Free Racing to You: Racing Love, Book 1 by Robin Lovett

turn.” He shows me his open mouth.
    “You want me to feed you?” I’m not doing that. I fill the fork with pasta and hand it to him. “Here.”
    He grabs my hand with the fork and puts it in his mouth, forcing me to feed him. He groans and chews. “Oh, I got to have more of that. Hit me again.”
    He’s so playful. I like it. I fill the fork again, and this time voluntarily put it in his open mouth. His lips close around the tines and draw it slowly out of his mouth.
    Not wanting to play along too much, I pull the fork out faster and face forward. “Drive, please.”
    He moves the car forward, turning toward Vieux Nice. “I drive as long as you feed me. Keep it coming.”
    After each bite, he swallows and says, “Again.” With the rapidity he eats, I fear he will burst.
    “How can you eat so much?”
    “Sweetheart, I burned five thousand calories today. I could eat boxes of pasta and it wouldn’t be enough.”
    “Don’t call me sweetheart.”
    “Sorry. Relie.”
    “That’s what my dad calls me.”
    He jolts. “Okay. Not that either.”
    “Aurelia is fine, thanks.”
    “People must call you by a nickname.”
    “The French call me ‘Aurélie’.” I like how French it sounds, though somehow that doesn’t feel right either.
    “They leave off the ‘Lia’ part?”
    “Yeah.”
    He leans toward me with an open mouth. “More.”
    I like him saying “more” to me, too much. The fork trembles in my hand.
    With his mouth full, he says, “Braker’s not my real name.”
    “What do you mean?”
    He swallows. “My real last name is Baker. Some announcer made the mistake back when I was a junior racing on the track. It stuck. The whole ‘Braking Terror’ thing.”
    “But it’s spelled wrong. Braker as in ‘baker’ is the noun, not the verb.”
    He gives me the side-eye. “I don’t think announcers give a shit about spelling.”
    “Well, they should.” I’m rambling, trying to think of anything except how close he is to me. I’m cowering toward the door so his shoulder isn’t touching mine. “Do people call you ‘Terry’ then?”
    His voice lowers, tightens. “Terry is my father’s name. No one calls me that.”
    “That’s bad, I guess?”
    He scoffs. “The less I can be like him the better.”
    “Okay.” I feel bad, like I said something I shouldn’t have, though how was I supposed to know “Terry” was the wrong thing to mention?
    I take another bite of ziti myself and feed him one too.
    He turns another corner and says, “I don’t know where you live.”
    “You can drop me in two blocks.” No cars are allowed on my street so he’ll have to stop on the boulevard. I’m relieved we’re close. This car is getting warmer and smaller every minute.
    “We lived around the corner from here last winter. That’s why we always go to that café. The barista loves us.”
    I snort. “He never talks to me.”
    “I’m sure you’re all sunshine and roses.”
    “Shut up. If you think I’m so prissy, why do you talk to me?”
    “Hey, I think you’re great. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. It’s nice to have to work for smiles. Yours don’t come cheap.”
    I can’t help the smile that splits my face. “Thank you.”
    “See?” He beams at me.
    “Watch the road, please.” He says such nice things. I hope he’s not saying them because he’s expecting sex.

Chapter Twelve
    He parks the car where I said, turning off the engine, though I wanted him to leave it running. I need out of this car. I refuse to sit with him longer.
    “Thanks for the food and the ride.”
    “Sure.”
    I’m nervous and terrified that he might try to kiss me again. Or worse, I’ll want him to kiss me again and he won’t. So I don’t look at him. I search for the door handle, put the pasta pan on the seat, and get out.
    I slam the door closed, then hear his car door slam behind me.
    “You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” he says, striding up beside me with his hands stuffed in his