Page 50 of Austin

No.

It’s our second date. You know what that means …

Fine. But make it 8:30.

See you at 8:15.

I toss my phone on the couch and do a mad scramble, getting ready. When I fling open my closet door, I look at the rows of jeans and plain-looking tops that make up my usual weekend wardrobe. Rummaging through the hangers, I spy a pair of leather pants that I used to wear in college. I rip them off the hanger and try them on. To my surprise, my ass still fits in them. I put on a light-pink tank top and slide on the boots that I caught him staring at a few weeks ago. The outfit is not my usual attire, but it’s definitely something that would drive Falcon wild.

While I should be berating myself for dressing for a man, I’d like to think this is me dressing sexy for me. And, really, all the goodies are covered up, so it’s not like I look like a whore.

I run my fingers through my hair and give it a wild look. A thick line of eyeliner and some mascara have me feeling like Sandy from Grease after she gets a Pink Lady makeover.

When a Jeep Grand Cherokee pulls down my block at eight fifteen on the dot, I pause for a second, wondering if it’s him. The way he pulls over and turns his lights off while keeping the engine running lets me know it is.

I send him a text saying I’ll be right down and then wait in the vestibule to my building until eight twenty just to fuck with him.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he says after I open the door and sit in his car.

“Nice car. It’s so … domesticated.”

He smirks and starts the engine, speeding away. “There’s nothing domesticated about a Jeep Grand Cherokee Trackhawk. Over seven hundred horsepower isn’t exactly your grandpa’s Jeep.”

I take in his attire of torn jeans, a hat, and a zip-up hoodie. He’s in semi Falcon mode, not Austin, which makes me wonder just what kind of second date this is.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask after a few miles.

“We’re going scouting.”

I look down at my outfit and find that, for once, I’ll actually be dressed appropriately for going to a race. “You’re not racing?”

“No. Tonight, we watch. Find the best and invite them in. Unless you want me to take you for another wild ride?”

He grins, and I smack his arm, which he pretends has been hurt.

We pull up to a location that looks more legit than the place I first met Austin. There are cement barriers on either side of the track and floodlights at every turn. Austin parks the truck away from the crowd before slipping out.

“Stay close and pretend we’re like any other couple,” he says as he pulls his hat down low.

People surround the area with individual muscle cars of every type and size. After rounding the truck, Austin walks up to me, placing his hand in mine.

We walk the distance between the cars and the racetrack, checking out each one. Austin stops to talk to a few drivers, none of them seeming to notice who he is and treating him like every other person out here.

He keeps his hood up but openly discusses parts of the car and carries on in conversations about the track and who’s hot tonight. Apparently, there’s a particular driver he has his sights on, and he’s up next.

It’s amazing, the different feel this track has versus the ones Gregg sets up. There’s something very official about the lights actually counting down the start of the race and scoreboards flashing the time and winner.

Now, I understand why Austin risks his races. It’s not only the high of going fast. It’s also the secrecy and chances of getting caught that appeal to him.

“That’s him,” he says after the race goes down.

We watch as the cars come to a halt. A supercharged Hellcat wins, and the driver gets out for his post-win celebration.

“Okay, so do you just go talk to him?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. Now, we figure out a way to get close to him and slip this into his car”—he holds up a flip phone—“and then we finish our date.”

The way he says date, leaving it out in the air, unfinished and full of anticipation, makes my heart pound, but he grabs my hand, pulling me away from the crowd, around the track, and toward the gaggle of parked cars.