How to Win the Dating War. Aimee Carson

a fan, Mr. Thompson,” she said evenly. “Not a fanatic.” She hiked a brow, loaded with meaning. “And I’m not a groupie.”

      He dropped his eyes to her mouth. “Too bad. I’d love to have you wrap yourself in nothing but a bow and mail yourself to me in a crate.”

      She looked at him suspiciously. “You’re making that one up.”

      “Nope.” He tipped his head. “The story has been passed around the track for years. Could be just an urban legend though.”

      She leaned closer, narrowing her eyes, and his unfamiliar urge to grin was strong. Her voice dropped an octave. “And you are legendary for supporting organizations that work with disadvantaged kids.”

      The do-gooder was back. “And here I thought you leaned closer just to flirt with me.”

      Her bottomless brown eyes were unwavering. “I never use flirting as a tool.”

      “Too bad.” But he liked her close, so he stayed put. “And I told you, no way will I—”

      “These kids need support from role models like you.”

       Role models.

      The words slammed with all the force of his career-ending crash, killing his urge to grin. Outside of setting a spectacular example of how to destroy the single good thing in your life, what did he have to offer the public now? His one claim to fame was gone. He was just a washed-up driver who’d taken a risky move and gone down in a blaze of shame.

      Other than an amused glint in his sea-green eyes, Jessica had yet to see Cutter smile. She watched the glint of humor die as the masculine planes of his face hardened.

      “Look, lady.” Cutter ruffled an impatient hand over closely cropped, light-brown hair. “You have me confused with someone who cares. My sponsors paid me millions. They told me which charities to support. The only person I support is me.”

      Jessica’s smile faded at the egocentric words.

      Cutter turned and walked past shelves of car parts and tools, heading in the direction of a utility sink in the corner. “And right now I have a car to fix,” he added with a tone of finality.

      Disenchantment settled deep in Jessica’s chest. So he didn’t care. So he’d only thought of his bank account. And maybe his moving words of support in the past were speeches written by a paid writer. This wasn’t about her disappointment that an idol of hers wasn’t the hero she’d thought. This was about the Brice Foundation Steve had started. And she’d promised him she’d get Cutter Thompson on board. Because she owed Steve.

      How many ex-husbands helped their former wife get a business up and running?

      Her online dating service had given her a sense of purpose at a time when her life was falling apart. And finding The One for others, in some small way, compensated for her personal failure.

      And though she’d vowed long ago that melancholy wasn’t allowed, the garage smelled of gasoline and motor oil, stirring poignant memories. Toward the last months of their marriage, Steve had withdrawn, spending more and more time tinkering with his boat. Maybe twenty was a little young for marriage, but Jessica had been confident they could work through anything. She’d been wrong. And Steve had begun to insist he couldn’t give her what she needed.

      In the end, Jessica had agreed.

      But, between her father and her ex, she was used to men and their masculine domains. And Cutter Thompson was man in its rawest form. Long, powerful legs encased in worn jeans. Well-muscled arms. The wide expanse of back beneath his gray T-shirt was a veritable billboard sign for male power. He was a media favorite for his rugged charm, so the blunt honesty wasn’t new. But the slight hunch as he walked certainly was. Why was his gait uneven?

      Curiosity trounced her good sense. “If it was your arm you fractured in the crash, why are you limping?”

      “I’m not. I’m splinting. The torn cartilage between my ribs still hurts like a mother.”

      At the sink, he turned on the tap, and—without a hiss or a grimace—stuck the mashed knuckles of his right hand under the water. His left arm reached for the soap, and he dropped it twice before a stab of sympathy hit her.

      Selfish or not, no one deserved permanent nerve damage from a broken arm.

      “Let me,” she said as she moved beside him.

      His eyes lit with faint humor. “Promise you’ll be gentle?”

      Ignoring him, Jessica picked up the soap and reached for his bleeding hand. It was large, calloused, and a disturbing sensation curled in her stomach, permeating lower. Neither of them spoke, increasing the crackle of tension. The sound of running water cut the silence as her fingers gingerly cleaned the wounds, finally finishing her task.

      The glint in his eyes was bright. “Sure you didn’t miss a spot?”

      “Quite sure.” She calmly dried his hand with a paper towel. “The weakness in your left hand is worse than your publicist let on.” Once finished, she looked up at him. “I can see why you decided to retire.”

      The glint died as an unidentifiable flicker of emotion crossed his expression, but his gaze remained steady, his tone droll. “A man can’t drive two hundred miles per hour packed bumper to bumper with an unreliable grip. Keeping a firm grasp on the steering wheel is important.”

      She looked for some sign of sadness, but there was none. “I’m sorry.”

      “Happens.” He shrugged, a nonchalant look on his face. “I can’t complain. I made enough money that I never need to work again.”

      They stared at each other for three breaths, Jessica fighting the urge to beat a hasty retreat. He’d made his millions. Racing had served its purpose. She knew he was planning to reject her request again, but Steve was counting on her. Despite Cutter’s casual air, instinct told her to let the reminder of his injuries—the loss of his money-making career—fade before bringing out her best shot at persuasion … her pièce de résistance.

      Her mind scrambled for something to say, and her gaze dropped to the marks on his shirt. “You should wash out the blood before it stains.”

      “Because it clashes with the motor oil?”

      Boy, he had a comeback for everything. “No,” she said dryly. “Because blood stains are so last season.”

      The light in his eyes returned with a vengeance. “Blood is always in style,” he said. “And rising from a horizontal position about did me in. I’m just now able to breathe again without wanting to die. If I attempt to pull this shirt over my head, I’ll pass out from the pain.” He finally flashed the rarely dispensed yet utterly wicked suggestion of a smile. The one that sent his female fans into a frenzy. “So how about you pull it off for me?”

      She lifted her eyes heavenward before meeting his gaze. “Mr. Thompson, I spent half my childhood following my father around his manufacturing plant full of men. I’m not susceptible to your brand of testosterone.”

      And one dream-crushing divorce later, she considered herself fully vaccinated, immune and impenetrable to anyone who couldn’t totally commit. She needed someone who was willing to work hard to keep the romance alive.

      Egocentric bad boys, no matter how gorgeously virile, had never made it to her list of acceptable dates. While all her friends were swooning over the rebel-de-jour, Jessica had remained untouched. Even as a teen, she’d avoided risky relationships that were destined for failure. She supposed she had her parents’ divorce to thank for that.

      But she refused to slosh about in dismal misery. Making a plan—being proactive—was the only way to avoid the mistakes of the past. Both her parents’ … and her own.

      “I don’t know, my brand of testosterone is pretty potent,” Cutter said. “And seduction could go a long way in convincing me to participate.”