Thunderstruck by Roxanne St. Claire Page B

dinner.”
    “He took me.” She turned to see Ernie settle into the guest chair and tap back his Country Peanut Butter cap with his finger. She clicked her mouse to close the spreadsheet. Ernie would just be upset if he knew how bad their finances really were. “I was doing what you asked me to do—giving him a chance to convince me he’s the best thing since Velcro.” She paused a beat. “He’s not.”
    He chuckled. “What’s Thunder say?”
    “You there, Daddy?” She wiggled her butt and the chair made a pathetic grunt. “He says go away and let Shelby finish this budget.”
    “Can’t go away, much as I want to. We got a problem, Shel.”
    “We got a lot of them. What is it today?”
    “Kenny Holt.”
    The way he said the driver’s name yanked her attention from the spreadsheet, and the echo of Mick’s warning sounded in her head. “What’s going on?” she asked.
    “Maybe nothin’. Maybe treason. I know he isn’t happy about Clay Slater joinin’ the team.”
    “Well, he has to stop acting like a jealous five-year-old on the playground and get to work.”
    “He’s moanin’ that everything good is going over to the Kincaid car and all the cost-cutting is comin’ out of the Country car.”
    She blew out a breath and cocked her head toward her computer. “He only needs to peruse my spreadsheets to see he’s wrong.”
    “Maybe. Maybe he needs to have his butt kicked out of here.”
    She shook her head at Ernie’s signature impulsiveness. “He’s the best driver we’re gonna get, Ernie. We can start thinking about next year, but this year we’re locked in. I’ll talk to him.”
    Ernie clasped his hands behind his neck and stared at her. “I’d like Mick to talk to him.”
    A pinch of resentment squeezed and she sat forward. “That’s not necessary.”
    Ernie lifted one gray brow. “Maybe somebody else needs to stop acting like a jealous five-year-old on the playground.”
    She opened her mouth to argue, then shut it. “What could Mick possibly tell him?”
    “It’s not what he says. It’s what he doesn’t say.”
    Ernie could be so cryptic. “Sorry. Does not compute.”
    “Just having Mick Churchill involved in team decisions sends a very loud message to our whole staff, especially the drivers.”
    Shelby resisted the overwhelming urge to slam her fist onto the desk in disagreement. Instead she crossed her arms and leaned forward. “How’s that, Ernie?”
    “If Mick’s looking for an opportunity in NASCAR and we’re it, then everyone knows his fame and draw is going to give us more money and more sponsorship. Then we can start talking to free-agent drivers who won’t piss and moan their way through our garage.”
    She considered that for a moment. Her consent was still needed for the deal to go through, but since Mick was hanging around torturing her on a daily basis, maybe she should use him. For something other than fueling her midnight fantasies.
    “You know,” Ernie added, “maybe a little guy-to-guy talk might get Kenny to be a little more responsive.”
    “Ernie!” She lost the fight and slapped her hand hard on the Formica desk. “Since when are you a sexist pig?”
    He just shook his head, ignoring her anger the way he always did. “I’m a realist, Shel. Looking for every advantage on and off the track.”
    And so should she be. But the idea that a man could persuade Kenny to behave better than she could really irked. “Maybe we could have the conversation together.” See? She could compromise. “I’ll set up a meeting.”
    Ernie rubbed his clean-shaven cheek and regarded her warily. “They’re already meetin’, Shel.”
    She swore softly under her breath and shoved her chair away from the desk. It squealed. “Shut up, Dad. I’m going to join them.”
    Ernie called out, “I think they were going to work out.”
    Oh, sure. Pumping iron and sharing testosterone-laden sweat in the gym. No place for her there. Well, hell. She strode purposefully