Slow Ride (Fast Track #5)(24)
Author: Erin McCarthy

He didn’t admit to nervousness exactly, but it was close enough. So they needed to wrap up this argument and get back to the excitement of getting naked together for the first time. “So don’t criticize me for suggesting we stop at a bar, have a drink, chat a little, and ease some of the nerves. That’s all I was suggesting and you shut me down hard.”

There was a pause, his eyes on the road as he drove. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be an ass**le.”

“Most people aren’t trying to be ass**les. They just are. So think before you say something.” If even half the world would try that, she would be a happy woman.

“I was just offended that you needed to get drunk to have sex with me. But you’re right—there’s a big difference between drunk and one drink.”

Which meant if he was offended at the thought, he cared about her opinion of him. He wanted to spend time with her. It wasn’t just about a quick lay for him. Which was hot.

So she was willing to let the whole thing go, given she had tossed a ton of petulance at him to begin with. “Okay, so we’re cool.” Time to lighten the mood. “Have you ever thought about how bizarre it is that there are about a hundred slang words for being drunk? What does that say about alcohol and English-speaking people?”

“That we’re a culture soaked in ale. Though I think a hundred is an exaggeration.”

“Let’s count. There’s drunk, inebriated, trashed, loaded.”

“Smashed, shit-faced, bombed.”

“Crunk.”

“What the hell is crunk?”

“Crazy drunk. Don’t you watch reality TV? Get your GTL on then get crunk.”

“GTL?”

“Gym, tan, laundry.”

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“It’s the mantra of these guys . . . okay, never mind. Back to the slang.” Tuesday picked up a beer bottle, like it would inspire her. “Crocked. Sauced. Wrecked.”

“I think wrecked is pushing it. That can mean more than one thing. Such as emotional or unstable. It’s not a word exclusive to alcohol.”

“Good point, but I’m still counting it because so far we only have eleven and that’s highly disappointing.”

“Tipsy.”

“I can’t believe you just said tipsy. That sounded so cute coming out of your mouth.”

“I didn’t make the word up.” Diesel was amazed at how Tuesday could make him feel both intensely masculine and sexy, no matter what he was saying or doing. For the first time ever, he was starting to clue in as to how men could stand there holding a wife or girlfriend’s purse and not feel like a complete loser. They were standing there not caring what anyone else thought because their girl managed to make them feel like the very definition of macho.

“That still only makes it twelve. I’m disappointed. I think we need to go to the urban dictionary and check for more.”

“Well, we can if you want. We’re at my place.” Diesel hit the button to open his garage door. “But I was kind of hoping we could do something else instead.”

“Eat cookies?” she asked, her tongue slipping out to moisten her lips.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Eat cookies.”

But Tuesday was suddenly distracted as they pulled into his four-car garage. “Holy shit. This is a big garage.”

“Car parts take up a lot of room.” He’d bought the house before his accident, anticipating parking a boat and a hobby car or two. In the two years since, he’d been glad for it since he used most of it for his restoration projects.

“Yeah, but this is a house. I guess I expected you to live in a luxury apartment or a condo or something.”

“Why?” Diesel put his car in park and turned to look at her in the dark. The garage light cast a shadow across her face, hiding her eyes but showing her porcelain cheek.

He stared at her lips as she spoke. “I don’t know. Weird, huh? But I think of single guys as determined to be unattached to anything . . . even real estate.”

“I’ve never been determined to be unattached. I just haven’t met the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. But I love this house, even if it is too big for me.”

“What style is it?”

“I believe the architect called it French country. To me, its just brick and wood and pretty damn awesome looking.” He opened his car door, holding the container of cookies she’d baked him in his hand. “And you can see it if you get out of the car.”

She stuck her tongue out at him, but she did open her door as well. Diesel got out and walked around the front of his car. For some reason, he felt the urge to reach for her hand, but that seemed too intimate, too girlfriend-boyfriend. That wasn’t what they were doing.

He had no clue what exactly they were doing, given they kept shifting between sexual and friendly and confessional, but holding hands like high school sweethearts wasn’t the mood he wanted to strike at the moment. So he swept his arm toward the door and gave a mock carnival voice. “Right this way, step inside, if you dare.”

“Is this the house of wonders or the house of freaks?” she asked, twirling her crop in her fingers as she strolled past him, her hips swaying.

“Both.” Damn, he was just amazed at how naturally sexy Tuesday was. The way she took the three stairs to his back door showed she was aware of how every inch of her body moved, and what his reaction to it would be.

Turning to glance back at him, she tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Promise?”

“Guaranteed.” Diesel slid his hand over her ass, cupping her cheek before moving between her legs and stroking. “Now open the door before I nail you in the garage.”

Her hand reached out for the knob but she didn’t turn around. “Someone needs to learn patience.”

Moving in behind her, Diesel bumped his erection into her backside. “I’ll have plenty of patience once we’re naked. But now I want to get you inside so I can see some of that body you flashed at me the other day.”

“I didn’t flash anything at you.”

“What do you call dropping your blanket onto the floor? You were only wearing a very tiny bra and panties.” The vision was burned into his memory.

“I was hungover. That doesn’t count.”

“It counts. You meant to do it.”

She stepped into the house and gave him a grin over her shoulder. “You’re right. I did mean to do it. You deserved it for not denying I looked like ass. I was trying to prove a point.”