He arches a brow at me. “Do I?”
I arch right back. It’s a stand-off of raised eyebrows.
He’s the first to cave in.
“Fine,” he grumbles. “You win. It was perfectly executed. Jacques is thrilled with your performance. Although Elodie’s less enthusiastic. She’s upset about our ‘little pissing match’ over the comms. Her words, not mine. Thinks the press is going to have a field day with it, play up the whole Grady-doesn’t-play-well-with-others angle. Don’t be surprised if she and Kip sic their PR machine on us again.”
“Would that mean I get to spend more time with you?” I tease, trying to coax a smile out of him. “Because that would be a real hardship.”
He doesn’t take the bait. “Just tell me you didn’t do it because of that bullshit your father was shoveling in Austin about pushing harder and driving more aggressively.”
“Is that what’s bothering you?” I dare to scoot closer and put a hand on his thigh, breathing a sigh of relief when he doesn’t push it away.
“Partly,” he admits.
“And the other part?”
He stands abruptly, leaving my hand fluttering aimlessly. “Do you want a drink?”
“No, I want you to sit back down and tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Are you sure? I’ve got water, Gatorade, even a little of that single malt scotch left over from—”
“Ben.” I grab his hand, stopping him. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
He sinks back down onto the couch, burying his head in his hands. There’s a beat of silence between us, then he lifts his head and looks at me, his eyes serious and sad.
“All I could think of was Stefan,” he says so low I can barely hear him even though he’s sitting right next to me. “I’d almost forgotten until you were out there in the wet, but it was raining that day, too.”
Fuck. I’m an insensitive asshole.
I put my arm around him and pull him into me. He’s warm and solid against my side. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
He rests his head on my shoulder. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I was acting more like your lover than your race engineer. But I just want you to be more careful. I don’t want you to get hurt. Or worse.”
“And why is that?” I prompt, absently stroking his hair.
“You know why.”
“Maybe.” I wind a lock of hair around my finger then let it slide free. “But I’d still like to hear you say it.”
“Because I—I care about you, you reckless, pig-headed moron. You’re important to me.”
Care. Not quite the four-letter word my heart might have been hoping for, but for now it will have to do. Hell, what does my fucking heart know anyway? I should listen to my head for once. The one on top of my shoulders. It’s not sure what this is yet either, except that it’s definitely more than friends with bennies.
“I care about you, too,” I say softly.
He groans and closes his eyes. “We are so fucked.”
“Or so lucky.”
“How do you figure?” He sits up so he can face me.
I miss the physical contact, so I take his hand and thread my fingers through his. “Not everyone gets the chance to answer what if. As in what if we tried being more than friends with benefits?”
“Are you—?” He stumbles and starts again. “Are you saying you’re ready to come out?”
I nod.
