Since there didn’t seem to be anywhere else for him to put it, I refrained from comment, but suppressed a sigh of relief. “So, what’s Ridenhour Racing?” “Only the hottest race team in NASCAR at the moment.” NASCAR? I bit my lip. My mother had outdone herself this time. I associated NASCAR with tobacco-chewing rednecks who dropped out of school in the eighth grade. I sure as hell couldn’t see how anyone thought driving around in a circle for five hundred miles qualified as a sport. I shifted my worries to what kind of living quarters she was dragging me to, but asking seemed rude when I could just wait and see. Instead, I turned to Colt’s earlier words. Who says I won’t treat you like a princess? He acted like our getting... involved... was a foregone conclusion. I wanted to laugh that off. He reeked of bad boy, but I had to admit, I found him attractive. They were both attractive, but I supposed Colt had my attention because he was more talkative. The cab was redolent with testosterone, ‘new car’ air freshener, and cologne.
