Barbara Dunlop - Overheated

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.

“Hello, Larry,” came a voice that triggered something primal in his nervous system.

Facts and figures fled from his brain as he craned his neck to look up at…the woman from the garage. Crystal Hayes, his brother had told him.

His vocal chords didn’t immediately form words.

Her brow furrowed. “Do you remember me?”

Did he remember her? Hell, yes. He’d dreamed about her last night, spent most of this morning reliving their short conversation, cursing the fact that he was so formal around women, that he couldn’t carry on an easy, bantering chitchat like most men could.

He’d also cursed the fact that he’d offended her by offering to carry her package. He’d wondered if she was still annoyed with him. He’d also wondered if she’d caught on to the fact that he considered her one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.

Which was a totally inappropriate thought, and one he’d fought hard against.

“From yesterday?” she prompted into his silence. “At the garage?”

“Yes,” he blurted out.

And then she smiled. “Oh, good.”

He smiled in return, searching his brain for something intelligent to say.

Imagine, a tenured professor, published in the American Mathematics Journal and Quantum International, a NASA consultant, and he couldn’t think of a single intelligent thing to say to a beautiful woman.

The large pool facility was almost eerily quiet for 2:00 p.m., save for a couple of swimmers splashing a few lanes down.

“Strange that I’ve never seen you here before,” said Crystal. Her gaze took in his arms, chest and shoulders, apparently concluding it wasn’t the first time he’d been swimming.

Okay, his ego could handle that.

“I usually work out in the pool at State,” he said, grateful he hadn’t completely lost the power of speech.

“Your brother said you were a professor?”

Larry nodded. Words, man. Words!

“I teach mathematics.”

“Interesting.”

“That’s not what most people say.” Most people’s eyes glazed over at the mention of his profession.

She grinned, and something about her smile warmed him inside.

“You here to do laps?” he asked.

“Three times a week.”

“You can burn up to eight hundred excess calories doing an hour of freestyle.”

She glanced down at herself.

He cringed. “Not that I’m suggesting…That is, of course, you don’t need to worry about burning excess calories.”

She chuckled at his horrible faux pas. “Trust me. I do it to feel good. I couldn’t care less about the visual pleasure of others.”

She moved to the next lane and sat down, dangling her feet and calves in the water.

Larry noticed that she was providing him with all kinds of visual pleasure at the moment, from the curve of her tanned hip, to her nipped-in waist, to the hint of cleavage. Visual pleasure didn’t get much better than this.

“Guess I’d better get going,” she said, slipping into the water.

“And I’d better get back at it.” He’d never stopped in the middle of a workout before. It simply wasn’t a logical thing to do. He quickly decided he’d better add a few laps to get his pulse rate back to optimal.

“See you later,” she called, pushing off the wall, arms curling, legs scissoring, gorgeous derriere poking out of the water.

Larry cursed between clenched teeth. The woman’s derriere was absolutely none of his business. He stretched into his own length, deciding three extra laps would do it.