Slow Ride by Erin McCarthy Read Free Book Online

carefully.
    “You’re the one being stupid. I’m perfectly capable of walking.”
    “Don’t get attitude,” he told her. “I said I’d carry you. Or smarter still, I can just go get the car and pull it around.”
    She paused. “Now that, my friend, is freaking brilliant.” She grinned at Diesel. “Two heads are better than one, eh?”
    “Especially when one is soaked in liquor.” He handed her the other shoe. “Don’t impale yourself with this. I’ll be right back with my car.”
    “What about my car?” Tuesday hopped as she struggled to cram her foot into her shoe. The motion made the parking lot sway a little and she swallowed hard.
    “Two cars are not better than one. We have to leave yours here.”
    There was probably a reason that should bother her, like the potential for vandalism, and the issue of retrieving it the next day, but she found she just didn’t care. Her feet hurt stuffed back into her shoes, there was sweat accumulating between her breasts, and she was so thirsty she would drink from a rain puddle if she could find one.
    As she watched him walk away, Tuesday tried to remember why it would be a bad idea to have sex with him. He was super cute. Tall. Lanky. Muscular arms. Scruffy, even dressed up for the reception. A man’s man. Which had never been her particular type. She’d always gone for the metrosexuals with good fashion sense and an extensive knowledge of wine. But there was something about Diesel . . . it started with his name and ended with his butt.
    When he pulled up in a black sports car, he got out and came around to open the door for her. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
    “Like what?” she asked, a sudden image of him over top of her flashing through her head.
    “Like you don’t know what the hell you’re looking at.”
    “Don’t be stupid.” She repeated his words and climbed into the car. Or fell in, if you wanted to get technical about it. “Do you have a grocery bag in here? Or a box maybe?”
    “No. Why?”
    In case she felt the sudden need to puke. “No reason.”
    He popped his head into the passenger side to study her. “Do you want to lie down in the backseat?”
    Lolling against the seat with a sigh, grateful to finally be off her feet, Tuesday said, “Are you going to lay in the backseat with me?”
    “No.”
    “Then why would I want to be back there?” Duh.
    Diesel pressed his lips together, like he was holding back a laugh. “Of course. Why don’t you just close your eyes, sweetheart?”
    That sounded like a good idea. But when she rested her head back, eyes closed to stop the spinning that had started up, the heavily hairsprayed bun prevented her from relaxing. It was like she was jutting three feet out from the seat, pins jabbing her scalp. “Damn it.” Sitting forward again, she reached up and started yanking at the pins.
    Diesel had slid into the driver’s seat. “Do you really need to do that right now?”
    “Yes. They’re bugging me.” But she wasn’t having much luck. For some weird reason, her fingers didn’t seem to be working correctly. All she was doing was pulling on her hair, causing her tear ducts to fire up.
    “Here.” Diesel reached over and efficiently extracted five or six pins from her hair. He unwound her bun. “Better?”
    Using her hands to massage the hair free and relieve her scalp, she sighed. “Much. You’d better quit being so nice to me or I might fall in love with you.”
    Somewhere, in the part of her brain that had sense, an alarm bell went off that maybe that hadn’t been an appropriate thing to say, joke or not. But she barely noticed it, deciding instead to take his advice and lay down. Across his lap.
    “Uh . . . how am I supposed to drive like this?”
    Tuesday looked up at him, his thighs beneath her head and shoulders. From this vantage point, his hair looked even longer, his chin strong and sharp. She reached up and scratched his beard. Very soft. “Oh, come on. You’re a