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“That’s Willie Nelson,” I point out helpfully. “You have one in your room too.”
“Who?” He stares at me like I’m speaking a language he doesn’t understand.
“The photo.” I point. “You know, Willie Nelson. Country and western. He’s from Texas. ‘On the Road Again’?” I sing a few bars and he stifles a grin. Yep. Nothing turns a man on like singing some off-key Willie. I know how to reel ’em in.
Good god, what am I doing? My palms are moist and I surreptitiously wipe them on the duvet, feeling out of control. “My mom used to sing that to me when I was little.”
“Funny, I didn’t take your mum to be a country fan.”
He sets his phone down on the nightstand and pauses for a moment, probably wondering if he truly wants to go through with this silly idea.
“Can I test the pillows?” he finally asks.
“Oh. Yeah. Sure. Take whichever pillow you want. I’m not picky.”
I sit up, and he climbs on the bed and kneels, leaving me dizzy from his proximity. One by one I hand him each of the six pillows. He inspects them, squeezing and plumping them with his hands, and I watch, wishing he was grabbing my waist and ass in that same way.
“This. This is the one.” He holds a pillow in front of him with a small smile. It was the one I’d used last night.
“Perfect.” I swipe one of the discarded pillows and set it at the head of the bed. To me, they’re all the same. I toss the rest on the floor.
“I’m turning out the light.”
So much for my book. As if I could concentrate on it anyway. “Okey dokey, smokey,” I say. And then cringe.
He turns to flick the light out, bathing the room in darkness and his seductive scent. I lie, frozen, on my back, my arms at my side. I don’t dare look at him—not like I could see him in this darkness—and feel him sliding between the covers.
I clear my throat. “Where do you want me?”
The question hangs in the air, filled with innuendo and memories. Just as my face is heating up with embarrassment, he laughs. The air is thick with tension, and the electricity between us almost makes me sweat. Great. Now I’m going to perspire all over him.
“Oh, Lily. Come here.” He sighs and rolls onto his side, wraps his arm around me, dragging me toward him me so I’m the little spoon.
He buries his nose in my hair, breathes deeply, then holds me close to his body. With his thigh pressed against mine, I am uncomfortably aware of our differences. His long, lean muscles cut into my soft, rounded curves. His arm is like a strong, steel band around me, and I’m pretty sure I could stay like this for the rest of my life—even though I’ll never tell him that. As far as he knows, I’m doing this so he’ll win, not because I want to revel in his touch one more time.
It doesn’t matter, because this moment is perfect. The steady thump of his heart and the feathery touch of his breath on my neck soothe me, and when he sighs contentedly, I allow myself to relax and enjoy.
I let go.
This is a bliss I haven’t felt in so long. Several minutes later his breathing slows. It’s the first sound of contentment I’ve heard from him tonight. But a feeling wells up in me that I try my best to ignore because it’s more than a little terrifying.
I am still deeply, madly, in love with Max Becker. But I’ll never tell him that as long as I live.
Chapter Twenty
LILY
The good news is Max drives so well during qualifying the next day that he achieves pole position, which means for the race tomorrow, he’ll be first on the grid.
The bad news is we’ll probably have to sleep together again tonight so he’ll win the actual race.
Or is that bad news?
I keep pondering this in the hours after Max’s blistering qualifying laps. Watching him was pure joy, poetry almost, for people like me who love the sport and the art of driving. He handled every curve, hugged every wall, with a deft touch. Even Papa called me afterward, overjoyed. I gently chided him for not relaxing, but also felt secretly proud that the team was doing well in his absence.
Esteban came in third on the grid, so the team is in a cautiously optimistic mood as we head to that afternoon’s press conference.
“You nervous?” Esteban asks me. He’s so young and new in the sport that at thirty-one, I feel practically ancient next to him. We’re walking with Tanya and Max into the press center on the track.
