“Who’s Frank?”I smirk.
“You don’t want to work for me.”
I stare at her, annoyed more than anything.Have Ieversaid I don’t want to work for her?“No, not true at all.I’m not sure I want to be here...generally.”
“At Arden?”
“Racing.”
“You want to quit?”Her mouth curls up at the edge.
“Retire,” I shoot back.
“Quit,” she says again, grinning this time.But I’m in nomood for this ribbing.I feel absolutely sick with worry about this race, and what I’m going to do next.
“Retire,” I counter slowly, zipping up my racing suit, turning to face her.
“Then why did your brother call me sniffing around about a transfer if you’re thinking about retiring?”
“Because he’s a big idiot.”I really have to speak to Archie about that.
Chloe tips her head to the side and folds her arms.“I know you don’t think I’m up to the job.”
“I don’t know anything, Chloe.It’s been less than twenty-four hours.”
She laughs and scoffs at the same time.“Is there some version of this”—she points between us frantically—“of you and me, that we can make work?”
“You and...me?”
Chloe’s cheeks go darker pink, and despite my irritation, there’s something so distracting and adorable about watching her try to push on through her embarrassment.Thereis the Chloe from our childhood.Thereis that fire-hot blush that I could bring out so easily in her.I’m momentarily distracted by it, studying the flex of her jaw as she tries to wrestle back control.
“Meet me half-fucking-way here,” she says, sighing theatrically.“Or is that too far around the track for you?”
I almost laugh.Chloe startles at her own words, her eyes growing rounder and larger.
Then, she lets out a guttural groan of frustration before regaining composure.I’m pretty sure the entire garage can hear it.
“Are you okay, Coleman?Too many sherries with Jack Sheppard last night?”
“Grow up, Matt,” she says, and this time when her eyes lock with mine, I see notangerflicker across her face, but disappointment.And I don’t like it.
CHAPTER 7
Chloe
There’s something very wrong with Matt, and I’ve been too wrapped up in my own bitterness toward him to see it.It was fine, I suppose, when I silently loathed him in the privacy of my own brain, but that loathing has spilled out like a backed-up and overflowing toilet and now everyone has to deal with the shit.
Still.What a petulant motherfu—
“Chloe?”The cocky young strategist who made the wrong tire call from yesterday approaches, his face sour enough to curdle milk.
“Hiya,” I say, as cheerfully as I can.
“We’ve agreed on a one-stop.Soft tires, then hard,” he says, handing me his tablet.The sunken gray eyes and whiff of stale cigarette smoke tell me he was out enjoying the town last night.
I feel the same nagging as yesterday.“Softs?In these conditions?Those tires degrade quickly here, and Matt is not known for his tire management skills.”
“I know.We’ve run all the options,” he says plainly, scratching the back of his head, his eyes anywhere but meeting mine.He doesn’t want to have this conversation with me.
