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Max is disconcertingly close, with only a flimsy plastic chair between us. I grip the back to steady myself, because his unyielding ice-blue eyes are laser focused on my face. It’s as if he’s scrutinizing every feature and pore. Dammit, I hadn’t put on makeup, and that somehow makes me feel naked and vulnerable. I’m still in my glasses, the black-rimmed ones that make me look like an owl.
I never could read him, and not knowing what he’s thinking is somehow even more unnerving now that we’re older. His face is angular, but not severe—more model-like than harsh. His hair is a little longer now, still messy and wet, probably from his post-race shower.
“Oh. Hey, Max.” My voice is soft, but my mind’s in the gutter with the thought of him naked and wet.
We stand there, awkwardly, sizing each other up. Most people would extend a hug in this situation, but not Max. He knows better and shoves his hands into his jeans.
“Lily.” The sound of my name on his lips sends an electric charge through my body. It ignites every nerve ending and sets my skin on fire. It’s a physical reaction that I can’t control, and it used to happen every time he said my name when we were together.
Back then I loved it. Now? It’s more than a bit disconcerting. I’vegotto get a handle on myself. Part of me also feels an uncomfortable amount of guilt, because I was the one who ended things. It was my fear of commitment, my hatred of the lifestyle, my certainty that it wouldn’t work, that led us to this point of awkwardness.
“Hey,” I repeat, in a dumb, breathy voice.
His tanned face is tense, probably because he’s worried about Papa, and a muscle in his jaw pulses, betraying the gravity of the situation. A black T-shirt clings to his shoulders, chest, and stomach, showing off his hard-earned physique. Unlike most Formula World drivers, he’s on the taller side, a fact that the press loves to discuss and dissect.
Another member of the team, a Chilean guy named Rodrigo I’ve known for years, approaches. His arms are open wide, and I step back. Dammit, I need to tell Jack to informally let everyone on the team know that I don’t want to be touched or hugged. Where is Jack, anyway? He seems to have evaporated into thin air.
Max, who knows my dislike of hugs, blocks Rodrigo by physically moving closer to me and shooting him a steely glance.
“Ooh, sorry to interrupt. We’ll catch up later, Lily,” Rodrigo says. I give a weak wave as he wanders off.
I press my hand to my forehead. “Thanks for that,” I mutter to Max.
“I saw the look in your eyes. Like a cornered cat.”
We’re entirely too close now, but I can’t go anywhere because I’m wedged between a wall, a chair, and Max—and it doesn’t look like he’s moving. Maybe he thinks he’s trying to shield me from further unwanted hugs. I guess this is a plus.
“I’m sorry about your father.” His voice is quiet and has taken on a low tenor, one that drifts effortlessly into my ears. It’s as if he doesn’t want anyone to hear us talking. As if everyone in this room knows we used to sleep together, and he’s trying to hide the evidence.
Just like old times.
“Thank you,” I reply, a little too loud.
Max presses those full lips of his together. His eyes meet mine and for once, he looks like he doesn’t know what he wants to say. The confidence I’d seen hours ago during those track interviews has evaporated. Truthfully, he seems a bit shaken. I guess it’s understandable since he’s always looked up to my father as a pioneer in the sport. And Papa is his boss, the man who is paying him millions of dollars to perform and drive flawlessly.
His bottom lip trembles slightly, and he seems to be having trouble finding the right words. I can see the conflict in his blue eyes, a battle between what he wants to say and what he thinks he should say.
“Where are you . . . ah, how long will your father be in hospital?”
“I don’t know. He’s in surgery now, or should be. The doctor said they’d call once he was out, and that I could see him tomorrow morning. I’m sure he’ll be in rehab for a while. I don’t know how it all works, but I’m hoping to sort it all out by tomorrow, then get to Austin.”
Some of this plan hinges on talking with Mum, who’d sent me a text saying she was catching a flight to Florida soon. I wave my hand around the conference room, at the people in small groups, speaking in hushed tones. The team. My team, for the time being.
“Where are you staying?” His tone is devoid of any context and the question catches me by surprise. Why does he care? Doesn’t he know I live in Miami? Seemingly the entire world does, if the doxing after my firing is any indication.
“My condo. I live here now. In downtown Miami.”
A little, rueful smile dances on his lips. “Oh right. For a minute, I forgot.”
“I should gather my father’s stuff from his hotel room, or ask Adam to do it. Papa thought about bunking with me but felt it best to be near the team.” So many details to keep track of already.
I don’t mention the hotel name, nor does Max. Probably because it was where we first hooked up, seven years ago. This was before Miami even had a race. The teams had been here on a layover, doing some promotional event in tandem with NASCAR.
I reach for my water, distracting myself from ogling Max’s high cheekbones. I’d always loved that part of his face, and recall how I’d trace the sharp planes with my finger while we lay in bed. A memory, of us in a hotel—always a hotel—rushes to mind. We were in Spain, and the way the light illuminated his face is forever burned in my mind.
An angel.
Max puts his hands on his hips and looks around, as if he’s in the garage, assessing which tires his crew should use for a race. “I was planning to go to Costa Rica to surf for a few days.”
