Racing Home (Bryant Brothers Book 1)

woman. He laughed at his own ridiculous thought.
“What’s so funny?”
“If I told you that’s my dream too, would you believe me?”
“Was it your dream before or after I said it was mine?”
He shook his head. “Why are you so suspicious?”
“I’m a bartender. I get hit on a thousand times a night. When I first started bartending, I actually accepted a few of those offers that are thrown at me every time I work. And I got burned every single time. People who meet in a bar aren’t looking for anything more than a temporary good time.”
“We didn’t meet in a bar.”
“No, but you’re exactly that type of guy.”
He pulled his hand away from her leg. “Didn’t I just tell you I’m done with that lifestyle?”
She stood and walked to the other side of the coffee table then turned to face him, crossing her arms and appearing to study the image she saw there.
“What I heard you say was that you’re ready to retire from racing. I didn’t hear anything about giving up the groupies.”
“If I retire, that will happen automatically.”
“It doesn’t have to. Retired athletes are still very desirable. Especially those who go out on top.”
Damn it, why did he care so much what this woman thought about his lifestyle? Besides, she was right. If he did retire from racing, he could party twice as hard, since he wouldn’t have to maintain such a rigorous workout schedule to keep himself in top shape.
Jesus, it sounded like he was trying to convince himself that was what he wanted.
“I like this couch,” she said. “And the coffee table. They would look good in your cottage on the lake.” She flounced away, and he stood.
Apparently they were done talking.
***
As they left the store, his phone vibrated in his pocket.  “Hey, Chuck, how’s your Tuesday?” he greeted his manager.
“It was pretty fucking fantastic until ten minutes ago.”
Camila gave him a curious look and he mouthed, just a sec while he unlocked the truck and actually managed to remember to hold the door for her.
“What happened?”
“There’s talk that Rogers is gonna sell his track.”
Burt Rogers owned a motocross race track in southwestern Michigan. Tommy had just raced there last weekend. And won. Barely.
“That sucks. Hopefully, the new owner will be as easygoing as Rogers is.”
“That’s the thing. He’s not selling it to another potential owner. He’s looking to sell to some developer. The track’s gonna go bye-bye.”
Rogers’s track was the first one Tommy had ever raced on. He’d won a lot of trophies there, had a hell of a lot of memories tied to that place. Losing that track would be terrible for him, personally, but more importantly, it would be a blow to the racing community.
Tommy cranked the engine and the call switched to the vehicle’s speakers. “Why’s he selling?”
“Wants to retire. But none of his kids is willing to take it over, and no one else in his family or circle of friends has the means or desire to take it off his hands.”
“That sucks,” Tommy repeated. What else was there to say? A piece of his past, a large portion of his professional life, was about to be plowed under, probably to make room for a bunch of cookie cutter houses.
“It gets better. He’s already talking to prospective buyers. This season is probably the last. You’ve already had your last lap at Rogers Raceway.”
On that hella depressing note, Chuck said his goodbyes and Tommy disconnected the call. “What was that about?” Camila asked.
“My favorite raceway, the one I started on, is going to be sold. To developers.” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel as the entrance ramp to I-96 loomed before him. He could hang a right and keep on going, until he hit M-14, which would take him west to I-94, and a little less than three hours later he would be at the exit for Rogers Raceway.
Except he doubted his passenger would appreciate the detour.
“I’m thinking about heading over there. Take a walk around the place. For old time’s sake, I guess. I’ll drop you at my parents’ house first. Wait—you’re going to stay there, right? You aren’t going to take off and go home alone?”
Shit. He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t take the chance that she’d ignore his pleas and put herself in danger.
She was silent for a beat and then said, “I don’t have anything else going on today.”
He waited for her to say more.
 “How about I go with you?”
He glanced her way before quickly turning back to focus on the myriad cars sharing the road with him. “Seriously? It’s three hours over there and three hours back, plus however long we hang out. That’s a lot of one-on-one time with me.”
She rolled her eyes. “I think I can handle it.”
He jerked the wheel to the left and prepared to make a U-turn so he could get onto the freeway. “Last chance to change your mind.”
“Just drive, Bryant.”

Chapter Eight
One could determine a lot about compatibility while on a road trip. Did he drive like a psycho? Or a grandma? Did he make frequent stops, or was he determined to get there, screw bladders, gas tanks, and empty bellies?
Did he talk or crank the music instead? Did he have strong opinions about things that impacted her? And did she agree or disagree?
As it turned out, Camila’s worry over her knee-jerk reaction to suggest joining him on his cross-state jaunt was all for naught.
Tommy drove fast but not recklessly. Every time a sign for a rest area came into view, he asked if she needed to stop. When they reached Kalamazoo, which was about an hour away from the race track, he suggested they grab lunch.
Oh, and they had