“Well, if we’re playing by your rules, I should have told you it was twenty, then.”

I hear him stifle a chuckle behind me and am glad that he’s not getting his dick in a twist over my verbal dis. I descend the stairs to the infield heading toward the garages where I know the rest of my family will be to greet and shoot the shit with Colton when he gets out of the car as is our usual custom as of late. Luke’s boots echo off the metal steps right behind me, and I’m curious just how much he’s willing to tempt fate by following me.

He falls in step beside me in silence but the sounds and sights of time trials for pole position filter in all around us. “Hey, Quin?” he says as we approach the mechanic bays.

“Hey, Luke?” I mimic him again.

“What do you say you come join me for a victory celebration tomorrow night?” He angles his head to the side and waits for my answer.

And I can’t resist, he’s making it too damn easy. “You’re throwing Colton a victory party? How sweet of you!” He snorts out in disbelief and runs a hand through his cropped hair. I place my hand on his chest momentarily. “Thanks for the laugh and the walk down but—”

“I know, I know,” he says, raising his hands in surrender and taking a step back. “Can’t fault a guy for trying.”

I can hear Colton talking to Becks a few yards away, something about wing adjustments and lap times and although Colton’s preoccupied, I prefer for the peace to be kept and punches to remain unthrown.

“I think it’s best for your sake if you vacate the premises before my brother notices you’re here.”

“Ah see, true love. You’re looking out for me, but in case you forgot,” he says, pointing to his name on his fire suit, “I have every right to be here.”

I purse my lips and hold his gaze. “Well, not exactly here,” I reply, pointing to the yellow line denoting the garage boundaries for each race team.

He takes a step back so that his toes are just to the edge of the painted delineation and looks back to me with a smirk on his face. “Better?”

“Much,” I say as we hold each other’s stares a bit longer. I flick my hands at him in a shooing motion. “Now quit causing trouble and go.” I love the fact that he doesn’t react right away, that he has a mind of his own and isn’t going to let me persuade him. Maybe there are some rough edges to him after all. Food for thought.

“I love causing trouble. In fact I’d love to stick around and watch your big, bad brother protect you from the likes of me,” he says, and pulls at his shirt, which is beginning to stick to the middle of his chest from the heat sweltering off the asphalt track. I watch the movement and let my eyes drift down to the crotch of his race suit and hate myself for looking and still wondering.

And I curse the race suit for being so damn baggy.

“I can take care of myself just fine. No need for my brother’s help,” I tell him, challenge in my voice and amusement in my eyes.

Luke works his tongue in his cheek. “Well, since your brother doesn’t factor in, there’s nothing standing in the way so why won’t you go out with me?”

“Because arrogant race car drivers aren’t my type.” Maybe that will dissuade him.

“Well, since I’m more of the good-looking, financially stable, athletic type, I guess I’m golden.” His smile widens, proud of his answer.

“Far from it. I’d say more like silver.” I squint my eyes looking at the metallic color of his race suit as he steps toward me no longer blocking the sunlight and with blatant disregard for the line at his feet.

“Oh believe me, Quinlan, as long as it’s hard as metal, that’s all that matters,” he says, suggestion lacing his voice.

Did he really just say that? “Jesus. That right there is exactly why I’ve rejected you the other forty-two times you’ve asked me.”

“Well shit, I’m on number forty-three, so next time you’ll say yes.”

“Um, no,” I say with finality, but I can’t help the appreciation from coming through in my tone.

“Oh, Westin, I have your number, baby.” He takes a step back, and I glance back down to the line he’s cleared and smirk.

“Actually, you don’t.”

He laughs deep and loud and I know Colton will have heard it. Thanks a lot. “You’re right. I only have the number twenty but,” he says with a shrug, “I’m sure you’d be willing to work with that. Later, Quinlan.”

“Later, Luke,” I tell him as he turns his back and starts to walk away.

“One of these days you’re going to say yes,” he calls over his shoulder.

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are,” he says one final time, causing me to laugh and wish I did feel something between us because hell if his unrelenting effort isn’t attractive in itself. Shit, it would be fun to take him up on the offer if not to just piss Colton off. Hm. Maybe I’ll do just that next time.

“What the fuck did he want?”

Then again, maybe I won’t. Not worth the trouble.

I turn to find Colton leaning against the wall, Gatorade in hand, fire suit unzipped, and chest grossly plastered with sweat.

“Um, you’re married now. You don’t need to flex your chest to try to get women anymore. It’s nasty.” Distraction at its finest.

“Didn’t have to try to get them before,” he says, emphasizing his point with the flash of a grin.

I just roll my eyes, first Luke and now my brother. I most definitely do not need to date a race car driver.

“You had to work to get me,” Rylee says as she walks up behind him and swats him on the butt.

He laughs and places a soft kiss on her lips. She pushes him away when he tries to take the kiss further. “You see that?” Colton says, tone playful. “Married for a year and she’s already starting to reject me.”

“You poor baby,” I mock.

“So did you say yes?” Rylee asks with a lift of her chin motioning to where Luke walked away.

Thanks, Rylee. I thought I was off the hook, but I guess not.

“Of course she didn’t say yes. My little sister is not going out with that asshole,” Colton says, toggling his head back and forth between us.

I’ve never understood what the big deal is. Luke and Colton went after the same woman. Colton won, big deal. Well, and then Luke threw a few punches because of it … and maybe, perhaps he let a bit of the hostility transfer over to the track a time or two.

“Cool it, Ace,” she says with a raise of her brows, beating me to the punch. “She can go out with anyone she wants. You’re not her keeper.”

I can see the muscle pulse in my brother’s clenched jaw as Rylee stands her ground with him—she’s the only person besides his best friend, Becks, and our dad who can.

“He’s an arrogant ass!” he spouts off, mouth agape like we’re both crazy.

“I seem to know someone else who was just as arrogant and just as good-looking,” she teases, holding her ground.

I can’t fight my smirk from spreading into a full-blown grin from Rylee’s comment that is right on target. Becks summons Colton to come over toward the car. He looks at me with the stern big-brother, don’t fuck with me look. It’s kind of cute.

And annoying.

“Relax! I told him no.” The pronouncement earns me a flash of a grin before he pecks a kiss on Rylee’s cheek.

He starts to walk away and then stops and turns back. “Keep it that way,” he warns before continuing over to Becks.

Rylee tsks out a sound as she follows something over my shoulder, and I turn to see Luke walking farther down the pits. He flashes me a grin before continuing into a building.

“You can’t deny that he is definite eye candy.” My neck hurts from the sudden whiplash at her words. “Oh come on, Quin, I may be married but I’m not dead.” She shrugs. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t see how many licks it takes to get to the center of his Tootsie Pop.”

And she says the comment so matter-of-factly I just burst out laughing. I swear to God all of the hormones she’s been taking to try to get pregnant have affected her usually demure manner.

“He wishes,” I say, still laughing.

“Well, he is persistent. You’ve got to give him that.”

“That’s all I’m giving him.”



Chapter 2


QUINLAN

The Southern California heat mixed with the second week of school has really done a number on me. I’m ready to melt into the cool air-conditioning of the Fine Arts offices as I pull open the door, tired from a late night hanging out with Layla—my fault but still aggravating nonetheless—and having had to deal with some dipshit undergrads in the teaching assistant session I just came from didn’t help matters.

Generally I don’t mind if a student doesn’t get a concept. I have no problem helping them so that they understand. But when the students are too busy chasing skirts and worrying about who the Trojans take on this weekend to listen, it’s not my problem they received bad marks on their first pop quiz.

And it’s not helping my mood that I need to get laid something fierce. And not by my own hand. There’s nothing worse than a woman in need of a good orgasm.

Or two.

Or three.

I drop my backpack on the counter with a sudden resolve to rectify the situation with the first willing candidate who meets my discriminating standards. Then again I’m on the verge of being desperate enough that I might throw them out of the window for the right mistake.

I start rifling through the bazillion pieces of paper stuffed in my mailbox—such is the life of a graduate student in the Cinematic Arts. Shit, save a tree people, use e-mail. I automatically toss the ones about elective seminars into the recycle bin without even reading them because at the beginning of a semester the last thing I have time for is something that does nothing to further help me write my dissertation.