Every chrome-trimmed red-vinyl-covered stool along the length of the counter was occupied. As were most of the red-vinyl-upholstered booths that jutted out from each wall and the tables crowding the black-and-white-checkered floor. Rafael strode toward the rear of the diner past framed photographs of NASCAR drivers, both present and past. He considered himself lucky when he claimed the last vacant booth. He checked his watch, noting he was on time. But there was no sign of the woman who’d called and asked him to meet her there. Caitlin Dempsey. At the Pocono track, he’d been acutely aware of her, hovering in the periphery of the garage, then the pit stall. But qualifying, practice and several sponsor commitments had kept him so busy he’d barely had time to speak to her. He’d thought about her, though. Too much. Then there was the dream in which he’d returned to his motor home late at night and found her waiting for him in the moonlight. The dream had quickly turned erotic when he’d tugged her inside and ravaged her mouth with his own.
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