April Kidwell
Heather Brighton cheered as Carrick edged into the number one spot coming out of the last curve. He slipped to the inside line, coaxing every last ounce of power from the engine she’d babied thirty-five minutes before.
“Come on, Carrick! Keep inside!” She jumped up and down with nearly 40,000 others.
The riders strained, neck and neck right to the last straightaway, when her rider—no, not hers—pulled ahead.
Stop laying claim. As long as he rode the motocross circuit, any future together was on hold.
If he won this race, his opportunities would multiply . . .
A roar like an undulating wave started at the finish line and rushed toward her.
“Beast! Beast!”
He’d won. Michael Carrick and Team USA had clinched the Motocross des Nations win. He wasn’t just the best in the states; he was the top rider in the world.
Exhaustion washed over her. Six months—no, nine years—of tireless work had gone into this moment. A tear slid down her cheek. If her last-minute fix on the carb had failed, if she hadn’t dialed in the forks, if he’d carved the line instead of listening to her . . .
What ifs were pointless. They’d done it. He’d done it.
She pressed through the throng, slid under the promo flags, and matched his pace as he coasted to a stop.
“About time.” His words were barely audible over the mayhem. “Two more seconds and she’d be in the mud.”
“Drop her, and you’re headed for the pit, washin’ her down.”
He tapped his helmet. “You’re the voice in my head.”
“About time.”
“Always.” He pulled off a glove and covered her hand with his. “Couldn’t’ve done it without you, Heath.”
She bit her lip. “If not me, someone else.” She wheeled the bike from his grasp.
It was an ongoing argument, albeit tongue-in-cheek. But his acknowledgement of her contribution to his wins thrilled her. Not all riders maintained that kind of humility.
“Meet me after the ceremony?” His eyes searched hers, and she experienced a familiar rush. Expectation. Elation. Exasperation. He was the boss—rider—superstar. She was the employee—mechanic—nobody.
“You’ve other obligations.” She indicated the adoring fans pouring onto the track.
“Meet me.”
“Fine. If you tear yourself away, you know where I’ll be.” No amount of inner lectures could stop the longing that welled inside her as the crowd carried him away. Literally.
***
Carrick’s boots thumped on the high gloss checkered floor before she saw him. She didn’t look up from the bike, but every movement she made at this point was for show.
He stopped a foot away, his lime green and black leathers coated in a thick layer of mud. The only semi-clean part of him was the promo jersey he’d thrown on after the race.
“You’re tracking mud everywhere.”
“This is the pro riding circuit. You ain’t afraid of mud.”
“No, but you might be afraid of me if you get it on the machine I just detailed.”
Carrick wrested the wrench from her hand and encouraged her to stand. One arm snaked around her middle.
“Nothin’ do—” She wriggled, but his mouth covered hers.
Her thoughts careened out of control like an amateur over the whoops. His near-crash on the doubles in the second race. Switching the carburetor from his practice bike to race bike with moments to spare. Being unable to celebrate with him at the finish line—when all she wanted to do was pull off that ridiculous helmet and smother him with kisses. Now, here she was, kissing him.
The one thing she couldn’t do. “Carrick—”
“Nope. Not this time.” He angled his head and dipped closer.
She pressed a hand against his chest and pushed. “You’re a beast.”
“Be my beauty.”
“Talk about lame. Does that work?”
“Never tried it before. Been saving it for you.”
“Whatever.” She slipped from his grasp. “Keep your distance. We’ve talked about this. Ain’t gonna happen.” She pointed a finger at him, then herself. “You’re the boss, I’m the employee.”
“What if I quit?”
“Quit what?”
“Racing.”
“You’re at the top of your game. Been wearing your brain bucket too tight? Motocross des Nations—best in the world—that’s you! Offers are flooding in.”
“I’m saying no.”
She shook her head. “You’re crazy.”
“For you.”
She rolled her eyes. “Be serious.”
“I am.” He reached for her hand, pulled it against his chest. “I’ve had my moment. It’s time you have yours.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m retiring. And if you let me, I’m heading up your team.”
“My team? I can’t make it on the circuit.”
“Why not? We’ve ridden together. You’ve got what it takes—raw talent—and I’ve got the knowhow. What’s more? I believe in you.”
“I’m too old.” She laughed. “I should’ve started ten years ago, fifteen maybe.”
“Excuses.” He touched her face, and so help her, she leaned into it.
“You know what it’s like racing against kids.” She groaned.
“Two words: Cathy McMaster.”
“Just because one woman—”
“She was in her fifties. You’ve got what, fifteen years on her?”
She glared. “At least twenty.”
“Joking.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.
“Never joke about a woman’s age.”
“You’ve got too much grit to worry about such nonsense.” His eyes focused on her lips. “Far too much.” He kissed the corner of her mouth.
“Top of your game.”
“Not worth it without you beside me.” He kissed the other corner. “And I don’t mean as my mechanic.”
“Downshift here. What about the fans?”
“Don’t care.” He kissed her nose.
“The money.”
“I’ve plenty.” Kissed the side of her neck.
“And if I fail?”
He teased her with an almost kiss, then whispered against her lips. “Winning isn’t everything, unless we’re talking about winning your heart.”
“Your sweet-talk needs work.”
“If anyone can fix it . . .” He kissed her. Long and sweet.
“I do have a knack for fixing things.”
“Let me help you chase your dreams.”
She smiled. One dream just came true.
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