He taps his can against mine, takes a sip, then gives me the skeptical look I knew was coming, complete with sheepish smile and another body scan. This time, the gray bikini seems to register. “You’re being pretty nice to a guy who quit on your first day,” he says, his voice tight.
Noted. My fake team loyalty makes him uncomfortable. I soften my shoulders, play up a frown. “Oh my gosh, what? I don’t blame you for that.”
“Really?”
Behind the safety of my dark lenses, I roll my eyes. “Why would I?”
“Dunno. Guess I just thought you wouldn’t want to…” He rubs at his knee. “Ah, it’s stupid.”
“No, say it.” I giggle. “Ilovestupid.”
He laughs. “I sort of thought you wouldn’t want to talk to me,” he admits quietly.
“That’s crazy.”
He laughs much, much louder. “Is it?”
Time for the critical hit. “Um, you’re Bernard Baudelaire.” I bite my lip. “Who wouldn’t want to talk to you?”
Bernard blinks, shocked by my so-called honesty. Then he shakes his head, doing that wholeexasperated yet enchanted manthing—as if a woman speaking her mind is new to him. “Hey, how about this,” I say before he can get a word in. “You can make it up to me, if you really feel so bad about my first day. Which was fine, by the way. Or it wasn’t, if you’d rather think it was a disaster.”
More head shaking. “Yeah? What can I do for you?”
“You can take me to dinner.”
His breath puffs out, and I think his face is actually going red. “I—yeah. That sounds like something I can do.”
“And it isn’t just because you’re an F1 driver,” I tack on. “I promise.”
Admittedly, I’m moving much faster than I’d like to, but I already feel like I’m on borrowed time. I don’t think Faust knows who I am, or what I’m doing. If he did, he’d just say it, wouldn’t he? Instead of…
Cat. You know what it means.
I don’t.
For once, I have no fucking clue what a man is thinking. And I really, truly hate it. But there isn’t any use stewing in theshoulds. Should I have seen it coming that Faust was going to tell me off at some point, seeing how weird he’s acted since we met? Should I have really believed I was breaking through his prickly outer shell? Should I feel bad that he pried out my actual fashion opinions?
Yes, no, and yes. But I should stop thinking about him. I need to.
“Can you wait ’til Japan for our date?” Bernard asks. “Iamworking this weekend.”
“Me too. And sure, if I can make it.” I sigh. “Can I get your chat app? My phone’s been acting weird. I mean, if that isn’t strange or…”
“Not strange at all.” His lips droop. “Wait, you might not be at the race in Japan?”
“The team’s being weird about traveling. You know how they are.”
Stark-Benzin, our common enemy. Great conversation fodder. “They’re a bit strict,” Bernard says. “You’ll get used to it.”
“Yeah? How’s Leone?”
It’s the perfect question. I smile and nod and laugh as he talksabout himself, his new team, his new car, Formula 1’s complicated racing rules. “They call it the pinnacle of motorsports, you know. A lot of women would kill to be working on a team like you are. And I’ve always supported getting more girls into F1. Especially doing what you’re doing with—clothes and things.”
“Oh, thank you.” By now, I’ve got my legs drawn up to my chest, sunscreen uncapped as I apply more to my shins. He’s talking so much, it’s nice to have something else to do. “Do you usually go out to dinner with the new girls?” I smile. “Or am I special?”
Surprise sends his brows rocketing up his face, and he looks at me, slightly bewildered. My heart thumps with glee. Bewildered is good.
“This might shock you, but I’m something of a romantic.” He cards his hand through his pale orange hair. “I don’t like dating much… but I do want to find a wife.”
