“Jewelry?”
“God, no. It doesn’t have to be something I wear.”
“It would. If you were my girlfriend, Graywood, I would stake my claim on you publicly,” he says quietly. “You’d look good in my number nine.”
The image of me in his racing jacket and not much else splinters through my brain, and where the hell didthatcome from? “A watch. I would tolerate wearing a watch.”
He rumbles again. “Always so serious.”
“Wanting to be on time isn’t serious.”
“Right. Maybe I’ll get you a nine anyway,” he hums. “It’s my lucky number.”
“Says who?”
“Haven’t you heard that?” His fingertip runs around the top of my scar. “Nine lives. I land on my feet every time.”
This man and his obsession with cats. “Youwoulduse your number to brag.”
“I would. So tell me, what’s the story? When we land, and my team asks me what the hell I’m doing, what should I say?”
This is a much easier question to answer. “Don’t say anything.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because we need to act like we don’t want anyone to know what’s going on,” I remind him. “It’s a courtship. Flirting. Nothing more than that. Just because… I don’t want this to implode too early. If we can make it until the race in Monza, on September 1, I can structure my film around this summer.”
Arthur takes a deep breath. “That’s when Max’s contract is up.”
He sounds surprised, which is confusing. Why does his voice go dark whenever the topic of Max comes up? Before I can ponder that for too long, Arthur recovers. “But sure, it’s smart. We stay on the down-low—deny the obvious love affair—until our final attack. Hey, Ignition’s owner, Bob, is getting married the night before Monza. Come as my plus-one.”
“To a wedding?” I’m cringing already. I’ve gone to exactly one fancy wedding before, one of Max’s old friends who went into the Navy, and that was D.C. military fancy. I can’t see myself surviving a night of stilted rich-people small talk, non-vegan appetizers, and assholes in tuxedos, Formula 1 edition. “Don’t you need to sleep? If it’s that Saturday, that’s the same day as Qualifying.”
“I can stay out late on a school night.” He pauses. “IfI’m driving. But look at it this way—coming with me would secure you a trip to Italy. Then you could film the race. Get my dramatic ending either way.”
With that timeline reminder, two months left on the clock, I’m suddenly aware that the plane has gone still, the engine steady. I made it. We’re flying, and I didn’t fall out the window. Now is when I could pull away from Arthur, thank him for being the one person who’s successfully calmed me down through physical touch, and start up a movie. Scroll Letterboxd. Anything else.
But… I run cold. And he is really, ridiculously warm, like a blond furnace, burning through black coffee and lean protein. And since we’re subtly announcing that we’re maybe slightly a thing to the whole team, wouldn’t it be weird if I suddenlydidn’ttouch him for the remainder of the flight?
I have to stay nuzzled up against him. For the plot.
I wriggle closer, hunkering down, and Arthur shifts so that I can use his biceps like a pillow. “Better?”
“Mm-hmm.”
He strokes the top of my shoulder. Just once. “My girlfriend likes being touched,” he says, more to himself than me. Like he’s studying, hushed, reading out loud from a book he’s trying to memorize.
It makes my face heat anyway. “Sometimes. With warning. It can be too much.”
“Too much?”
Danced myself into a corner with this one. “I get overstimulated. That’s why I get quiet sometimes. It isn’t, like, a superiority complex.” Far too defensive. How do I explain this? “Sometimes I’m—I can be slower at processing things than other people. My brain goes too fast all at once, and I get stuck, thinking everything through.”
Arthur is quiet for a long moment, taking that in. Then he says, “So I have to earn this?”
I laugh. “I wish there were rules to it. But sure. Try and earn it.”
“What else should I know about you?” he asks. “That’s what I would do, by the way. To show my interest.”
