Ale shot me the finger. “I went out last night.”
“And?”
He smirked. “And that’s all you need to know.”
“Got it. Coffee?”
He nodded. “There’s a spot nearby.”
“Lead the way.”
Five minutes later, we sat at a window table in a cozy place called Coffee Break. A waitress took our order, and while she walked away, my eyes snagged on aHelp Wantedsign taped near the counter.
I snapped a picture. When I set my phone down, Ale arched a brow. “That’s quite a shift from racing, but hey—whatever floats your boat.”
“Nah. Not for me. It’s for Kaia.”
Ale rubbed his stubbled jaw. “Kaia…”
“Russell’s daughter.”
Recognition flickered in his eyes. As soon as the auburn-haired waitress set our espressos down, he took a sip and set the cup aside. “Isn’t she a kid?”
“Nah. She’s eighteen.”
Ale toyed with a sugar packet. “Interesting. Pretty?”
The hell? My fists clenched before I could stop them. “You’re thirty-one. What the fuck?”
Ale’s warm chuckle made me want to fucking disappear. I’d played right into his hands. I should’ve remembered he was the most perceptive guy I knew.
A catchy song drifted from the speakers, but I barely heard it, too focused on Ale.
“Now things make more sense,” he said, tossing the sugar packet aside.
“What things?”
“That you weren’t as excited about the offer as I thought.”
My stomach churned. I didn’t want him thinking I didn’t appreciate everything he’d done. His help was the reason I’d gotten this far.
“I was excited,” I said. “Just… caught off guard.”
He rolled up his sleeves and clasped his hands under his chin. “She’s the reason you’re hesitating, isn’t she?”
I exhaled hard. Mierda. I could lie to myself, but Ale deserved honesty.
“It’s a fucking mess,” I admitted, staring into the nearly black coffee. “I’m not supposed to want her. Russell owns my team.”
Ale scanned the café before pinning me with his green eyes, mercifully free of judgment. “That could be a problem, mi niño, unless he’s fine with you dating his daughter.”
“We’re not dating. Nothing’s happened.”
Ale’s brow arched. “But you want it to.”
“Maybe.”
The word slipped out, raw. First time I’d said it aloud—maybe even to myself. I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend; no pro athlete in my position would. Once the season kicked off, I’d have no time for anything but racing.
