Thunderstruck by Roxanne St. Claire

essence, a shock controls time. You can add or take away little metal washers that increase or reduce the amount of force it takes to push that shock. Your spring controls the weight, but the shock controls the time.”
    His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth. “I see.”
    “You do not.”
    He laughed. “I see that you have a crumb on your lip.” He reached across the table and burned her bottom lip with one touch of his fingertip. “Now let’s talk about tires.”
    She eased out of his touch. Oh, Lord above. Was this heaven or hell? “This is exactly what you did this afternoon.”
    “Wiped your mouth?”
    “Wiped out defenses. You had that reporter eating out of the palm of your hand.”
    He held his hand out, palm up. “Wanna try?”
    Yes, she did. Instead she gave him a quick five. “You have a skill for eliminating defenses.”
    “I wasn’t much of a defense guy in my day, but I do know the three Ds.”
    She lifted an eyebrow in question.
    “Deny, delay and destroy.”
    She took the remaining raspberry. “Sounds deadly.”
    “Can be, but the only thing you’re killing is your opponents’ chances of scoring. Do you want to talk about football now?”
    “More than anything.” Well, not anything . But it would have to be less of a turn-on than sharing chocolate and tire strategy with the best-looking man she’d ever met.
    “Okay. What do you want to know? The rules? The players? The terminology?” He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Or the real secrets, like how to avoid getting nutmegged?”
    She smiled at the term but didn’t let it deflect her. “When did you start playing? Very young?”
    She took a sip of coffee and silently congratulated herself on not asking the real question that reverberated in her head: Do you have a girlfriend? At least, this week?
    “I kicked my first football at five years old and never stopped playing for one minute. I never dreamed it would make me rich and famous. I just wanted to win.” He dipped his head and lowered his voice. “Just like you and racing.”
    “There’s plenty of pressure for fame and fortune for some in racing,” she responded. “It’s not exactly the life for a person who wants anonymity.”
    He acknowledged that with a shrug. “I don’t necessarily want complete anonymity. I like a little limelight, I just don’t want to be blinded by it.”
    The waiter handed him the check, and Mick slid him a credit card in a move so fast she barely saw it.
    “This was supposed to be my treat,” she said. “I’m thanking you for helping me out of a jam with the newspaper.”
    He admonished her with a look. “The dinner is mine and I hope we have many more.”
    “You only have a couple weeks, Mick, and more than half of that is in Daytona.”
    “No one eats there?”
    She laughed. “A turkey leg, leaning against a tool cart. No raspberry tortes for my team.”
    “I’ve heard so much about this race, this track,” he said. “I’m looking forward to it.”
    She gave him a slow smile. “Trust me, it’s nothing like you’ve ever experienced before.”
    “Really?” He brightened. “Tell me.”
    “Impossible to describe it, really. I guarantee it will take your breath away and make you scream and turn you inside out and give you a thrill like you’ve never known before.”
    He grinned. “Sounds an awful lot like sex.”
    She’d walked right into that. “Better.”
    “Then you haven’t had sex with the right person.”
    Like the one sitting across the table.
    Since every other response evaporated from her brain, she asked the first question that came to mind. “Where are you staying in Daytona?” As soon as the words were out, she could have kicked herself. “I mean, how did you get a hotel room so late?”
    “I didn’t.”
    So he wouldn’t be there? “You’re not going?”
    “Oh, I’m going,” he replied as he signed the credit card receipt. “I just decided to opt for convenience and got a motor coach to park