“I feel like shit,” he said finally, then pressed an unexpected kiss to my shoulder. “How do you feel about qualifying?”
“Um—alright. It’s not my favorite track.”
He yawned and shifted even closer to me. “I always fuck up the chicane.”
“Me too. The whole first sector, I can’t get the rhythm of it.”
“You’ll get it,” he said, leaning back to sip on his coffee. “You seemed to have it in practice.”
“You were watching?”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t sound so smug.”
There was something in the flush of his cheeks that made me bold enough to push a little further. “You were watching,” I said, nudging his arm.
His lips twitched. “Shut up.”
And from then on, things really were different. His texts became more frequent, until it was almost a daily thing, a constant conversation about our days and our lives. His calls, which had previously been ten-second affairs to ask my hotel room number or double-check a time, grew longer. And when we were together, he was more... more present, I guess is the word. He stayed longer in the mornings, talking with me over coffee, and threaded his fingers in mine when we watched movies, once or twice even falling asleep with his head in my lap.
Things got better and better as the season dwindled, until it was the last race of the season, and he was there with me in my hotel room in Abu Dhabi, telling me he only slept well with me, and saying I’d win the championship for sure next year. I went into therace the next day feeling confident, but on the first lap, I got taken out in someone else’s crash, and just like that, the season was over.
That night, Jacob showed up at my hotel room again, cursing my bad luck and hugging me so tight I could hardly breathe. Then he asked if it would be okay if he stayed with me in London for a while.
I leaned back to study his face. “Aren’t you going home for Christmas?”
He shrugged. “I’d rather be in London.”
I hesitated. “Through Christmas?”
“Yeah, if that’s okay.”
It was pathetic, really, how quickly the idea washed away my disappointment over the race. I hadn’t spent Christmas with anyone since my dad died. The thought of spending the holiday with Jacob... it was frightening and thrilling, all at once.
“I don’t have a tree or anything,” I said stupidly.
Jacob laughed. “We’ll have to fix that, then. Tree, lights, stockings.” He counted the list off on his fingers. “I don’t fuck around about Christmas.”
I fought a smile. “Yeah, alright.”
He went back home to New Mexico for a few days, to appease his parents, and then he showed up at my apartment in London with a massive suitcase stuffed full of clothes. At first, he left his suitcase open on my bedroom floor, living out of it. But in the days leading up to Christmas, his clothes slowly found their way into my dresser. Then one day, the empty suitcase disappeared, shoved into a closet. I felt little bursts of excitement that whole day. I kept thinking, this was more than just a visit. He was practically moving in with me.
The realization gave me an idea for his Christmas present, which was something I’d agonized about. I hadn’t been able tothink of anything to get him. But when I realized he might spend time at my apartment over the winter, it was suddenly obvious.
I woke up on Christmas morning with his warm weight against me, his head tucked into my shoulder and one leg thrown over mine. I lay there for a while, reveling in his warmth. When he woke up, he was soft and sleepy, and he pressed a row of kisses up my neck. I slid my fingers into his hair and kissed him deeply, and it was several hours before we made it out of bed.
When we did, he made us peppermint hot chocolate (“It’stradition, Keeping, I don’t care if you don’t like it”) and insisted we watch some old Christmas cartoon I’d never seen. The whole time, my stomach was in a nervous knot.
When the movie was over, he poked me in the leg with his foot. “What’s up? You’re acting squirrelly.”
I bit my lip. “Want your Christmas present?”
“I thought this morning was my present,” he said, smirking.
Flushing, I rolled my eyes. “Do you want it or not?”
He grinned. “Yes, please.”
I pulled him to his feet and led him to the spare bedroom, pausing for a moment before I unlocked the door. I gestured for him to go in first. Inside, there was a brand-new racing simulator. It was almost as fancy (and expensive) as the one Harper used in their factory.
