Barbara Dunlop - Overheated

He arrived at the far wall of the pool and was surprised to discover he hadn’t passed Crystal. Logic told him to stick to his own pace, but his ego urged him to swim a little harder. In a rare move, his brain let emotion override logic.

But at the end of the next lap, she was still ahead.

He pushed harder, determined to catch her.

Five more laps, and they were even at the turn.

She flashed him a smile that said she was onto him then pushed hard off the wall, obviously prepared to give it all she had. They moved neck and neck the entire length, both laughing when they reached the wall.

“How many’ve you got to go?” she gasped.

“Forty-five,” he responded.

“Might want to pace yourself,” she suggested.

“What about you?”

A competitive gleam grew in her green eyes. “Looks like we tied in the sprint. I’ll race you again for distance.”

“Forty-five laps?” he asked.

She nodded toward the scattered tables of the on-deck snack bar. “Loser buys fruit smoothies.”

“You’re on.”

Larry pushed off with determination.

At ten laps, he was surprised by her strength.

By twenty laps, he realized she must have done a whole lot of swimming in her life.

By thirty laps, he began to fear she might actually beat him.

But by forty laps, her speed began to slow.

He drew a deep breath of relief. He could have kept up the pace right to the end, but he might not have been able to walk afterward. He let himself slow down with her, and touched the final wall mere inches ahead of her.

She smoothed back her slick, dark hair, smiling brightly at him, looking like something out of a fantasy movie. “You’re very good,” she acknowledged.

“What about you? I take it you’ve done some swimming in your time?”

“Wesleyan College swim team.”

“You telling me I’ve been hustled?”

“Fork over the smoothie, baby.”

“I’d call it a tie.” He was prepared to be gracious.

She placed her palms on the pool deck, slipping her slick body out of the water. “Photo finish, but I won.”

“You sure?”

“I’m positive.”

He laughed and gave it to her, resting his gaze on her clinging swimsuit. Fact was, he’d buy her a hundred smoothies, or anything else she wanted, no race necessary.

He hopped out of the pool beside her. She was taller than most women. He had maybe four inches on her, and he couldn’t help thinking she was the perfect height.

“Do I get a rematch?” he asked.

“Not today.” She made a show of stretching out her arm muscles.

He smiled at that. He didn’t have a rematch in him today, either.

They strolled across the deck in silence, stopping at the bank of lockers for their towels.

Larry draped his around his shoulders and retrieved his wallet. “You live in Charlotte?”

She nodded, rubbing her towel over her hair before securing it at her waist. “I grew up here. Funny that we’ve never met before.”

“I don’t spend a lot of time in the garage.” When he came to a race, he was often in a motor home or up top with his son Steve who spotted for his nephew Kent, another NASCAR Sprint Cup Series driver.

“And I’m usually somewhere else,” she said, as they headed for the all-weather carpet and white plastic deck furniture of the snack bar.

“Do you watch the races at all?”

“If I’m at my parents’ house, yeah. My dad hasn’t missed one in about thirty years.”

“But you don’t come out to watch at the track?”

She shrugged. “Occasionally.”

They crossed into the snack bar where a dozen tables were clustered in an atrium. About half were full of families or couples.

“Ever seen a race from the pits?”

“You mean a hot pass?” She stopped beside the semicircular counter and gazed up at the painted menu.

“A hot pass,” he confirmed. The pits during a race had to be experienced to be believed.

“Never had one of those.”

It was on the tip of Larry’s tongue to make the offer. She was obviously cleared through track security for her job. He could get her a hot pass for Sunday, and they could watch the cars thunder down the straightaway together. But it would be almost like asking her on a date. And he was pretty sure that was inappropriate.

“I’ll take a strawberry-banana,” she said to a teenage clerk with short, streaked hair and a silver ring through her eyebrow.

Just like that, the moment was lost.

“Pineapple-mango,” said Larry, dropping his credit card on the green Arborite.

“I guess you have access to everything behind the scenes,” she said.

There it was again, another opportunity to invite her to the track. “Some things,” he said, wondering if he could phrase it in a way that didn’t make it sound like he was coming on to her. He could invite her to meet the family-his brother Dean, son Steve and nephew Ken. Would that make it better or worse?

The whine of the blender filled the air.

“Do you like racing?” she asked.

“I love it,” he answered honestly.

“But you’re not involved?”

“I love it as a spectator and a fan. But I’m not mechanically inclined, and I’m definitely not a driver.” Larry had learned a long time ago that his brain liked concepts better than hands-on. He might be able to help design a racing engine, but somebody else had to put it together.

Crystal looked him up and down. “You’d look cute in one of those uniforms.”

Even though he wasn’t crazy about the “cute” adjective, his breath caught again on her smile. “I have absolutely no desire to go 180 miles an hour. My family knew early on I’d never be a driver.”

Then he rethought the burst of honesty. Did it make him sound timid? Nerdy?

The clerk slid the smoothies across the counter, and Larry signed the credit card slip.

“I’d try it once,” said Crystal, capturing the plastic straw between her white teeth. “Just to see what it felt like.”

Larry’s gaze caught on her red lips as they wrapped around the straw and took a pull on the thick drink.

Then she grinned. “Of course, there’s every chance I’d scream my head off.”

She stirred the straw through the drink as she turned away. He watched her long legs, the sway of her hips, and the smooth skin of her bare shoulders. She was gorgeous enough to be on a Paris runway. And for the first time since his wife died three years ago, Larry felt a rush of sexual desire.

He tore his gaze from her body, scooped the other smoothie from the countertop, and followed her.

Crystal chose a corner table between a potted fig and a glass wall that overlooked the park. The ceiling was lower here than in the pool area, dampening the echoes of the growing swim crowd.

Larry rushed forward to help with her chair, and she turned to give him a bemused smiled. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He took the chair opposite, setting his drink on the table.

“So, you bucked the family business,” she began, dabbing her straw up and down.

“I did,” he agreed, struggling to keep his gaze from straying below her neck.

“Were they disappointed?”

“That I became a professor instead of a mechanic?”

She tipped her head sideways. “It sounds strange when you say it that way.”

“Only to people who don’t understand the value of a good mechanic.”

“And you do?”

“I became a professor, because I’d make a lousy mechanic.”

“And I became a parts driver, because I made a lousy model.”

“You were a model?” It didn’t surprise him.

“For a couple of months. I hated it.”

He raised his eyebrows, waiting for her to continue.

“The sum total of your being is reduced to the size of your waist and the length of your legs.”