Slow Ride Read Free Page A

sent a shiver racing up her spine. Hello. She’d just felt the first jolt of sexual interest she’d had in months. It had been instantaneous when the corner of his mouth had risen slowly and slyly, and Tuesday cleared her throat, suddenly unnerved. He was tall, with shaggy dark blond hair and some short facial hair that she felt the urge to touch to test its softness.
    She knew he was single.
    And she knew herself well enough to know that she needed to get the hell away from him as soon as possible.
    But he held his arm out for her. Like a gentleman does to escort a woman somewhere. “Lead the way, Tuesday,” he told her.
    There was no way to avoid slipping her own arm through his without being totally rude, so she did, clutching the empty glass in her free hand, and trying not to look up at him. He had used her name. Did that mean he did remember her or he had just heard her name announced as maid of honor at the beginning of dinner?
    But she was Tuesday Jones, damn it, and even though she hadn’t felt stronger than a wet napkin the last few months, she at least needed to thank this man. “By the way,” she told him, forcing her head to lift to look at him, “thanks for letting me bawl on you in the cemetery. I appreciate you tolerating the crazy girl.”
    He sidled a look down at her that she couldn’t read. It was sympathetic, yes, but there didn’t seem to be any pity in it. It was something else, another emotion, but then again, maybe it was just the light playing off his pale blue eyes.
    “No problem. I’m glad I could be there for you. Your dad was a good guy, and I’m really sorry for your loss.”
    Tuesday drew up short a foot from the bar. He knew her dad? Well, duh, of course he knew her father. Over the years her dad had probably interviewed him a dozen times. Her brain wasn’t firing at full neurons lately. “Thanks,” she murmured, setting the champagne glass down on the bar before it slipped from her sweaty palm.
    “What the hell took you so long?” Evan asked, grinning from ear to ear as he swaggered over to them, his tie askew. “Change your mind, wimp out on me?”
    Her emotions were swirling close to the surface, thoughts of her father’s extensive career as a sports journalist suddenly thrust in front of her by Diesel Lange, and she wiped her hand down the front of her pumpkin-colored dress. Who thought of pumpkins in August? It made no sense. But the orange color scheme was what Kendall had wanted, and Tuesday guessed maybe it was supposed to be more tropical than fall foliage.
    Evan’s grin started to slip. “Are you okay?”
    No, not really. She was feeling far from okay. And that feeling like she might cry at any given second had returned full force. “Yeah, of course I am. Bring it on, Monroe.” She turned to Diesel. “Do you want to do a shot with us?”
    He shook his head. “No, thanks.”
    Why was he looking at her like that? Those eyes just bore into her, like he was seeing something she didn’t want anyone to see. Tuesday was intensely aware of how close he was standing to her, how tall he was even though she was five foot eight. There weren’t a lot of men who towered over her, but he did. He had a presence, too, that seemed to surround her, that made her want to both lean on his chest for comfort, and strip him naked and get thrown against a wall.
    Neither of which were appropriate to do at the moment.
    “Don’t be a wuss.” Evan tried to hand a shot glass filled with whiskey to Diesel. “It’s my wedding and I never see you anymore, so I say you owe me.”
    “Seriously, no thanks. I take pain meds and trust me, it ain’t a good combination.” Diesel shrugged. “I’ll take a Coke though.”
    Tuesday thought about the limp she had seen Diesel use at the cemetery. For some reason, she had assumed that’s all it was, that there wouldn’t actually be pain anymore. It had been at least two years since his accident, if she was remembering correctly. But if he