Right Before His Eyes (2 page)

T
HE REST OF THE NEXT DAY,
Sheila spent most of her time daydreaming or glaring at the phone, wondering if she should pick it up and cancel. As a result, she was distracted, causing Mellie to ask
her
what was wrong about ten times.

In the end, she kept her hand off the phone as a secret mantra reverberated through her brain—
I'm going out with Gil Sizemore.

She'd told no one and still wasn't exactly sure what she'd said to his parting question the afternoon before.

How about dinner after the diner closes?

Had she said yes or simply nodded, unable to look away from those compelling blue eyes of his?

She honestly had no idea.

Yet, here she was in her apartment, dressed in her secondhand designer LBD and prepared to open the door in a few minutes to a man she'd spent the past six months pretending—at least on the outside—was just another customer.

The fact that her heart was desperately trying to pound its excited way out of her chest pretty much told her that denial had been futile.

Since the diner didn't close until midnight, she'd at least had the grace to compromise and agree to see Gil at seven-thirty. Unfortunately, that concession had
forced her to lie to several people, including Mellie—who would need to run the restaurant—and the Tarts, who were due to meet in the back room of the diner about the time she'd be climbing in Gil's car.

She'd told them all she was going to a seminar on business management.

Admitting out loud to anybody but the man himself that she was going out with wealthy, gorgeous, successful Gil Sizemore would probably cause any number of people to burst out laughing.

Though her friends would be thrilled, others would whisper behind their hands.
Does that rough-handed diner girl Sheila actually think she has a chance with a man like Gil?
Maybe she should go out with somebody her own speed. Was Dan the Veggie Man available? How about the UPS delivery guy?

She couldn't take that humiliation.

No, she'd go on this date. She'd get away from the diner for one night. She'd pretend she didn't have a secret in her past she could never share. She'd enjoy sitting across the table from a man she was wildly attracted to. She'd have a glass of wine.

Then when Gil realized she was nothing like him, that her life and her upbringing were polar opposites from his, he'd politely drop her off at the end of the evening, then go back to pursuing women his speed.

Which was clearly a healthy one-eighty. In a hot, eighty-thousand-dollar sports car. With leather seats and a convertible roof.

The doorbell rang, and she jumped.

Taking a deep breath, she checked her lip gloss one more time in the mirror and convinced herself she looked as good as she could manage. At least running
around the diner every day and night kept her figure trim and the single pair of high heels she owned raised her five-foot-two-inch frame several inches. Maybe she could stand next to Gil and not feel like a dwarf from a children's fairy tale.

She opened the front door to her apartment and plastered on what she hoped was a confident smile. “Hey, I'm impressed you found me without calling for more directions. This place is a little off the beaten—” She stopped, realizing he was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before. He, in fact, didn't appear to be breathing. “Uh, Gil?”

“Hang on.” He held up one finger as his gaze tracked slowly, inch by inch, down her body. “I…wow.” He shook his head as if trying to clear it. “I think I swallowed my tongue.”

Sheila felt her face heat, no doubt staining her skin the same bright hue as her hair, which greatly annoyed her. Men didn't make her blush. Nobody did, come to think of it.

As she cursed her Irish ancestors, she took a second to absorb his presence. He wore a white shirt, charcoal pants and a matching blazer. His wavy dark hair gleamed under the dim light, and his shoulders looked broader than ever, filling her door frame. The urge to sigh like a lustful teenager pining after a movie star washed over her.

She repressed the instinct. “You want to come inside?” she asked, stepping back and extending her arm.

Again, he shook his head. “I think that's a really bad idea.”

Her apartment was plain, but clean. Did he not want
to be seen in a back-roads place out of the high-dollar lake area? “Why's that?”

“I might lock the door behind me and never let you leave.”

As his bright blue gaze bore into hers, she blinked. The man was forever surprising her.

Before she could decide if she liked being shocked, he grabbed her hand and tugged her toward him. His lips brushed her cheek like a whisper. “You look beautiful, Sheila.”

Was he taken off guard that she had clothes other than the jeans or plain black pants and white shirts she wore at the diner? Did he realize her dress had been bought off season at the outlet mall?

Stop it.

“Thank you,” she said finally. When she leaned back, he simply stared at her and said nothing. “We are going to dinner, right? I haven't eaten much of anything all day.”

He grinned. “We definitely are.” He slid his arm around her waist and led her outside. “I'm just still getting over the shock.”

“Of…?”

“You accepting. You wearing that dress. I half expected you to show up at the door with your apron and insist we check on the diner to avoid being alone with me.”

She flicked a glance at him. “I haven't been
that
difficult.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Okay, maybe I have,” she conceded. “But I have reasons.”

“Which are?”

“You're you, and I'm me.”

He helped her into the passenger's side of his vehicle—which didn't turn out to be a hot convertible sports car but a big, black SUV. “Oh, that clears the confusion right up.”

As he walked around and got in on the other side, she settled into the black leather seats. And noted the various gadget upgrades and spotlessly clean interior. He probably had a small army of minions who cleaned the thing hourly.

Minions? She clearly spent way too much time listening to her customers, specifically the young aerodynamic engineers who obsessed about comic books and superheroes.

In her experience, nobody with a cape and boots was going to swoop in and save the day. She had to rely on her own strength, guts and ambition to make a success of her life.

“You're you and I'm me,” Gil reminded her as he flipped the SUV's powerful engine to life.

“Exactly. You're a Charleston blue blood. I own a greasy spoon and ‘humble' is a charitable way of describing my beginnings.”

“Have you been talking to Rafael by chance?”

She stared at him. “Does
anybody
actually carry on a conversation with him?”

“Ironically, he's in love with a reporter.”

“Seriously, Gil. You're a—”

“I like the way you say my name.”

Genuinely curious, she turned toward him. She couldn't possibly be saying it wrong. Pretty simple. One syllable. Even she could manage that. “How do I say it?”

He grinned. “Sexy.”

“Oh, good grief.” The man was the biggest flirt she'd ever known. She also recognized he was both trying to put her at ease and distract her from her point about them being opposites. “Is it short for something nerdy like Gilbert?”

“It is, in fact. My great-great-grandfather, Foster Gilbert.”

“Yeah, well, they named you all wrong. You're no nerd.”

“Why, darlin', I think that's an actual compliment.”

“Seriously, Gilbert,” she repeated, putting a measure of heat into her words. “Your family owns half the state of South Carolina. You can probably trace your heritage back to the Civil War.”

“The Revolutionary War actually.”

Terrific. Up to fifteen generations of Sizemores were going to be rolling in their graves when they found out their scion was taking trailer-park trash to dinner.

“You've been a NASCAR sponsor for years. Now you've started your own team. You have a driver in the hunt for the championship. You're a big deal.”

“No kidding?” he commented as if surprised. “And you're not? Everybody in my shop talks about you constantly.”

“At lunchtime.”

“Not just then.”

“So dinner, too. And I bet most of the discussion revolves around Al's cooking.”

Gil slammed on the brakes as he turned off the main road into a parking lot. “You can't cook?” he asked in a fake alarmed voice.

She punched his shoulder lightly. “Of course I can. I did all the cooking in the beginning, but now I'm—”

“Too busy running the place. Too busy managing the staff, keeping customers happy and dealing with vendors. You think I do anything different?”

He ran a multimillion-dollar racing operation on the verge of its first championship. He had hundreds of employees, including technical, marketing and operational and administrative departments. He was regularly pursued by the press for interviews and by every single woman in North Carolina for his many assets.

She had five employees, modest savings and an obsession with making her life respectable. “It is different,” she insisted, turning to look out the window.

He said nothing as he steered the SUV through the parking lot, which Sheila realized belonged to an upscale Italian restaurant with an excellent view of the lake. She'd been there with Patsy Grosso and Susie Edmonds once. It was expensive, but the food was good and the atmosphere cozy. She'd seen quite a few couples snuggled together in the intimate corner booths and wondered if she'd ever be able to get past old mistakes and find something that special.

When Gil slid the gear into Park, she sensed him looking at her. There was no fighting the need to turn to him.

“I don't care about your beginnings,” he said, his eyes dark and tender. “Why should you care about mine? Neither of us can change them.”

“But they matter. You can't tell me your family doesn't have expectations about you and who you spend time with.”

Defiance flashed through his eyes. “I'm a grown man. My family doesn't run my life.”

So the rumors of his family's meddling and disapproval were true. Sheila could hardly blame them for worrying Gil would lose his shirt as a race team owner. It was an expensive business, and pit road was littered with the tire treads of those who hadn't made the right moves at the right time.

But she admired his rebellion. She'd made doing something besides becoming like her parents her life's ambition. Seeing that need reflected in him was as enticing as any invitation or bit of flirting he'd thrown out in all these months.

He reached out and cupped her cheek in his hand. “Can we just enjoy being together? Can we not worry about our pasts or what brought us together? I want to know more about you, and I want to see you smile—not at everybody else, but at me.” His thumb stroked her jaw. “Just for me.”

For the first time, she touched him, laying her hand in the center of his chest. As his heart beat strong and sure beneath her palm, she smiled. “I can do that.”

 

T
UESDAY MIGHT BE AN ODD
date night, but in the NASCAR world, weekends were reserved for speed.

As a result the restaurant was crowded with race people.

So much for keeping her date with Gil incognito.

But Sheila wasn't going to let exposure and possible future humiliation spoil her night. She had no illusions about this date becoming anything lasting, and she had plenty going on in her life without worrying about men, too.

She'd been alone, defensive and celibate for so long she'd gotten good at it.

Letting Gil order everything and happily surrendering all decisions for the night, she sipped a glass of Merlot and studied his profile as he talked to the waiter. Great bone structure cultivated from generations of privilege, yet he never acted like a rich guy—though, admittedly, her exposure to them had been limited.

He was like many others in the NASCAR community. He strived to run a successful business, but he
loved
winning.

He wanted more than anything to beat the guy in the garage stall next to him. He wanted to be the best. And while money certainly accumulated in great, tall piles, there were many who battled for trophies and couldn't care less about race purses. Those who'd send over a tire changer in the middle of a race if a competitor's got sick or hurt. Those who took up a collection in the garage for anyone in the community who'd fallen on hard times. Those who gave their time to visit kids in the hospital or troops fighting for peace.

“You sure your friends are okay watching Mellie's daughter?” Gil asked, turning toward her. “I can still call my sister.”

That was what had done it, Sheila realized in a rush. What had been the tipping point in her accepting his dinner invitation. What other man would notice her best employee's odd moods
and
offer free babysitting to make it easier for her to fill in managing the diner?

No man Sheila had ever known, that was for sure.

Though the Tarts had ultimately offered to watch Lily, Gil's gesture had been extremely generous.

“They're fine,” she said. “As long as they don't teach her to play poker.”

He grinned, and, if possible, got better looking. “Oh, is that what you girls do back there on Tuesday nights?”

“We used to hire strippers, but that got old after a while.”

Gil choked on his wine. “You didn't.”

“Not much to do in town if you don't know anything about cars.”

“You're putting me on.”

“Maybe.” She grinned. “But you'll wonder now, won't you?”

He leaned toward her, his wide shoulders all but blocking everything else in the restaurant. “Aren't you full of surprises?”