Page 73 of Promise

I glance at Mirabelle. We’ve taken her out of the stroller and laid her on the blanket. She has baby sunglasses over her eyes and a wide-brimmed hat on her head, and she scoots her head like she hates them both.

“How come you told my brother you were retired from racing?”

Dart’s brows lift. “Well, I guess I am.”

“Are you?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light. Curious but not enthusiastic. It’s not like I want Dart to quit something he loves. I just know that it will take him away again. And I shouldn’t risk Mirabelle’s heart or mine if he’s going to leave soon.

“After the accident,” he begins, squinting in the sunshine. “I had a huge fight with my manager, Max.”

Max Larsen. I vaguely remember the name, but I know he’s the one who recruited Dart. Told him he had potential.

“He told me to take a break. Heal. Maybe I could come back next season.”

I chew my lip, holding back that the situation is exactly as I thought. Next season.

“They thought my head wasn’t in the race anymore.” He slowly lifts his eyes to meet mine. “Might have been a nice way of saying I was too old.”

The irony is that Dart convinced me he wasn’t too old when he left. Starting a racing career at forty-one, who does that? He’d had examples. He wanted to do it, try it. He was practically buzzing with excitement, with the possibility, with the change. It wasn’t about the money, although it would certainly have been a hit to our dual income. He used the Chevy Camaro he fixed up as collateral.

I’d been resentful. I hadn’t expected to be alone in my grief. But, in hindsight, I realize how alone Dart felt as well. How grief affected him.

I glance at Mirabelle.

I hadn’t expected to be alone in my happiness either. I always pictured Dart beside me in either scenario.

“Are you too old?” I ask because I am curious. Does his age matter?

He squints toward the river. “I don’t think so. I think they just wanted me to take time to figure out what I wanted.”

I don’t dare ask him what that is. Racing? Or me? It wasn’t an ultimatum.

Dart and I weren’t on shaky ground, but I wouldn’t say we were solid either.

“How long do you have?” I ask, picking at my dress. “Before you need to make a decision.”

He chuckles without humor. “I guess I have until the next season. Or at least November, when this one ends.”

November is months from now. We’d just graduated into summer. Could I handle getting close to him and then have to watch him leave again? I didn’t know.

Dart clears his throat and opens a dinner container, stuffed with barbecue chicken, coleslaw, and a roll.

“So, tell me about this book your mom gave you,” he says, changing the subject.

My mom. Bless her.

“You know my mom. She’s always handing out books.” Like advice. “She’s part of her own club now. They call themselves The Blooming Garden. People think it’s a garden club, but it’s really a group of older women, most of them widowed, who talk about romance and sex. They got the idea from watching Bridgerton.”

“Ah, Bridgerton,” Dart says, giving me a knowing glance. His cheeks are pink, and I don’t think it’s from the sunshine. He’s recalling when I nearly attacked him on the couch weeks ago.

“So, the book is about being DTF, huh?” His mouth curls, his eyes brightening.

I snort. “Yeah, well, that doesn’t have to happen.” I take a swig of beer. It’s so hot out here all of a sudden. And our eyes connect.

Dart arches a brow. Doesn’t it?

My face heats as my mind flits back to our position on the couch. Me over him. Him beneath me. So hard. So eager.

Maybe I just need to get Dart out of my system. Maybe I need one final farewell fuck, and then I can let him go.