Then again, she did have those flame-retardant pants on, and those are kind of like underwear so maybe—no, she wouldn’t take them off if she wasn’t wearing underwear.
He stared at the hem of that shirt.
She wouldn’t leave herself exposed like that.
He tried to calculate how many inches it was from that hem before he would reach her—
He rocked back and forth and suddenly realized she’d jostled his shoulder. He looked over.
“Didn’t you hear me? I asked you what flavor this is?”
“Um, I’m not sure.”
She gave him the bottle and he tilted his head down so she wouldn’t see him staring at her lips.
They were on this straw. That I’m sucking now.
“So?” she asked.
He lifted his head. “Huh?”
“What flavor is it?”
“Oh. Um. Zippin’ Zingin’ Pear.”
He handed it back to her, watching her lips suck on that straw. He quickly slung the sleeves of his racing suit over his lap and placed his hands there.
“I’ve never had it before,” she said. “It’s good. My favorite is Max Mango.”
“Yeah, Max Mango’s good. My favorite is Apple Strawberry Rhubarb.”
She frowned. “Rhubarb?”
“What’s wrong with rhubarb?”
“Nothing, I suppose. But there’s no way it can be better than Max Mango.”
“Well, it is. Max Mango is good, but Apple Strawberry Rhubarb is better.”
She shook her head. “It can’t be.”
“Yes, it can.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Was it written somewhere in your contract that you have to disagree with me on everything?”
She laughed. “No. It’s just rhubarb doesn’t sound like it would taste good.”
“So, you’ve never actually tasted it.”
“No.”
“Well, then how do you know?”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Next race, I’ll bring you one, and you can see for yourself.”
