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thinking. He stepped forward and gently lowered us both to the bed.
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Chapter Ten
    If I gave Stuart the shock of his life the night before, he returned the favor the next morning. I woke up to hear him in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. He walked back to bed, sweatpants riding low on his hips and unruly hair sticking up in one spot.
    â€œGood morning.” He smiled at me.
    â€œStuart, you look sloppy!”
    He pulled my pillow out from under me and propped it against the headboard with his own, leaning back and ignoring my protest. “The image you have of me.”
    I stayed on my stomach, chin in my hands. “It’s different now. But you always look so neat, clean, and—unmussable. I always feel sweaty and rumpled and….”
    â€œMussed?”
    â€œNever polished next to you. It’s intimidating.”
    He tipped my chin up. “Three things. One, you’re a racecar driver. You sweat and wear horribly hot clothing to do your job. No one cares that rock stars are sweaty and mussed. You have the same mystique. Two, you shouldn’t be intimidated by anyone or anything.”
    He paused, searching my face.
    â€œThree?” I prompted.
    â€œThree can wait.” He scooted himself down and pulled me up, and we were lost in each other again.
    Over room-service breakfast later, he said, “Three is you should get yourself a crisis PR specialist to handle media fallout.”
    â€œThat’s for people with real problems.” I heard myself and stopped. It always happens to other people, not you, right? I frowned. “You expect media reaction to be that bad?”
    â€œMight be already.” He tapped a finger on the sports section of the USA Today that had been waiting outside his room. A one-inch sidebar at the top of the left column read, “Did Female Racecar Driver Wreck Fan-Favorite For Media Attention?”
    I made him write down a referral before he ate another bite.
    By ten o’clock, Holly and I were on the road to Nashville in my Jeep. She tipped down her sunglasses and peered at me from the passenger seat. “You finally did the deed with Stuart.”
    â€œWe’ve been in the car three minutes. What are you, psychic?”
    She faced front again, the cat-got-the-cream expression on her face matching how I felt inside. “It’s the way you look. More relaxed than last night—than you should be for how much garbage is going on. Happy.”
    â€œI am happy. Except he thinks he loves me.”
    â€œSure he does. It’s been written all over his face for months.” She saw my frown. “What’s the problem? You like him, too.”
    â€œI like him. I don’t know if I love him. Now I feel guilty I haven’t said it back and worried he feels more than I do. I can’t deal with this.”
    â€œTell me what’s really wrong.”
    I took a deep breath, held it for a count of five, then released it. Felt calmer. “I don’t know where to start.”
    â€œIt’s an eleven-hour drive to my house, sugar. Lay it on me. We’ll work it out.”
    By the time we reached the outskirts of Chicago, we’d talked through my litany of problems and what my plan of attack might be for each: the accident and the racing world’s subsequent doubts about my driving ability (“kick ass at Petit,” Holly said), pressure from my father to meet and be part of his family (“go slowly,” I decided), my stupid response to Miles Hanson’s fan (“apologize and ignore it,” she said), my concern Stuart was in love with me (Holly shook her head), and the grief I felt about Ellie. There weren’t any solutions to my sadness over Ellie—or for my confusion about Stuart—but Holly let me talk about my memories.
    At one point, soon after she’d taken over driving duties, I looked at her. “You’re the only one I talk to about this stuff.”
    â€œYour