Shawn wasn’t offended by his concern. He had a valid point, and most of the time she was more careful. “I’m not usually there alone. I have a couple of employees who leave at the same time as I do. If I am there alone, I try to keep the door locked, but today my lawyer had just been in to see me so the door was open.”

“Hence the bad day?”

“Oh, yeah.” She fiddled with her seat belt and debated how much she could or should tell Rhett Ford. She was dying to blurt it out to someone—to have them sympathize with how appalling the whole situation was, and maybe let her bounce some ideas off them on how to increase her profits this season. Yet at the same time, she really didn’t think it was a good idea to have more than a couple of people know the reality of the situation. One, because she didn’t want anyone to think less of her grandfather. Two, because she didn’t want anyone to think they could swoop in and try to buy the track from her at a rock-bottom price. Three, because if she decided to fake a marriage, the less who knew the truth, the better.

Not that she was planning to fake a marriage, because how would she do that? But it seemed best to proceed with caution. She may not know what the hell she was doing when it came to men, but she knew her way around the business world, thank you very much, despite what, apparently, her grandfather thought.

That, she had to admit, was at the crux of her dismay and shell shock. She’d thought her grandfather trusted her with the business—to find out he didn’t was salt in the wound of her grief.

“How was your day?” she asked Rhett inanely, suddenly realizing she didn’t want to talk about Clinton’s visit, because then she would have to say out loud that she was going to lose the track because her grandfather hadn’t trusted her.

“It was a day like any other,” he said, shifting gears and gunning it across the four-lane road to the opposite parking lot. He handled his truck like a driver, and she was attracted to that, to the way his hand rested lightly on the gearshift, fully in control, forcing the truck to bend to his will. “Running some trials on Eve’s car. It’s running loose, but she has a great mechanic in Sheppard. He’ll tighten it up, no problem.”

It was an addiction, this sport, this career, this lifestyle. She knew that, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

She couldn’t walk away without trying. She just couldn’t. There was no way. It was in her blood.

A crazy idea popped into her head. A very insane, she couldn’t be serious, idea. Yet she couldn’t help but follow the thought through.

She quickly calculated some figures based on the insurance information Clinton had given her. Rhett Ford was hard up for money, he had told her that. He also understood the love of racing. He was attracted to her, he was single, he was clearly a man who did what he wanted, with no regard for anyone’s opinion about it. He was a risk taker.

But was he desperate enough for cash to marry her?

And could she go through with it?

It was ludicrous, the very concept.

But once the idea had taken hold, Shawn couldn’t shake it. She could save her livelihood, the last connection to her grandfather, a sport that she loved. If Hamby Speedway closed, there wouldn’t be a regional dirt track in the area, and that would be a crying shame.

To do that, she needed to get married.

Why not Rhett?

As he parked and came around and opened her car door, then the door to Milt’s, when he pulled out her bar stool, and took her coat from her and hung it on the back of her chair, she debated with herself, her heart pounding at twice its normal rate as she contemplated blurting out such a bizarre business proposition to him.

“What kind of beer would you like?” he asked her.

“I’ll take a Guinness.”

“That’ll grow hair on your chest. I’m impressed,” he said with a close-lipped smile, his eyes assessing her.

She laughed, a sound of pure relief that she hadn’t screamed out a marriage proposal. Yet. “That hasn’t been the result for me, thank God. I like dark ales. When I’m feeling really sassy, I like a good Irish Car Bomb. Jameson dropped into Guinness is a taste like no other.”

“Now I’m really impressed.” Rhett put his keys on the scratched-up bar top and said, “I’ll do one if you do.”

Uh-oh. “Are you daring me?” How could he have figured out already that was her weakness?

“I’m definitely daring you. In fact, I double-dog dare you.”

Damn it. He was either psychic or Eve had been telling tales.

Shawn slapped her purse on the bar and said, “I’m in.” No matter that she hadn’t eaten dinner and, on an empty stomach, was very likely to get snookered from whiskey at the end of such a stressful day. She could not turn down a dare.

Rhett grinned and flagged down the bartender. “How competitive are you? Think you can drink it faster than me?”

“Oh, I know I can.” Hell, she had paid half her living expenses in college from bets on how fast she could shoot a beer. “It’s all about opening up the throat to take it all down,” she told him confidently.

His eyebrows shot up. “Now that’s a mighty fine talent to have.”

Oops. That did sound a little sexual. Shawn felt her cheeks heat. “Don’t be rude.”

“What? I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“Thinking what?”

Damn it. He was good at this. He wasn’t going to say it, that they were both thinking about her giving him a blow job. Neither was she going to say it. “Just take your drink.”

He gave her a slow grin as the bartender set the glasses with the Guinness down on the bar in front of them, three-quarters full. A shot of Jameson was next to each glass, waiting for them to drop the shot glass down inside the Guinness. “On the count of three.”

Shawn picked up her shot of whiskey and let it hover over the Guinness, which she held in her right hand. From experience she knew to throw back with her dominant hand. Her coordination was better. She eyed Rhett as he counted, making sure he wasn’t going to cheat.

“One,” he said, and for some reason she shivered.

There was something about the way he stared at her. It was like he could give her an orgasm with the sheer force of his will, just from the intensity of his gaze. She shifted uncomfortably.

“Two.”

Shawn licked her lips, her hand shaking slightly. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. She was trapped by his eyes, which were such a deep green they were almost emerald. He was . . . arresting. That was the word for him. It threw her off her game and she felt her wrist slacken a little, her girl insides warming in arousal.

“Three.”

Shit. He had gained an advantage by being sexy. Shawn dropped, lifted, drank, the sting of the whiskey masked by the smooth maltiness of the ale. She opened the back of the throat, let it all flow down, and slapped her empty glass back on the table while she finished swallowing.

Rhett was a few seconds behind her.

“Ha! I was first!” Not that she was one to gloat or anything. Much.

“Wow,” was the bartender’s opinion. “I’ve never seen a woman drink a car bomb that fast.” The bartender was big and brawny, covered in tattoos, his beard enveloping the bottom half of his face in bushy salt-and-pepper hair. Shawn took it as a serious compliment.

“Thanks.” She beamed a little.

“That was impressive,” Rhett agreed.

“Well, you were no slouch yourself,” she said, wanting to soothe his ego a little. “But I might have forgotten to mention that I supplemented my income in college from bets over how fast I could down a car bomb.”

Rhett’s eyebrows rose. The bartender laughed.

“You’ve got to appreciate a woman who can shoot whiskey.”

“Well, my grandfather’s name was Jameson. It seems disrespectful not to be able to handle his namesake, you know what I mean?” Shawn suddenly felt melancholy. God, she missed Pops.

The bartender fist-bumped Rhett. “You’re a lucky man, brother.”

“Not yet, but I’m hoping,” Rhett told him.

“Ah. Well, good luck.” The bartender winked at Shawn. “Make him work for it, hon.”

Except the truth was, she needed Rhett Ford more than he needed her, so she wasn’t going to be forcing him to dance on a string. If anything, it was about to be the other way around. Or more like her crawling on the floor for him with a gag ball in her mouth.

Oh, God. There were going to have to be some ground rules on this fake marriage thing. Which she really needed to discuss with him. Her palms started to sweat, the liquor heating up her extremities. In her mind, one way or another, it was already a foregone conclusion. That’s how she was. She made a decision, and everyone else needed to fall in with it. Somehow she didn’t think Rhett Ford was the falling-in type.

Not having any idea how to reply to the bartender, she cleared her throat, wishing she were like Eve, who was never at a shortage for words.

“Where did you go to college?” Rhett asked her as the bartender moved on to other customers.

Not that Milt’s was jumping. There were only a couple of guys in their fifties at the end of the bar. Good. Fewer witnesses when she asked Rhett to marry her and he started laughing.

“I went to the University of South Carolina.” Then, because it would be expected, and because she already had a slight buzz from the whiskey she added, “Go Cocks.”

She expected Rhett to laugh or make a crack in return. It’s what people did whenever she referenced USC’s mascot, the gamecocks. It was funny. Juvenile humor, yes, but funny. It was the only legitimate way to say “Go Cocks” in a conversation in public ever.