rubber gloves. Those that made you think, "Hmm." As in, if I was tired, tipsy and just a little bit desperate, I might take him home. And those that made you exclaim, softly, of course, "Oh, my."
Brandon Burke was a solid "Oh, my."
She'd known that. Of course she'd known that. The thing was, it didn't make it any easier to approach him. So she hung back, peering around the edge of one of the many buildings located at the South Carolina racetrack, every once in a while walking forward only to stop suddenly and turn back, the large bag she'd slung over one shoulder hitting her in the spine.
Back to hiding.
You're being ridiculous. He's just a man.
It was a busy day at the drag race motorsports complex. People heavily laden with salty-scented sunblock rushed past her, spectators, track officials and crewmen alike. The sweet smell of hot dogs and hamburgers hung in the air, as if everyone were at an outdoor barbecue rather than a drag strip. On the asphalt behind her, cars took off at regular intervals, their engines so loud, Vicky resisted the urge to cover her ears.
Come on, Vicky. Sooner or later you've got to do it.
She took another peek.
And her whole body just sort of went oomph.
Brandon leaned against the side of a big rig that hauled his drag bike from track to track, looking very...very...
She thought for a moment.
Gladiator-ish, if there was such a word. He was watching a mechanic work on his bike. Yellow Do Not Cross This Line tape kept fans at bay. Above him someone had pulled a white awning out from the side of the rig. It cast a translucent glow over his darkly tanned skin--as if he stood beneath a photographer's umbrella--and turned his black leather gear a shade of gray. She didn't know how he could stand to wear those leathers on a hot, sunny day like today, but she had to admit, he looked, um, hot in them.
She wiped a trickle of sweat off her own forehead. Go on, she silently urged, watching as he leaned forward and said something. But Vicky had never been aggressive where men were concerned. Out on the track, the deafening roar of a race car in the middle of a qualifying run filled the air yet again, but she could still hear the two of them laugh over the sound.
She readjusted the straps of her indigo bag, and headed for him.
He became more beautiful with each step. Race-car drivers were not, as a rule, pretty...at least not in her experience. But this guy was gorgeous in the same way as a Calvin Klein model. Razor-stubble chin. Blond sideburns in front of his ears. Michelangelo's lips. Botticelli's wide-armed physique, and the swept-back, shoulder-length blond hair of Perseus. She'd minored in Art...a degree that wasn't useful in her current job, but terrific for spur-of-the-moment metaphors.
She paused outside the tape, clenched her hands, then sternly told herself to stop being ridiculous. She'd graduated at the top of her class. With honors.
"Hi, Brandon," she said....
Pamela Britton (Author)
Bestselling author Pamela Britton blames her zany sense of humor on the amount of Fruity Pebbles she consumes. Not wanting to actually have to work for a living, Pamela has enjoyed a variety of odd careers such as modeling, working for race teams—incl