Almost Famous Page 7

  WADE CALLED again Friday morning. “You sound chipper this morning,” he said after Jake answered the phone. “Feeling better?”

  “Yeah. Workout went well this morning. I can really tell I’m getting my strength back.”

  “That’s good to hear. So, how come you’ve been keeping your phone turned off? And why aren’t you returning Pam’s calls? She’s going nuts here.”

  Jake sighed. “Tell her I’m sorry. I just haven’t been in the mood to deal with PR stuff. She keeps asking when I’ll be back, when I’ll be ready to talk to the media again, when I want to start the promo stuff again—and, well, I just don’t know how to answer her. I’ll be back in a week or two. I’ll talk to the press after I’ve been cleared to drive again, so I’ll have definitive plans in place. And I’ll start making personal appearances again at the same time. I’ve told her all of that, but she gets pushy sometimes.”

  “It’s her job to be pushy. And yours to be available to your sponsors and fans,” Wade reminded him, always the crew chief even when he had called as a friend.

  Grimacing, Jake agreed. “I’ll come back in full-press mode, I promise. You and Pam will see my ugly mug everywhere you look.”

  Wade chuckled. “It’ll be difficult, but somehow we’ll survive that.”

  And then his tone grew serious again. “If it makes you feel better, Woody asked me to tell you to take all the time you need. He knows you’re impatient to get back in the car, but he wants to make sure you’re ready. He said your ride is waiting for you whenever you decide to climb back into it.”

  Jake didn’t need to be reminded that he drove for what he considered the greatest team in the sport, Woodrow Racing. The team owner, Ernest “Woody” Woodrow, was as passionate about racing as anyone Jake had ever met. Gruff, obsessive, demanding, he was rabidly loyal to his employees, and he expected them to be loyal in return. As almost all of them were. Hundreds of them, working in the offices, the shops, the garages and the pits of the four cars he ran on the NASCAR NEXTEL Cup circuit.

  As for Jake, he would pretty much cut off his arm if Woody asked him to. Woody had given him a shot at a lifelong dream when Jake was still young and untried. He intended to give Woody a gift in return—the championship trophy that Woody had come close to claiming several times, but had never quite been able to cinch.

  “How’s the rookie holding up?” It wasn’t necessary for Jake to be more specific, even though there were technically two rookies on the Woodrow Racing NASCAR NEXTEL Cup team this weekend. Scott Rivers was driving his first full season in one of the Woodrow cars, but Jake was only interested for now in the rookie temporarily manning the Number 82 car. Jake’s car.

  “We’ll see at qualifying today. He’s been pretty jittery this week, but then he and Woody had a talk over coffee—you know that thing Woody does. Pete came back with a new attitude. Had that look in his eyes I’ve seen in yours a few times. The one that says he’s not letting any obstacle prevent him from getting what he wants—a full-time ride.”

  “I remember how that felt.”

  “You should. It wasn’t that long ago. You’ve still got a lot of racing left in you, Jake. We’ve got a lot of races ahead. Don’t let this one setback get you down.”

  “You know me. The Bounce-Back Kid. Tell Pete I’ve got faith in him for qualifying well, okay?”

  “I’ll do it. That’ll mean a lot to him, coming from you.”

  It was perhaps the most touchy-feely conversation Jake had ever shared with his crew chief, and it was beginning to make both of them uncomfortable. “Say hey to everyone for me, okay?” he said more lightly. “And tell Pam I’ll call her Monday.”

  “She’ll hold you to that. You going to be watching qualifying on TV?”

  “That depends. There’s a very pretty lady in the cabin next door. I’ve been spending some time with her. Given a choice between doing something fun with her or watching someone else driving my car, guess which one I’m going to choose?”

  Wade didn’t laugh out loud very often, but he did then. “So that’s why you’re suddenly in a better mood. I should have known that even alone in the rural hills of Arkansas, you’d end up with a ‘very pretty lady’ right next door.”

  “They don’t call me ‘Lucky’ for nothing.”

  “Who calls you Lucky?”

  “It was a figure of speech, Ice. Work with me, okay?”

  “Yeah, well, just don’t let your hormones distract you from your exercises and stuff, you hear? Pete’s a good kid with a solid future ahead of him—but I’m ready to be back in Victory Lane.”

  No surprise there, Jake thought as he disconnected the call a few moments later. Like everyone else who worked for Woodrow, Wade was satisfied only with a win—and then only for a few days, until it was time to start getting ready for the next race.

  He wondered what had made him tell his friend about Stacy. He wasn’t one to talk about the women he dated. Not that he had dated Stacy, exactly. Which didn’t mean he wasn’t interested. Because he was. For the first time since his accident, he found himself thinking about romance.

  Okay, so maybe his thoughts about Stacy weren’t quite that lofty, but he genuinely liked her in addition to being increasingly attracted to her. He couldn’t even say why exactly. It wasn’t as if she had been completely forthcoming with him. And that apparently innate reserve of hers made it difficult to get to know her quickly.

  So maybe it was the puzzle that intrigued him. The challenge. Maybe once he got to know her better some of the fascination would wear off. It was possible, he reminded himself. He regretted to say that he’d shown a rather short attention span in his past affairs. When it came down to a woman or a race car, he had always chosen the latter, which hadn’t led to lasting relationships.

  But maybe it would be different with Stacy. From what little he had seen, she seemed like the steady, settled, home-and-family type, unlike a lot of the women he met in the racing circuit. She knew nothing of NASCAR, so he didn’t have to worry that she was more interested in his fame and money than in himself. She had a career of her own—even better, a portable career—so maybe she wouldn’t expect a degree of attention he couldn’t promise.

  Maybe Stacy was exactly what she appeared to be. And maybe this initial attraction could blossom into a great deal more. Maybe he had found what Wade had with Lisa, and Ronnie with Katie, and Mike with Andrea, and all his other happily committed racing friends—even though this was hardly the ideal time to find it.

  Or maybe he was just getting carried away because of his boredom and restlessness, he told himself, firmly applying the brakes to his speeding imagination.

  “WHAT’S YOUR favorite color?”

  “Green.”

  “Favorite dessert?”

  “Ice cream.”

  “Favorite sport?”

  “Figure skating.”

  Jake frowned. “That’s not a sport.”

  Dipping her spoon into a warm dish of peach cobbler topped with ice cream, Stacy replied, “Of course it’s a sport. Those skaters are serious athletes.”

  “The men wear tights.”

  “Can you leap straight into the air off a slippery surface and spin four times before you touch down again? And land on one thin blade without falling on your butt?”

  “Well…no,” he admitted, amused by the image.

  “There you go, then. What’s your favorite color?”

  “Purple.”

  Her eyebrows rose, as if the answer surprised her. “Most men say blue.”

  “I’m not most men.”

  “Mmm,” she murmured, and took a sip of her coffee, leaving him to wonder exactly what that sound had meant.

  “Besides,” he added, setting down his own cup, “I have a reason to like purple.”

  Which would have been a good lead-in to his explanation of what he really did for a living, had she asked what that reason was. Which she didn’t. She simply moved on, imitating him. “Favorite dessert?”


  “Right now it’s peach cobbler,” he said with appreciation of the big bite he had just swallowed.

  “Favorite sport?”

  “Stock car racing.”

  And once again she continued without giving him a chance to elaborate. “Favorite kind of music?” she asked, improvising now.

  “Country. Yours?”

  “I guess it’s called soft rock.”

  “Favorite group?”

  “Matchbox twenty. Yours?”

  Enjoying the quick back-and-forth and the humorous way she mimicked his questioning, he replied, “Brooks and Dunn. Favorite type of movie?”

  “Action-adventure. With a romance. How about you?”

  “I like lots of movies. The type you mentioned. Sci-fi. Spy films. Comedies. The occasional horror film. No historical dramas.”

  “More men in tights, right?”

  He grinned. “Exactly.”

  They’d been together several hours that day, taking a leisurely walk through the woods with Oscar, then leaving him behind to dine together at a restaurant that advertised “the world’s finest country cookin’.” Jake wouldn’t go quite that far, but the food was good. The company was better.

  She set down her spoon and touched her napkin delicately to the corners of her mouth. “You’ve been asking me questions all afternoon. Do you feel like you’re getting to know me now?”

  Smiling, he propped his chin on one fist and studied her across the table. “I’ve learned some details. Likes and dislikes, that sort of thing. But in some ways, you’re still a mystery to me.”

  She shook her head with a self-deprecating wrinkle of her nose. “There’s not really that much more to know.”

  “Let me sum up what I’ve learned.” He was having a good time, he realized. The best time he’d had in more than a month. Maybe longer. All because he’d met a woman he genuinely liked and felt comfortable with. A woman he wanted to get to know quite a bit better.

  She spread her hands. “Go ahead.”

  Ticking off the points on his fingers, he began, “You were born and raised in central Arkansas, attended public schools, left the state to earn a degree in English lit in Chicago, taught high school there for a couple of years, then came back to Arkansas to work for a friend who owns a small but moderately profitable publishing company.

  “You have one older brother, Nick, who’s a computer genius and a single father. Your nephew is fourteen and his name is Andrew. Your father died several years ago and your mother is married now to a man who is showing her the world. She calls you every three or four days just to tell you how happy she is and to make sure you’re getting along well without her. Your best friend is married to a trucker, you live in a small apartment in Little Rock, you’re beautiful and you’ve been freelance editing for just over a year.”

  “You have a good memory,” she said, seemingly impressed by the trivial details he had remembered. “That’s all exactly—”

  And then the compliment he’d slipped into the list hit her and her cheeks warmed. “I mean, most of that is exactly right.”

  He gave her a look of exaggerated innocence. “What did I get wrong?”

  “I’d like some more coffee,” she said, looking around for their server.

  It amused him that his teasing but true flattery had flustered her. Either she hadn’t been flirted with in a while—in which case, she must be surrounded by morons back in Little Rock—or he’d been a little too buddy-buddy with her so far. In his attempt to set her at ease and reassure her that she was safe hanging out with him, he may have neglected to convey that he found her attractive. Very attractive.

  After both their coffee cups had been refilled and they were alone again, he decided to press the issue a bit further. Take a test run, so to speak, and see how she responded. “What I don’t know is why a talented, competent, beautiful young woman is staying alone in her brother’s cabin this week.”

  “I told you. I hurt my arm and I came up here to recuperate and catch up on some work.”

  And she said all of that while staring almost fiercely into her coffee cup to avoid meeting his eyes.

  He had been convinced from the start that there was something Stacy wasn’t telling him. That there was more to her being here than she had revealed to him. Of course, he was in no position to criticize, since he’d been doing much the same thing to her.

  “Listen, Stacy,” he began, deciding it was past time to remedy at least half of that situation. “There’s something I need to—”

  “Oh, my gosh.” The exclamation cut into Jake’s words as a well-rounded bottle blonde in stretchy clothes and flip-flops practically skidded to a stop beside the table. “I know who you are!”

  He swallowed a groan. So much for carefully choosing his words. Pasting on his patented greeting-the-fans smile, he turned toward the woman—only to find her staring openmouthed at…

  Stacy.

  “You’re Anastasia Carter, aren’t you?” the woman demanded. “I saw you interviewed on TV. And your picture was in the Democrat-Gazette. I cut it out and mailed it to my niece. She takes karate. Or judo or something. I can never keep them straight.”

  Jake turned his gaze slowly to Stacy, who seemed to be struggling to hold on to a polite smile.

  “You are Anastasia Carter, aren’t you?” the woman insisted.

  Stacy nodded reluctantly. “Yes. But, really, I—”

  “That was amazing what you did. I mean, like, the bravest thing I ever heard about. I’d have been screaming my head off, totally useless, but you were just so cool and calm and you knew exactly what to do. Weren’t you scared at all?”

  “Of course I was afraid.”

  Afraid? Jake frowned. What on earth were they talking about?

  “I mean, he had a gun to your head. And he’d already shot one guy, so you had to know just how much danger you were in. But you still kept yourself together enough to use your karate stuff—”

  “Tae kwon do,” Stacy murmured.

  “Yeah, whatever. Anyway, it’s no wonder the press fell in love with you. You being such a little bitty thing and all. And him being so big. And then there’s…well, you know. Who your dad was and all.”

  Stacy’s jaw was so tight now that Jake imagined he could almost hear her teeth grinding together. “Yes, well, it’s all over now. I’d just like to put the entire ordeal behind me. I’m sure you understand.”

  The woman nodded vigorously. “I don’t blame you for that. Anyway, I just wanted to stop by and tell you how much I admire what you did. You were a real inspiration for women everywhere, you know?”

  “Thank you.” Stacy reached for her coffee cup, raising it to her lips with both hands, a polite but not so subtle signal that the conversation was at an end.

  The woman took the hint. She moved away from the table, giving Jake only a fleeting glance as she passed. “How you doing?” she murmured absently, her attention still focused on Stacy.

  Shaking his head in bemusement, Jake turned back to his dinner companion—who was becoming more intriguing with each moment he spent with her.

  STACY HAD TO GIVE Jake points for patience. Even though he had practically bristled with curiosity ever since the encounter at the restaurant, he hadn’t asked one question during the brief drive to the cabins. He had obviously sensed that she hadn’t wanted to talk about the incident with the woman who had stopped at their table, so perhaps he assumed she would be no more willing to discuss it with him.

  As much as she appreciated his discretion, she had already decided to tell him everything. It wasn’t that big a deal, she assured herself. She wasn’t really trying to hide anything; she’d just been reluctant to bring up a subject that would very likely become awkward and uncomfortable. Could even change the way he looked at her, even though she was still exactly who she had presented herself to be.

  “Would you like to come in for coffee?” she asked him when he walked her to her door. “Decaf, of course. Or herb tea, if you prefer. I’
ll try to explain what the woman in the restaurant was talking about, if you’re interested in hearing it.”

  “Of course I’m interested,” he admitted with a rueful smile. “To be honest, it’s been driving me crazy. You have to admit that some of the things she said were…intriguing.”

  “She made more of a deal of it than it really is.” Stacy opened the front door to her brother’s cabin, locked it, then reached down to scoop up Oscar, who was yapping and leaping around her feet to welcome her home. Snuggling him against her face, she headed toward the kitchen.

  “Which would you prefer?” she asked over her shoulder. “Decaf coffee or herbal tea?”

  “Whatever you’re having. I like it all.”

  “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  Setting Oscar on his feet, she smiled when he dashed straight to Jake for an ear rub. She figured the two would be fine while she boiled water for tea and organized her thoughts about how she would explain why the woman in the restaurant had recognized her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  JAKE AND OSCAR WERE playing when she returned a short while later with two fragrant, steaming mugs of apple-chamomile tea. Jake had found Oscar’s fire-hydrant chew toy and was tossing it to various corners of the room. Each time it landed with a shrill squeak, Oscar jumped on it with all four feet, mock-growling and shaking it between his teeth until he carried it victoriously back to Jake. And then they started all over again.

  “He’ll do that for hours, you know,” she said, setting one of the mugs on the coffee table in front of the couch where Jake sat.

  “Doesn’t he ever get tired?”

  She settled in a chair near his end of the sofa. “Yes. But chances are, you’ll wear out first.”

  He chuckled. “Chances are, you’re right.”

  Picking up his tea, he let Oscar keep the toy the next time. After a moment, Oscar accepted that the game was over and leaped up to curl beside Jake on the couch, officially designating Jake one of his new best buddies.

  “So,” Jake said after taking a few cautious sips of his hot tea, “someone had a gun to your head.”