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Too much was riding on trusting a stranger tonight.
“No, someone connected through work. Never met them to tell the truth. Look, I’m not going to tell anyone. I promise, okay?” He stuck out his hand again to shake. “Not a racing official, nor my acquaintance who knows Phil. No one. Your secret is safe with me.”
I stared at his hand, wary.
“Scout’s honour.”
“You were in Scouts?” I asked.
“Joined when I was eight years old, and lasted a year,” he smirked. “Surely that’s enough to be able to swear to something with Scout’s honour?”
His joke was enough to make me clasp his hand. A charge pulsed up my arm, like an electric shock. His touch was like fire. His thumb slowly rubbed over mine as he pulled away. The feeling was somehow erotic, not unlike a caress on my skin.
“Somehow, I think earning your trust will be worth it,” he murmured.
I didn’t want this handshake to end and yet it was unsettling too. No boy or man had ever made me feel something like this. Doug, back in high school, had been exciting, I guess, but this stranger’s touch eclipsed anything I’d ever felt before.
We eventually let our hands drop. Had he felt it too? We walked side by side to the bar, the atmosphere between us charged with anticipation.
I found my voice again to order drinks and handed him a light beer as we sat under the warmth of a gas heater. I sipped a bourbon and Coke.
“I’ve never met a female race driver before. You’re good, like really good.” His eyes twinkled. “Your reaction time was incredible, and they said you broke a record today. Do you compete semi-pro or pro?”
Regret pooled in my gut, remembering junior championships and trophies at home gathering dust in boxes. “I don’t compete.”
“With your reflexes and focus, you should. You’re clearly a skilled driver. You absolutely nailed it today.”
“You saw only one race,” I mumbled, and then straightened. “What about you? Do you compete or something?”
“Nah. Sometimes I take my car for a lap day or check out the occasional club day around Brisbane when work allows but mostly, just a spectator.” He sipped his beer, then leaned in. “If I can’t judge you on your name or your job, tell me what car you drive.”
“Well, prepare to judge me then,” I paused. “I drive a 1987 Hyundai Excel hatchback.”
He chuckled and then stared as if waiting for me to deliver the punchline. I stared back.
“Holy shit, you’re not joking.” He roared with laughter—a beautiful sound full of happiness. I smiled, even if I was the butt of the joke. Many women in the bar looked his way.
“It’s not that bad.”
“Oh, it so is.” He wiped his eyes.
“What do you drive, then?”
“It’s better than an Excel.”
I raised an eyebrow, waiting.
“1971 Mustang Mach 1.”
My eyes widened. “You’re kidding me.”
“I would never joke about a Mach 1,” he said in a low voice. “Sure, the Mach 1 has its critics, but she’s a beauty with the power to match. Wanna see her?”
“Yes!” I clapped my hands.
“You shouldn’t accept rides in stranger’s cars.” He sipped his beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. Funny, I’d never thought a man’s throat could be sexy before today. I wanted to lick it. Was that even normal?
“And you shouldn’t get into strange women’s motorhomes,” I retorted.
