“I tell him everything. Used to, anyway. Plus, wouldn’t be fair if you got to team up with Sarah and go two against one.”
“We aren’t going to team up.”
“Says you.”
“We would all work together.”
“Cameron is a great worker. The best.”
“Okay, but if we tell Cameron, we have to tell Delaney.”
He blinks. “My personal manager. The woman who controls my life. She isn’t going to want me to go to Leone.”
That kind of makes two of us. “Then you need to have that conversation with her now.”
Arthur’s cheek bows. “Anyone else?”
That’s five. Me and Arthur, doing the scheme. Sarah, ensuring that we don’t accidentally toss her a grenade. Cameron, for male bonding. And Delaney, who’s smarter than all of us. “That’s all. You, me, and three people who would already follow you to your next team. What do you think?”
Arthur doesn’t reply. He’s stilllookingat me, focusing, and I’m vaguely worried there’s something on my face, though I haven’t taken a bite of my strudel. Alternatively, my mouth could have transformed into a roadside sign advertisingI think you are really pretty and I wish I didn’t.Which, also, he can’t read that on me—right? That I like him. He doesn’t know that. Sure, I’m constantly thrown off by his observational skills, and we spend a lot of time together, probably more than we need to. But Arthur has famously enjoyed the company of many women, to put it lightly. Me thinking about his mouth must be cute in comparison, if it even pings his radar. Like scattered thunderstorms; slightly interesting, mildly annoying, but altogether, another day in July.
“Five it is,” Arthur says. “Can we wait to tell our big news ’til we’re back in the States? Might be a tense plane ride otherwise.”
“Yeah. And thank you. Really.”
“None needed. But if I’d known you were going to make this such a party, I would’ve told you to pick out a wedding dress. Really go all out with it.”
“Ha-ha-ha. You aresofunny.”
He frowns. “Who says I’m joking?”
“You’re always joking.”
“You take everything seriously except for me,” he says, his fingers tapping once against the table, then stilling. There’s a flash in his eyes, a secretsomething, like he isn’t kidding around—and he’s hurt. If I hadn’t already figured out his bone-dry sense of humor and his preference for wearing his own mask, I’d be fooled.
“Sure. Yes. Let’s get married. That will solve everything.” Fight teasing with teasing. This always works. “Where should we live? D.C. or on the road?”
“Is that even a question?” he volleys back seamlessly. “You’d travel with me.”
“Uh-huh. And do what?”
“Anything.”
“With what money?”
“Mine.”
I learned long ago not to bother explaining to men that Arthur’s exact offer—a float tank of meaningless wealth, tethered only by a husband—isn’t appealing. So, I surprise myself when I say, “I wouldn’t like it.”
There’s that flash again. “Why not?”
“Even if I couldn’t do documentaries traveling with you, I’d need to be working on something.”
His face tilts down, as if he’s weighing this offer, as if Iamoffering him something instead of exploring a hypothetical while the sun rises. “I meant what I said. You could have a career in Formula 1, too.” He pauses. “There are openings for videographers all the time, and on-camera talent. You wouldn’t even need to work with a team, just the sport’s commercial owners.”
Arthur’s tone makes it sound like he’s trawled the job boardwith my stardom in mind, which is an absurd idea if he’s spent more than five minutes with me. Plus, the idea of going from Max’s hostile LLC takeover to getting pity-hired by the sports overlords because I’m someone’s wife makes my skin crawl. “I’m, um, really not on-camera material. And how would we find the time to see each other then?”
He considers this. “You’d travel with F1, I’d travel with F1. We’d work when we had to, like most people do, and see each other when we can.”
