“Up you go,” she prompted.

He jumped onto the floor of the truck.

Crystal patted the seat.

He gave her a look that questioned her wisdom, his brows knitting together. But when she patted it a second time, he gamely hopped up, curling into a little ball.

She shut the door, refusing to examine the logic of her actions. It was a temporary fix, just until the old man’s family could be contacted. And if no relative showed up, well, she’d deal with that later.

On the way around the cab, she licked a dribble from the back of her hand, then she swiped her tongue across both scoops a few times, making her way down to the solid ice cream before hopping into the truck.

She turned the key in the ignition.

“Okay, dog,” she said aloud, with a forced note of bravery in her voice. “Looks like it’s you and me for a while.”

She gave the dog the rest of her ice cream, then put the truck into Reverse.

RUFUS, AS CRYSTAL HAD decided to call the black Lab, slept soundly on the soft seat, even as she maneuvered the Softco truck in front of the Dean Grosso garage. Engines fired through the open bay doors, compressors clacked and impact tools whined as the teams tweaked their race cars in preparation for qualifying.

As always, when she visited the garage area, Crystal experienced a vicarious thrill, watching the technicians’ meticulous, last-minute preparations. As the daughter of a machinist, she understood the difference a fraction of a degree or a thousandth of an inch could make in the performance of a race car.

She muscled the driver’s door shut behind her and waved hello to a couple of familiar team members in their white and pale-blue uniforms. Then she rounded to the back of the truck and rolled up the door. Inside, five boxes were marked Cargill Motorsports.

One of them was big and heavy; it had slid forward a few feet, probably when she’d braked to make the Treatsy-Sweetsy parking lot entrance. So she pushed up the sleeves of her canary-yellow shirt, then stretched forward to reach the box. A couple of catcalls came her way as her faded blue jeans tightened across her rear end. But she knew they were good natured, so she simply ignored them.

She dragged the box toward her, over the gritty, metal floor.

“Let me give you a hand with that,” a deep, melodious voice rumbled in her ear.

“I can manage,” she responded crisply, not wanting to engage with any of the cat-callers.

Here in the garage, the last thing she needed was one of the guys treating her like she was something other than, well, one of the guys.

She’d learned long ago that there was something about her that made men toss out pickup lines like parade candy. And she’d been around race teams long enough to know she needed to behave like a buddy, not a potential date.

She piled the smaller boxes on top of the large one.

“It looks heavy,” said the voice.

“I’m tough,” she assured him as she scooped the pile into her arms.

He didn’t move away, so she turned her head to subject him to a back off stare. But she found herself staring into a compelling pair of green…no, brown…no, hazel eyes. She did a double take, as they seemed to twinkle, multicolored, under the garage lights.

The man insistently held out his hands for the boxes. There was a dignity in his tone, and little crinkles around his eyes that hinted at wisdom. There wasn’t a single sign of flirtation in his expression, but Crystal was still cautious.

“You know I’m being paid to move this, right?” she asked him.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t be a gentleman.”

Somebody whistled from a workbench. “Go, Professor Larry.”

The man named Larry tossed his own back-off look over his shoulder. Then he turned to Crystal. “Sorry about that.”

“Are you for real?” she asked, growing uncomfortable with the attention they were drawing. The last thing she needed was some latter-day Sir Galahad defending her honor at the track.

He quirked a dark eyebrow in a question.

“I mean,” she elaborated, “you don’t need to worry. I’ve been fending off the wolves since I was seventeen.”

“Doesn’t make it right,” he countered, attempting to lift the box from her hands.

She jerked back. “You’re not making it any easier.”

He frowned.

“You carry this box, and they start thinking of me as a girl.”

Professor Larry dipped his gaze to take in the curves of her figure. “Hate to tell you this,” he said, a little smile coming into those multifaceted eyes. “Odds are,” Larry continued, a teasing drawl in his tone, “they already have.”

Something about his look make her shiver inside. It was a ridiculous reaction. Guys had given her the once-over a million times. She’d learned long ago to ignore it.

She turned pointedly away, boxes in hand as she marched across the floor. She could feel him watching her from behind.

He was just like the rest.

But then, she remembered his apology for the team member’s ribald remark. She couldn’t help but smile at that. When was the last time anyone cared how she felt about being the subject of sexual overtures?

“Hey, Crystal.” Dean Grosso greeted her as she set the boxes down on the workbench. “I see you met my brother, Larry.”

Crystal glanced back at the tall man who still stood beside her truck. Dean’s brother? Really? She would have pegged Larry as much younger than Dean.

“Is he really a professor?” she asked, dusting off her hands and tucking her chestnut hair behind her ears. In the past couple of months, her hair had grown out to a nondescript style. But until she figured out her economic life, she didn’t want to spend any money on a haircut. Plus, anything she could do to look plain and boring was a good thing in her world.

Crew chief Perry Noble approached, pulling a pen out of his shirt pocket.

“Applied Mathematics at State,” Dean said to Crystal, while Perry signed the packing slip for the custom parts.

“He doesn’t look like a nerd to me,” she noted, thinking Larry looked a lot more like a businessman than a mathematician.

He appeared urbane and classy, with dark, neatly trimmed hair. He had intelligent eyes and a serious, square chin, and he wore a gray, pinstripe dress shirt and a maroon tie, with charcoal slacks and a pair of black loafers. Even without a suit jacket, he could probably stroll into any boardroom in America and look right at home.

Dean chuckled. “Get him talking about string theory, and you’ll see just how nerdy he is.”

“That’s unlikely,” said Crystal, accepting a copy of the signed packing slip from Perry. “I can barely understand trigonometry.”

“Only thing I need to understand is acceleration,” joked Dean.

“And chronology,” his wife Patsy put in, joining the conversation. “Hi there, Crystal.”

“She thinks I’m getting old,” Dean said, frowning at Patsy.

“You’re getting older every year,” she pointed out.

“Mathematically correct,” Crystal agreed.

As one of the veteran NASCAR drivers, Dean’s age was a matter of public interest. Fans and commentators alike were fond of speculating about his possible retirement. His brother Larry looked to be in his early forties. Maybe ten or so years older than Crystal. Not such a big difference. He was definitely nowhere near retirement.

Then she gave herself a little shake. What did the difference in their ages matter? She’d barely been introduced to the man. He’d offered to carry her box, not take her out on Saturday night. She was getting way ahead of herself.

“Say hello to your dad for me?” asked Patsy.

“Absolutely,” Crystal said, nodding.

Softco Machine Works had provided custom machining to NASCAR teams in Charlotte since before Crystal was born. Her father was friends with most of the NASCAR families.

She gave Dean and Patsy a cheery wave goodbye as she headed back to the van.

Larry was in the bay’s doorway, talking to a red-shirted race official. Crystal grabbed the rope on the rear rollup door. She caught herself in time to keep from tugging it down too quickly. She didn’t want the clattering metal to scare Rufus.

As the door lowered into place, she caught Larry’s movement in her peripheral vision. She gave him a wave goodbye. He smiled and nodded, and she felt an unaccustomed pull toward him.

Strange. She rarely had a desire to prolong a conversation with a man. It inevitably became complicated and uncomfortable. It didn’t seem to matter how plain her clothes, or how understated her makeup and hair, she had to remain on guard for leering looks and blatant sexual innuendo. Her late husband had treated her like a sex object and she would never let that happen again.

Ignoring the urge to move in Larry’s direction, she secured the door latch and strode back to the cab and Rufus.

The dog lifted his head to blink at her as she clambered back into the high seat, but he immediately settled down again. She supposed the comfort of the truck seat, along with his three-quarters of the large butterscotch cone, were enough to keep him sleepy and content for the moment.

She pushed the truck into gear, refusing to glance in the rearview mirror for a final glimpse of Professor Larry.

STRETCHING OUT HIS STROKE, Larry made a beeline down one of the fast lanes at the Northstar Recreation Center’s pool. He touched the wall, did an underwater turn and counted fifty in his mind, the blue lane buoys a blur beside him. He was halfway through his workout, had burned approximately four-hundred calories, and had compensated for five hours of sedentary, computer time on his major muscle groups. He made a mental note to check the wall clock on his next turnaround to make sure he was on pace.

When his fingertips brushed the painted concrete at the shallow end of the pool, he glanced up. His view of the clock was blocked by a pair of tanned legs-female legs that curved into smooth hips and a snug, ocean-blue one-piece bathing suit.