Page 139 of Lemon Crush

Giving up, I sighed and pushed up from my crouch, closing the lid carefully so I didn’t ding the wrap before finally looking over at him. He was dressed like he was on his way to some clambake in Maine instead of a racetrack in Texas (I might have googled “Things to do in Maine” recently). And he had on one of those newsboy caps as his only shield from the sun. October or not, The Great Gatsby over here was going to burn unless he stuck close to the tent.

“You’re okay I guess,” I told him. “But you need a bigger hat.”

“You really do like me!” he said, playfully pumping his arms. “Pardon my Sally Fields impression, but the word on the street is Wade worries to show he cares. Also, I have a giant hat in the RV I can swap this out for if I need to. I’m good, big guy.”

Ignoring him, I scanned the crowd again. Still no sign of August. Damn it. I couldn’t wait until this weekend was over and I could finally have more time alone with her.

A few days ago, I’d woken up with my face buried in her hair and my hand on her ass. Life was good and getting better all the time. Things weren’t perfect—we had a puppy to chase, work to accomplish and lives to manage. We had Chick and Bernie showing up to chat more often than I’d like. And we’d argued a couple of times since I officially moved in—once when I tried to convince her to put her bed in the guest room so we could use mine instead (I’d succeeded. I spent a lot of money on it for a reason)—but we’d made up not long after, making love andlaughing over a pint of peanut butter ice cream in the middle of the night.

My mornings hadn’t been nearly as pleasant since then. Between training for the race, slowly handing back the reins to Phoebe at the icehouse and working on edits for one book while promoting another, she was usually up and gone before I was. And by the time she fell into bed at night, all she needed was sleep.

Meanwhile, I was training Oscar to take a bigger leadership role at the garage. I’d also made Phoebe an equal partner at the icehouse, giving her more control and a substantial raise in the process. And since August had told me about Todd’s unexpected offer on her house, I’d introduced him to the retired football player and his perfect home. They already had a signed contract and would be closing in January. Morgan was really happy about that. So was Bernie—she loved having them around, but she also loved sleeping through the night. And she needed her privacy for reasons I didn’t want to speculate on.

Slowly but surely, I was moving all the pieces of my life around to make more time for myself. More time for August. The woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. The one who had agents and journalists blowing up her phone, appointments to keep and was spending more time with Morgan lately than I ever did.

But there was still a line between us. A deadline. A starting line. A line I thought I’d be ready for when it got here.

Until I looked at the calendar and realized the weekend of the race had arrived.

“Another fearsome scowl from Captain Wade.”

I shook my head in resignation. “I keep telling you, I’m not captain of anything. I’m only the pit crew.”

“You can’t change my head-canon. Where’s the rest of your two-man crew anyway? The bearded protégé.”

“He’s wandering the paddock, checking out the competition.”Dalton was in paradise. He’d clicked so well with the rest of the guys, they’d be fine with him if or when I eventually bowed out as their mechanic.

That pinched more than I’d thought it would. But it was worth it, if it meant I could have more time with August.

Yeah. I was a fool for the woman.

“Hey, 71? Can you two move out of the shot?” asked a tall man with a silver beard, a Panama hat and a cigar in his mouth. The yellow band on his wrist identified him as one of the drivers.

“He means us.” I nodded to the number on our car and pulled Chick two large steps away so a few more people could snap pictures of Jiminy with their phones.

“I love our Mouse Trap Civic,” the guy said, “but it’s great when people make their cars look this pretty. Just because this is Lemons doesn’t mean we can’t have nice things.”

Another driver, a large Hispanic man wearing a cartoon mouse on his shirt, lowered his phone to stare at him. “That’s exactly what it means, Roy. It’s implicit in the title. We’re all supposed to be racing fugly lemons that we decorate for laughs. Not classics that are dolled up for an art car parade. Like that hot tub Lincoln a couple years back. That was some funny shit.”

“Then why are you taking so many pictures?”

“Because my wife just lost her dad and I wanted to honor him. It’s giving me ideas for the art car parade.”

“Hey, does that movie poster say?—”

I swore under my breath. “Move it along, guys.”

“Sorry, man. Thanks.”

When they finally wandered away, Chick grinned. “Jiminy’s wrap is a hit.”

“It’s not bad.” I’d taken a few unobtrusive snapshots myself, because it was a piece of art.

It shouldn’t have worked. Movie posters from every film Sam Retta had worked on, good and bad. Airline tickets, letters,postcards and family pictures all blended into a brightly colored mosaic that drew the eye, with the background the same bright yellow as the car itself.

Life in Motion.

That was the official name of the theme. Sam’s busy life wrapped around a racecar.

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