Free Slow Ride by Erin McCarthy Page A

And wasn’t the one just a synonym for the other?
    But she should be grateful he didn’t know her well enough to recognize that nose tweaking was a mistake, because his action had prevented her from embarrassing herself any further by crying. She couldn’t help but make a face at him as she stood up. Diesel just grinned, like he knew full well that wasn’t her style.
    Kendall was surrounded by well-wishers, but she extracted herself and said, “Let’s get a drink, Tuesday.”
    Tuesday found herself whisked away to the bar, which was being used to serve juices, coffee, and mimosas. “Sorry I’m late,” she told Kendall. “I didn’t hear my alarm.”
    “Did you sleep with Diesel?” Kendall asked, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. “What’s he look like naked?”
    “Kendall Holbrook Monroe,” Tuesday said with a grin, suddenly feeling better. “Why do you care what he looks like naked? You’re an old married woman.”
    “Doesn’t mean I’m not curious. He’s really tall for a driver, well over six foot.” She paused, glancing around the room, and dropped her voice even lower. “Is he, you know, proportionate? Because I’d hate to think that all that height doesn’t translate. It’s not fair that we can’t judge men’s penis size by looking at them. I mean, they can see what our bodies look like, how big our breasts are, but we have no clue until we’re confronted with it, and by then it’s too late.”
    Tuesday eyeballed a mimosa and debated whether hair of the dog made sense or not, totally amused by Kendall’s speech. “I completely agree with you. We need those scanners they have at the airport so we can gauge his size before we go home with him. But if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were lamenting Evan’s lack of stature.”
    Kendall hit her in the arm. “Of course not! Evan has a perfect . . . one. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t encounter a tiny one or two along the way.”
    Unfortunately, Tuesday knew about that all too well. “Yeah, no kidding. For awhile there, I felt like I was strolling through the Munchkinland of penises. Not good. No matter what they want to claim, size matters.” She went for the mimosa. One wouldn’t hurt. In fact, it might help.
    After taking a sip, which tasted like a little bit of orange juice heaven, she then lifted a mug and pulled the spigot to fill it with coffee for Diesel. “But sadly, I can’t tell you if he’s hung or not, because I never saw it.”
    “You never looked?” Kendall’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “You must have been drunker than I thought.”
    “Oh, I was plenty drunk, trust me.” Trashed. Bombed. Shitfaced. Whatever you wanted to call it. “But Diesel turned me down. Apparently sloppy drunk women don’t do it for him.”
    Glancing over, she saw he was politely chatting with Pink Pantsuit. Hungover women probably didn’t do it for him either, yet here he was, forced to make painful conversation simply because she’d asked him to. “I can’t figure him out. If he wasn’t interested in getting laid, why is he here with me? Why did he drive me home?”
    Kendall shook her head. “It’s amazing how blind we can be about our own relationships. Sweetheart, he is interested, he’s just too nice of a guy to take advantage of you loaded. And I’m sure he wants you fully conscious, not flopping around like a rag doll.”
    “How do you know he’s interested?” She snuck another glance at him. Damn, he was cute, with his shaggy hair and chin scruff.
    “Because he’s at a freaking wedding brunch where he only knows about five people and almost everyone in the room is a woman over the age of fifty. Hello. Of course he’s interested.”
    Tuesday wanted to believe that was true, but she wasn’t convinced. “I think he just felt sorry for me.”
    “And I think you’re nuts. If you felt sorry for a guy, would you go to his family’s Thanksgiving dinner?”
    Tuesday made a face. “No, of course