It felt juvenile and… almost funny, when I think back on it.
I take another sip of my beer, not sure what to make of that.By all accounts, Accardi seems like a decent person.Maybe I just wanted to pull her pigtails, and I haven’t the faintest idea why.
My attention drifts to the telly and I think about tomorrow.We’re going to be working together again and I should be dreading it.
But I’m not.
And that’s probably the strangest part of all.
I glance toward the door when it opens, brightening up the interior of the pub for a few seconds, and I freeze when I see her.
Francesca.Standing in the threshold and scanning the room like she’s not sure what she’s looking for.
Until her eyes land on me.
CHAPTER 8
Francesca
Ionly madeit two blocks before realizing I left my water bottle behind.
It’s nothing special—just an aluminum bottle with a Titans logo on the side—but I like it.I turned around to retrieve it, and as I was pulling back into the grocery store lot, I saw him.
Ronan.Walking across the road, shoulders hunched slightly, hands buried in his jacket pockets.He moved like someone who wasn’t in a hurry and slipped inside a pub without looking up.
I slowed to a stop, heart ticking.He said he was going back to Woking.But the way he moved—tight, coiled, not like the cocky, controlled version of himself I’m used to seeing—makes me think that was a lie.
I didn’t overthink it.I parked my car and followed him.
The door creaks when I push it open, and I’m hit with a wave of warm air.It’s dim inside, only a few scattered locals nursing pints and pretending not to notice the Formula International driver who just walked in off the street.
My eyes scan the room and find Ronan sitting at the end of the bar, half-shadowed, a pint in front of him and his phone face down beside it.
We lock eyes and there’s no smirk or frown, which I’ve seen plenty of today.Just the barest hint of surprise, which then turns to wariness.
I walk over and slide onto the stool next to him without asking.“Forgot my water bottle,” I say, like it explains everything.
Maybe it does.Maybe it doesn’t.
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t tell me to leave either.
The bartender approaches and I order a pint of a local brew to justify being here.When it arrives, I sip and let the silence hang for a moment.“You’re not going to say anything?”
Ronan exhales slowly.“What would you like me to say?”
“That depends.Are we pretending this is a coincidence, or are we both admitting we’re bad at exits?”
He huffs and it’s not quite a laugh.“You followed me.”
“You lied.You ditched us for dinner because you said you had to get back to Woking.”That earns me a glance.His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t argue.
We sip in silence for a stretch, and I note he’s staring at his pint glass, fingers absently tracing the condensation.The usual coldness in his posture is dulled—his edges less defined.
I watch him for a moment longer, then ask, “What’s the deal with you and Lex, anyway?”
His hand pauses.“What do you mean?”
“I mean, there’s obvious tension between you and it’s not the competitive type.I recall you two used to be good mates, but now you’re not.”
