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He grumbles something I can’t understand.
I somehow lift my jaw back up off the floor. “You seriously play the guitar?”
There he goes pausing his work again. “Acoustic.”
“Oh my God! You need to play fo
r me.”
“No.”
“Come on,” I whine.
“Still no.”
“You’re such a spoilsport.”
“I never claimed otherwise.”
I roll my eyes. “Back when you raced, did you used to bring your guitar with you?”
The screwdriver clatters against the ground.
Ugh. Wrong question.
“Never min—”
“Yeah. I always traveled with my guitar during the racing season. It made the bad days bearable and the good days memorable.”
I lean against the hood of the car to stop me from falling over. Swooning can do that to a girl. “Do you still play?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because music is food for the soul, and mine feels like it’s missing.”
Whoa. His heart calls out to mine, begging me to help him. He might look beautiful on the outside, but he’s nothing but broken on the inside. It has me absolutely enraptured.
I have a feeling Santiago loves too hard. Whether it’s his family, or racing, or even the music he plays, he loves unapologetically and with everything in him. And how does someone move past the level of heartbreak he experienced when he lost his leg and gave up racing?
“I hope you play again one day.” I mean every word.
“Me too, Chloe. Me too.”
23
Santiago
I swipe my towel across the foggy bathroom mirror. My ragged face stares back at me, with my beard growing out and my hair looking rough around the edges. I’ve never had it this long before. I run a hand through the locks, my fingers catching on a few knots from my shower.
Is this who I want to show the world this weekend? The guy who let his circumstances break him to a point where he barely recognizes himself? And more importantly, is this the guy I want to be in front of Chloe? I want to impress her, not make her want to run in the opposite direction.
One look at myself has me wondering why she didn’t run the first chance she had. I look like someone who has seen way better days. Hell, someone who has seen a way better life.
I tug open one of the vanity drawers and pull out my supplies to trim my beard. It might only be a cosmetic change, but it’s a change nonetheless.
It takes me what feels like forever to remove all the excess facial hair. I run a hand over the stubble and smile. “Now, what the fuck am I going to do about my hair?”
