He looked at the marquee above the restaurant. There was a large plastic cow standing on its roof.
Of course she would pick a place calledThe Ragin’ Rib.
Clarke groaned.
He wasn’t surprised he’d arrived first and was left to wait. He suspected that would be the case for all their appointments. He preferred to think of them as appointments rather than dates.
It was five minutes past. Maybe he should make a point of being late on the next one.
Even if I do, she’ll probably still show up after me.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket and was about to text her, when she brushed past him.
She didn’t stop to greet him. She headed right to the door. No mention of the race. Yet. But he caught that glint in her eye as he opened the door for her.
No fucking way this woman would pass up a chance to rub it in. The fact that Anker—correction, the fact thatshehad snatched his chance at the podium earlier today? She would never let go of the opportunity to twist that knife.
They were seated at a table.
She unbuttoned her coat, slipped her arms out of the sleeves, and shrugged it off. She was wearing a black blouse, which didn’t cling to her skin like that catsuit, but it was fitted and low cut enough so he could see her cleavage.
She did that on purpose.
Tilting her head, a sly smile crept slowly across her face.
Okay, let’s get it over with already. And then hopefully we can drop it, and I can enjoy my meal.
Although he didn’t hold out much hope for that as he watched a waiter walk past with plates piled high in glistening fatty ribs and not even a sprig of parsley.
Suddenly her cell phone rang. It was her aunt. That much he could tell.
After a moment of chitchat, her tone shifted. The bubbly tone was gone. So was the glint in her eye.
“Yeah, I know. It’s Timmy’s birthday. He asked me to ask Anker to stop by. I think he’s turning—what—five?”
Suddenly she smiled and laughed. “True, he’s also a brat.”
There was another pause.
“What makes you think I’m going?”
When her eyes met his, she quickly averted her gaze.
Get up and go to the men’s room. Give her some privacy.
He was about to do so when the waiter came up with glasses of water, blocking his way.
“I know I wasn’t invited. And I know about F2. I work in F1, remember? People talk.”
The waiter asked him if he’d like something to drink, but Clarke shook his head, waving him off.
She turned her head so he couldn’t see her face. She also lowered her voice, but not enough so that he couldn’t make out what she was saying.
“You think I’m naive enough to think if I tell him I’m interested, he’s going to offer me a spot?”
His brain kept telling him he should leave the table—not watch and listen the way he was doing. But his body wouldn’t cooperate.
“Think. Hope. What’s the difference? I’m curious to know how you found out, but I won’t bother asking because I know you won’t tell me.”
