The urge to cringe is about as strong as the urge to swoon over the way he waltzed in, made food for me, and then insisted I relax in this bathtub.
How long does he expect me to stay in here?
Is it wrong that when he mentioned the bath, I secretly wished he’d suggest we get in together?
Yes, Evan… that’s really fucking wrong.
He’s my boss’s boss’s boss.
He’s Luca’s dad, for crying out loud.
Luca’s dad, who happens to have the most gorgeous, chiseled jaw and incredible head of hair I’ve ever seen.
I didn’t expect to see him today. I didn’t expect to see anyone. Using my flex time meant I could do a marathon live. The plan was to stay up late to make the products from today’s sales and get it all shipped by the end of the week.
My plan started off strong. But because of the time difference, a lot of my regulars didn’t tune in like I hoped they would. By the time the afternoon waned, I was fighting for my life to meet my quota.
If I hadn’t assumed the knock on the door was one of my friends coming by, if I hadn’t been looking for an excuse to wind down that live, I wouldn’t have answered.
I wasn’t lying when I told Alaric it was painfully exhausting.
Yes, I hit my goal, and then even exceeded my sales for the day thanks to the surge of orders at the end, but at what cost?
And now I’m wrinkling in this tub, trying not to get my hopes up. Because I wouldn’t be upset if Alaric were still here when I’m done.
Ugh. I don’t have the bandwidth to figure out my next move. What I wouldn’t give to shoot off an SOS text to the Pussy Power group chat and get their perspectives.
The group chat started almost a decade ago after Shelby and Mia both overtook and beat Angelo François at the Formula 3 race in Budapest. It was Mia’s first F3 race and one of Shelby’s last.
He thought he was so clever, calling the girlspussiesunder his breath with his nasty French-boy accent. And so we named our chat Pussy Power, because fuck anyone who relies on an unoriginal slur rooted in patriarchy to try and make themselves feel better.
His insult was weak. Just like his driving, honestly.
Angelo never made it past Formula 3. He did a brief stint as a Formula E reserve driver, but even there, he failed to get results. Last I checked, he was peddling low-level sponsorships on his socials.
Today, Mia and Shelby have seats in F1 cars. Pussy Power is magic, full stop.
Head tipped back, I blow out another sigh and wistfully look toward my phone. Though I absolutely cannot text my friends, the temptation is still there.
What would I even tell them? My boss’s boss’s boss, the man who is also my ex-boyfriend’s dad, showed up at my hotel room tonight, cooked a delicious meal for me—even serving my rice in a cute little dome, exactly how I like it—then insisted I take a bath while he did the dishes?
My god, I am in so far over my head.
Holding my breath, I submerge my face, blowing out a few bubbles through my nose.
Beneath the water I rub my thumbs against my fingertips, confirming that yes, I am as wrinkled as one would expect after spending more than thirty minutes soaking
Surely Alaric is gone by now.
I rise slowly, not wanting to slosh water over the side of the tub, and engage the drain. Then I carefully step over the high ledge.
I dry myself with one of the pristine and fluffy white towels, then slip into a thick, luxurious robe. It may only be the second race of the season, but it’s already clear that Granata’s accommodations are far superior to any of the hotels I ever stayed in with Luca.
I secure the sash of the robe around my waist, then get to work on my skincare routine. As I dab on moisturizer, my mind wanders back to my to-do list for the rest of the night.
When that damn wheel landed on free personalization, my workload basically doubled. Note to self: take that option away before the next live. I’ve got a long couple days of mixing polymers and prepping picky pads ahead of me.
Thankfully, it won’t take me long to get the fidgets going using my 3D printers.
