Page 94 of Handle Me

“Who, thankfully, told him that he would never be a racecar driver if he didn’t listen to his mum,” she cut in.

“Wilkes seems like a good one,” Lola said with a smile.

“He is.” I stabbed a meatball with my fork and sighed. Even all those years ago, he’d had my back. He had never given up on me. “I have no idea what he saw in a punk kid.”

“What everyone else sees,” Lola whispered, covering my hand with hers. “I just wish you saw it.”

For a second, neither of us looked away. She saw me. She still saw me, and that’s what hurt the most. I pulled my hand back and flashed my mum a grin.

“So, if you made my favorite dinner, does that mean...”

“There are biscuits in a tin in the kitchen,” she said. “Let me clean up, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“I’ll help.” Lola pushed back her chair. She grabbed a few plates and headed into the kitchen.

I stood to join her, but my mother caught me.

“I like her,” she said quietly.

“We’re just friends, Mum.” I reached for a plate, but she clucked her tongue.

“She’s in love with you, too, you know.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head. “That ship has sailed. She’s seeing someone else.”

“So?” Mum shrugged. “That won’t last if you tell her how you feel.”

“I blew it,” I admitted, looking to where Lola was filling the kitchen sink with water. God, she looked like she belonged there. Just like she looked like she belonged at my table, laughing with my mother. I could see a life with her so clearly that it hurt. But it wasn’t just about how I had screwed up. She didn’t belong in my world any more than I belonged in hers. And even if I hadn’t been a total screw-up, we could never get around that. She was regal, and it didn’t matter what a DNA test said. I wasn’t royal.

“Neither of you is dead—even if you are constantly trying to kill yourself on that track,” she tacked on, squeezing my hand. “Win her back.”

If only it was that easy.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

LOLA

Meet me out front in five.

I stared at the text as I rode the lift down to the lobby.

After last night, I had half-expected Anders not to come, especially after the completely silent ride back to my hotel. It hadn’t helped to have dinner with his mom. He had already made it perfectly clear he didn’t want me. But that wasn’t the issue. Seeing him with his mom made it clear to me that Anders hadn’t just checked out on me. He’d checked out on his life.

That meant what Wilkes had told me on the phone was true. Anders needed a purpose—something to drive him as much as racing once had—but I had no clue what that purpose was or how to help him find it.

“Miss Bishop,” the doorman greeted me at the entrance. “Let me get that for you.”

“Thank you.” I stepped through the open door just as my new McLaren roared to the curb, followed by a black Range Rover. “That’s my ride.”

He whistled, peering at it closer. “Buckle up.”

“I will,” I promised him. I waved to Brex before I climbed into the car.

Anders looked hotter than yesterday in a pair of fitted gray joggers and a T-shirt that showed off his biceps. But I couldn’t help noticing the frown he wore with his clothes.

“What’s up?” I asked cautiously. Was this the part where he let me have it for staying for dinner?

But his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. “Our chaperone’s returned.”