Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Not surprisingly, I was having a hard time dealing with the fact that Phoebe was about to have a baby of her own.
I pulled both boxes out of the sack and handed one to her, suddenly famished. “Thank you for this.”
“Thank your sister, I’m only the delivery girl. I heard you’ve been busy today too,” she said, already digging into her potato salad with a plastic fork.
I swallowed a smile with my first chicken leg, loving the fact that she didn’t pick at her food or pretend not to be hungry in front of me. It was something I’d always admired about her. Gus was genuine. If she was feeling something, you knew it. If she was hungry, she ate. She didn’t play mind games or use her emotions to manipulate. With her job, she could have a dozen characters in her head at any one time, but she could never be anyone but herself, and didn’t try.
We ate, trading war stories from our respective days in between heaping bites of home-baked goodness. She told me about all her serving fails and near-misses, emphasizing the kindness of strangers, and I told her about the idiots who’d tried to drive across the flooded bridge and ended up flooding their cars instead. I’d towed three of them in since getting here at seven a.m. and at least one was a total loss because the owner had started it up right away, cracked a piston and effectively turned his engine into a lawn ornament.
I could get used to this. Having lunch together in my garage. Those eyes on me. Listening to her talk and seeing her smile.
That’s what I was thinking when she said, “So about the Lemons race…”
She was fiddling with her napkin nervously, though her voice was confident. “Since you apologized for your initial reaction, I’m assuming you don’t plan to try and talk me, or anyone on the team, out of my idea again.”
I chewed slowly on a bite of brisket, aware that I needed to handle this carefully. There was no way I’d try talking her out of it again. Kingston’s advice and my own conscience wouldn’t let me. But I did want to make sure she was fully prepared, informed and safe.
I needed to make sure she was safe.
Swallowing, I set down my fork and wiped my mouth with a napkin. “I have a few conditions.”
Her shoulders drooped slightly and she spoke to her lunch instead of me. “Here we go.”
Dalton chose that moment to poke his head in the door. “I’m back, boss.”
“Thanks. We’ll be in here for a bit, if you wouldn’t mind closing the door.”
“Not a problem.”
As soon as the latch clicked, I said, “Hear me out, August. If you want me to have an open mind, you need one too.”
She sighed, finally raising her eyes to mine. “That sounds fair.”
“Good. That means you’ll listen when I say I’d like to make sure the woman who hasn’t driven farther than the corner store or her doctor’s office in the last year knows what she’s doing behind the wheel. Especially that wheel. Jiminy isn’t like your automatic.”
When she glared at me, I wasn’t upset about it. I didn’t want her defeated. I wanted her determined to prove me wrong.
“I’ve driven on California freeways and Texas highways most of my adult life,” she declared. “In that car, I’ve driven through mountain ranges in rainstorms and to the end of the Florida Keys and back. Long-distance driving is a Retta family requirement. I might be rusty, but a few hours for one race should be a piece of cake.”
“It won’t be, but experience helps, so I’m glad you have it. Do you know why it’s called 24 Hours of Lemons?”
“Because a few guys decided to make a parody of a prestigious professional endurance race in France called 24 Hours of Le Mans,” she said immediately.
“Did Wikipedia tell you that?”
“Maybe.” She was swiveling in her seat restlessly and picking scraps off her half-eaten chicken breast with her fingers.
“Well, it got it right this time, although twenty-four is stretching it. In my experience, it’s more a nine-to-five situation, with two to four drivers splitting their time on the track, roughly two hours at a time. After a night of camping out, bragging and heavy drinking, they have another eight hours to look forward to. It’s slightly easier to navigate at that point, since half the entrants are gone by then.”
She stilled, listening closer now. “Why so many?”
“There’s either a crash or a breakdown that can’t be fixed in the paddock in one day, or the teams are too hungover to be worth a shit on the track.” I thought about if for a second and added, “Some of them just decide to go home. One day is enough for them.”
“You’re making it sound easier than I thought it was going to be, not harder. I’m not sure what you’re worried about.”