Lana
He’s driving Dolly this weekend while Kelsey gets fixed up, and he asks for me on the headset again. He’s racing from the very back, because when he flipped during qualifying, his position suffered.
He’s been advancing every damn turn—going from P16, to P14, to P13.
“He wants you,” Clay says again.
I hesitate, noticing Clay doesn’t seem irritated anymore.
“He focuses better. Haven’t you noticed? His best times come when you’re on the radio with him.”
My eyes widen; and I feel my hand tremble slightly as I step forward, take the headset, and slip it on.
“You’re coming up behind P10. Your lap timing is close to P1, so if you keep this up …”
I watch him pass.
“P10!” I say. “Coming up behind P9 …” I check his time then. “You just broke the track record for fastest lap.”
“Dinner, Lana,” I suddenly hear his low, slightly dehydrated, sexy-as-fuck voice rumbling just like the motor in the background.
“What.”
“Go out to dinner with me.”
“Is this why you wanted me on? Are you inviting me out during a race?”
“Yeah, and I’m going to win again.”
I smile.
“Lana,” he prods.
Silence.
“Crasher …” He warns, sounding a little cocky. “You go out with me and you’ll never look back. I swear, baby.”
“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes, I’ll go to dinner with you,” I say.
