“Ah...we’re just going to talk to a potential crew member.”
“Matt said.”Barry eyes me suspiciously.
“It’s a long shot.I’ll tell you if we pull it off,” I say quickly.
“All right.Better show me where my money has gone,” he says, nodding to the graph on my screen with a downward trend so sharp it could bore a hole through the plane’s floor and all the way to Antarctica.
When we land, Matt has a car waiting, and although he’s managed to sleep, he still looks drawn and tired.
“What if he doesn’t want to join us?”I ask for the hundredth time.
“Then we’ve lost nothing,” Matt reminds me again.
We clamber into a waiting car, a purposefully low-key local taxi, and drive the four hours down the coast toward Jasper’s house with Matt chatting away in terrible Spanish to the driver.It’s my turn to sleep as my eyes grow heavy staringup at the big blue Mexican sky, my head against my balled-up cardigan and the window.
I wake hours later to the sound of the trunk slamming, and then Matt shouting something.I climb out of the car, and by the time I slide on my sunglasses, it’s already pulling away, leaving Matt and me standing on the dusty earth in front of a gorgeous, but very small, villa perched right on a white-sand beach.
Oh god, a swim in the ocean is just what the doctor ordered.
“The Pacific,” says Matt.“There is nothing like it.”
I rub my eyes and follow him to the faded cerulean wood-slat front door, hoping and praying that Jasper Cox is the breakthrough we need.
But the minute we meet we realize he’s going to require some convincing.
“I don’t work anymore,” he says, pushing back his wiry gray hair, stubbing a cigarette out in an ashtray.He holds his other hand toward the open terrace doors, which open onto the beach, palm trees framing the picturesque sandy shore and the turquoise shallow waters ahead.A hammock is blowing gently in the sea breeze.
No wonder he doesn’t work anymore.
“I get it,” I say, nodding.
“Jasper, you know me,” Matt says, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.He looks handsome today, in a loose-fitting cream linen T-shirt and tailored matching shorts, his feet bare inside a pair of dusty gray Birkenstocks.I watch him talk, calm, persuasive, and I get moments of giddiness in the pit of my stomach as I’m gripped by visceral memories of soft lips and hungry, searching fingers.
“I know you’re driving like shit,” Jasper says matter-of-factly.
“So, you’ve been watching the racing?”Matt folds his arms as if he’s caught Jasper out.
“Not really,” he replies, his eyes flickering to the TV, which is, in fact, currently showing a replay of Austin.Matt grins.
“Come on,” Matt says.“Won’t you at least talk to us?”
“You’re a lame horse,” Jasper says.“It’s clear you’re sitting around waiting to die.You’ll never get Arden to the level you need.”
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat.“I mean, that’smyjob.”
Jasper tips his head.“You always let him talk for you?”
“No,” I say, my eyes darting toward Matt.“Of course not.”
Matt looks as embarrassed as I feel.“Jasper,” I say, leaning forward, clasping my hands together.“You didn’t want to leave F1, did you?”
“I was a drunk,” he says.“I deserved to lose my job.”
“It was the worst time.Your wife had died.Don’t you want another shot?”
Jasper’s eyes narrow on me as he sits back in his chair; there is nothing but the whirr of the ceiling fans and a loud bird crowing by the back door.
“Maybe,” he says, finally.
