Race for Love by Nana Malone
(The Donovans #3)
Publication date: July 27th 2015
Genres: New Adult, Romance
Up and coming race-car driver, Kisima Jennings, is all alone in the world and that’s just how she likes it. After all, she has her career, who needs family? But when a near-fatal crash jeopardizes her future, she’s forced to lean on someone for the first time in her life.
As an athletic trainer, Derek Donovan is driven and has always kept his eyes on the prize, never letting personal entanglements come between him and his dream of becoming a head trainer for the New Orleans Jaguars. That is, until one misstep costs him everything. Now he’s starting over, but with a client as tempting as Kisima, is he destined to repeat the mistakes of his past? Or will letting someone close bring him everything he’s ever wanted?
Add Race for Love to your Goodreads shelf.
She stopped her chair when she saw the man in the living room. From this vantage point, she had an excellent view of a spectacular jeans-clad ass. It was so good the jeans should be thanking him for making them look so good. Butterflies fluttered low in her belly and she silently admonished herself. What was she doing ogling this guy? She was here to work. Never mind that it had been so long she barely remembered what sex was like.
She dragged her focus back to the tall stranger taking up space in TJ’s living room.
Dark, inky hair dusted his collar, lightly curling at the collar. His shoulders, holy hell, they were broad. Clearly, he worked out, but not so much that he looked like some muscle bound meathead. He still had a neck. Judging his height, he was probably around six feet two, maybe taller. He was just a little shorter than TJ. His back equally fascinated her as he studied the trophy wall and her stats. But she mostly focused on how his jeans hung low on his hips, showcasing his tight ass.
A deep voice startled her out of her reverie. “You should take a picture, it’ll last longer. Or you like seeing it all in the flesh?” His voice was low and sexy, but held a note of teasing.
A flush of heat crept up her neck, making her face flame. The last thing she needed. When he turned slowly, Kiss involuntarily held her breath, almost like her body knew to brace itself for something magic.
Oh, wow. With a jaw carved out of stone, his beautiful cheekbones were more geared for a runway model than a physical therapist. And his thick, sooty lashes rivaled her own. Jesus Christ, She was supposed to work with this guy? How was she supposed to work with him day in and day out for the next few months? She had twelve weeks until the Abu Dhabi race.
No way no how. Physical therapy required touching. Lots of…touching. She’d had her fill of too handsome too cocky assholes. Antonio had been one. She knew the type “I won’t be needing a picture thanks, I’ve had enough.”
The corner of his lips tipped into a wry smile and those piercing baby blues of his made it nearly impossible to think. Nearly.
He studied her in her chair for a moment. “So you’re KM Jennings. I’m not sure why, but before I got here, I expected a guy.”
She shrugged. “Kisima, actually. And it was done by design. When I first started, it was to slip me past organizers without too much discrimination. Added bonus was I looked like a boy for ages.”
His gaze slid over her and her skin prickled with heat in response. “Somehow I doubt that. I can see you doing it to keep the announcers from butchering your name.” His voice was softer and flowed over her like melted chocolate.
“That too. It means spring in Swahili. Mom was Tanzanian.” Stop talking, Kiss. Why had she offered that? He wasn’t here to date her. He was here to train her.
His gaze narrowed for a moment, then he angled his head toward the trophy wall. “That you in Sports Illustrated?”
Like an idiot, she blushed…again. What the hell was wrong with her? This guy was her supposed new trainer not some cute boy who wanted to buy her a drink at the club. “Yeah. The story on women in racing.”
He nodded. “So the racing bikini is totally called for.”
She’d regretted that spread from the moment she’d agreed to do it. It certainly didn’t help her gain respect. Magazines liked to feature her as their token minority and woman. There were other women. And other black racers. But a black woman, she was a chupacabra.
Kiss shifted in the chair trying to take some pressure off her hip. “So they call you the miracle worker. Is it true? I mean, why do you patch up broken athletes? You going to have me all patched up and ready to drive in three months?” Her lower back throbbed and all she wanted to do was lie down and stretch properly.
His eyes widened as he watched her shift in the chair and he crossed his arms. “I don’t know about that. I don’t really believe in miracles.” His frown deepened. “But I guess I like to help people. And athletes are a special breed. Able to do what so few can do.”
“My own personal superhero. I suppose you’ll have me call you Clark Kent.”
“If you need to see me as a superhero, feel free. But there won’t be any magic involved. Just plain old hard work. One question though, do you want to tell me what you’re still doing in the chair?” His glare was derisive as if she’d done something wrong.
She tilted her chin up. “Some trainer you are. I assume you’ve seen my file, so you know I can’t really walk right now. This is my ride.”