Plus, the likelihood of me seeing one of my friends passing by—or worse, Luca—is far too high for me to risk it.
Based on his enthusiastic retelling of almost getting hit with a scooter, I’m not sure Silas could handle another driver encounter today.
I nibble on a piece of pita, but the usually soft and pillowy texture goes dry in my mouth, and suddenly I’m fighting my baser instincts not to gag.
Ugh.
I snatch my water from the table and chug. I just need to get this bite down, and then I’ll be okay.
Missing a food sensory shift early on is the worst. I can be in the middle of eating without issue, even enjoying the food, and still, as soon as my body is full, my brain riots. I’ve dealt with ARFID, a form ofdisordered eating specifically related to sensory processing, for almost all my life.
Every now and then, usually when I’m distracted, food that was delicious one bite becomes disgusting the next. When I was little, I would have to get up from the table and spit it into the trash can. My body’s first reaction is to gag, and I can’t always stop it. Thankfully, I’m pretty good about noticing the switch and leaving the rest of my food on the plate. Today, though, I guess I was a little distracted by all of Silas and Marisol’s enthusiasm.
I brought along a lot of my own foods for this leg of the World Championship. The amount of pita I brought should last me until Monaco. Sticking with my safe foods helps minimize sensory overload.
“I’ll probably work inside for a few hours,” I tell them as I pack up my Tupperware containers and load them into my lunch bag. “But you should go out there to work. It’s a beautiful day.”
Thankfully, neither of them questions my suggestion or presses me to go with them.
Silas is cleaning up, gathering the silverware and plates from the table, when commotion breaks out across the room.
At the sound, I scan the space, and when I discover the cause, I have to press my lips together to keep my jaw from hanging open in admiration.
Alaric Steele has entered the cafeteria. God, he’s so handsome. The man can rock a polo, that’s for sure. Even from across the room, he radiates authority and control. His slacks are black, and he’s wearing a deep red Granata polo. If I had to guess, that’s his typical uniform.
I haven’t run into him here in Australia, so I’m truly not prepared for the way my heart rate spikes and tiny butterflies take off in my belly in response to him.
He makes his rounds, interacting with folks at various tables. It’s like he’s holding court, greeting employees by name, shaking hands, and asking questions. When he makes it to the third or fourth table, it occurs to me that he’s stopping at each one and making a point to speak to everyone.
And wouldn’t you know—our table is up next.
Shit. If I’d realized earlier, I would have escaped, but he’s too close for me to hop up and discreetly slip away now.
So I hunch forward slightly, resting my chin on my hand, using my hair as a curtain to shield my face and pretend to be focused on the table in front of me.
Maybe he won’t see me. With any luck, he won’t even recognize me.
Maybe what happened in his driveway last weekend was a fluke. So inconsequential that he won’t even remember who I am or why I’m here.
Unfortunately, all my theories and wishful thinking jettison out the window almost instantly.
“Evangeline.”
The sound of my full name in his husky baritone sends my heart beating double time.
“Wonderful to see you again,” he says, extending his hand.
I take a deep inhale through my nose and sit up straight, slipping into a more professional mask. I don’t need him or my new coworkers noticing how my libido is doing the Cha-Cha Slide right now.
“Hello, Mr. Steele,” I reply.
His eyes narrow, jaw ticking like he’s amused.
“It’s nice to see you again.” I give his outstretched hand a firm shake.
An electric crackle of tension sizzles between us upon contact. While I should be surprised, I’m not. It’s exactly the type of physical reaction I had to him that day in his driveway.
His eyes widen, confirming he feels it, too. But he schools his expression quickly. “Please,” he insists, “call me Alaric.”
