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The idea left a nasty taste in his mouth, and his jaw muscles hardened, all thoughts of smiling gone. “I have no intention of attending a party with journalists.” Fun time was over. Time to get back to the ‘Cuda. He’d find something else to work on until the new carburetor arrived.
Cutter headed toward the house, and Jessica fell into step beside him. “It’s not a press conference,” she said. “Just a couple of reporters from a few of the major papers will be in attendance.”
Sure, the same journalists who had been staking out his house since he’d returned to Miami. Cutter was better at losing them now, but no way was he gonna choose to be in the same room with the press.
“I have no interest in interviews,” he said. “The last thing I want is a hotshot reporter grilling me about my dating methods and writing an exposé on my social life.” He knew damn well that wasn’t what they’d ask. They’d use the Battle of the Sexes publicity stunt as an excuse to get close and then badger him hard about the accident.
A tumultuous riot of tension and nerves broke out in his body.
Jessica slowly came to a stop and stared at him, looking baffled. “You never seemed to worry about the media’s opinion before.”
He halted on the walkway. “That was when dealing with them went with the job description.”
When the questions had been easy to answer and the banter had been full of fun and camaraderie. Lately all the banter had been replaced by hard-core grilling about his wreck, his reason for the rash move that ended his career. And he was no closer to knowing the answer now than he had been two months ago.
He might never remember the moment he’d screwed up his life.
His gut roiled, and his gaze locked with hers. “No cocktail party. No schmoozing with the press.” He frowned and continued up the walk, heading for his garage. “And no changing my mind.”
The next morning Jessica ate her breakfast, flipping through the morning paper as Cutter’s picture stared at her from her cereal box. She had yet to figure out how the man could have such an effect on her. Handsome, yes.
Virile, most definitely.
But what did it matter when he was the antithesis of everything she was looking for?
In the five years since her divorce, she’d been on a lot of first dates, had been subjected to every possible combination of good looks and charm imaginable. She’d even gone to dinner with a model who regularly appeared in GQ magazine. He was drop-dead gorgeous and sweet, but the chemistry during the evening was flat. They had nothing in common. When he asked her out for a second date, she’d politely turned him down.
She’d thought she was impervious to the sexual appeal of an unsuitable guy, yet the powerful pull of Cutter Thompson was proving greater than the sum total of her experiences.
With a sigh, Jessica flipped to the society section of the morning newspaper and spied the front-page photo, a bolt of shock zipping along her nerves. Her spoonful of granola hovered in the air as she scanned the picture of her and Cutter. They were sitting side by side in the boat, Cutter texting on his cellular, and Jessica leaning in to look at his message. But the headline was the worst part—Is Local Racing Hero Turned Recluse Now Dating?
Shock turned to horror as she read the accompanying blurb, mostly about Cutter’s refusal to appear in public since retiring. And whoever had snapped the photo had done their homework, accurately identifying her. They’d even mentioned her motto at Perfect Pair: Fostering honest dialogue in finding The One. Multiple questions regarding their relationship were raised in the paragraph, suggesting she and Cutter were hot and heavy into an affair.
Panic spread and, without a second thought, she grabbed her purse and headed out the door.
Twenty minutes later Jessica stepped out of her car and onto Cutter’s driveway. The garage door was open, and rock music blared. After she passed through the entrance, she switched off the music and headed toward the old muscle car and the pair of tennis shoes protruding from beneath.
Balancing on the balls of her feet, she squatted and leaned forward, staring up past long legs, a flat abdomen, to arms that jutted into the underbelly of the vehicle. “Cutter, we have a problem.”
He kept right on tinkering. “I’m gonna start thinking you don’t like my taste in music.”
Jessica summoned her patience and tried again. “Cutter, our picture was in the paper.”
His hand continued torquing the wrench. “So?”
With an exasperated sigh, Jessica reached down and pulled on Cutter’s feet, rolling him from beneath the vehicle in a smooth motion.
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