“Babe, this car can hit the wall and still be salvageable. You can’t do anything to hurt it.”

“You’re positive?”

“Trust me. You’re fine. So here’s the history—stock car racing got its start from guys taking a car they could buy from any dealer, tricking out the engine, then racing it on the beach initially, then on the track. So it was a ‘stock’ car in that it was the same as the family car when they acquired it. Now only the body of the car is the same as a passenger car, and even that has some modifications, but we still use the name stock. But if you look around, you can see there isn’t much that reminds you of your personal vehicle.”

“Well, my car isn’t exactly the latest model to roll off the assembly line, but I see what you mean. There are no other seats and I don’t recognize any of these gauges.”

“No seats other than the driver’s, no key ignition, no windows, no speedometer, no locks, no horn, and quite a few other things. Though I wouldn’t mind a horn. Sometimes I feel like hitting one to tell another car to get the hell out of my way.”

“Somehow I don’t think that would have them moving gracefully out of your way.”

“Probably not. So a car is built for speed and safety. It’s aerodynamic, with a powerful engine with 750 horsepower. There are gauges for oil and water temperature, oil and fuel pressure, and a few other things. A brake, an accelerator, and a clutch. A cooling system to keep my ass from burning to the seat or me passing out, and a roll cage in case my car flips.”

“This looks like a regular gearshift.” Imogen put her hand on it.

“Don’t touch that!” Ty said, then laughed when Imogen snatched her hand away. “Just kidding.”

She shot him a look of annoyance. “That was not funny.”

“Yes, it was.”

Her lips formed a little moue of disgust. “This isn’t a very comfortable seat.”

“Well, it’s custom fit for my body so I don’t move around too much, and it’s made of aluminum for safety. Head and neck restraints are mandatory, and no, it isn’t very comfortable. But this isn’t a lazy drive in the country. I’m going over a hundred and eighty miles per hour.” Ty couldn’t quite keep the pride out of his voice. He loved his job, loved the thrill of racing, the satisfaction of making a car that his crew had worked so hard on perform well for them.

“In golf course green.”

He grinned. “Yes, smart-ass.”

“How do you control the car?” She was leaning over and peering at the gauges, the floor, the pedals.

“Skill, honey. That’s all.”

“I can’t imagine going that fast.”

“I bet you would like it.” Ty couldn’t resist the urge to reach out and stroke her silky dark hair as it trailed over her shoulder. “Bet you like it hard and fast.”