“You’ll be fine,” I said, the words inadequate but sincere. “You always are.”
His mouth quirked. “That your professional assessment, Dr. Carter?”
“Just an observation.” I sipped my water. “You thrive under pressure. Always have.”
“Careful.” He leaned closer, voice dropping to a murmur. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
Heat that had nothing to do with the sun crept up my neck. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” His grin was quick and devastating. “I’m going to remember this moment forever. Violet Carter, admitting I’m good at something.”
I rolled my eyes. “I said you thrive under pressure, not that you’re good at anything specific.”
“Still counts.”
I shook my head, fighting a smile. This was dangerous territory. The easy banter, the shared laughter, the way his presence beside me felt increasingly natural.
Between us, Hazel slept in her portable bassinet, shaded by the umbrella Griffin had meticulously adjusted three times in the last twenty minutes. We looked like a family enjoying a moment of stolen peace.
“So,” I said, desperate to change the subject, “what’s race week here usually look like for you? Media obligations every night?”
His brow furrowed. “Pretty much. Sponsor dinners, press events, team debriefs. Singapore’s one of the heavier weeks on the calendar.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” He took a long drink. “But it’s part of the job.”
“Right.” I sipped my water. “And after all the official stuff? The clubs, the parties?”
Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by something that looked almost like amusement. “Ah. You’re asking if I’m planning to go out while we’re here.”
Put so bluntly, the question made me flush. “I’m just curious about your usual routine.”
“My usual routine.” He repeated the words slowly, testing them. “Well, normally I’d be staying at the drivers’ hotel, not some discreet place Julian arranged. And I wouldn’t have a sleeping baby in the next room.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No?” His eyes held mine, challenging. “What did you mean, then?”
I looked away, suddenly regretting the whole line of conversation. “Nothing. Forget I asked.”
“No, let’s talk about it.” He shifted closer, the space between our loungers shrinking. “You want to know if I’m planning to hit the clubs while I’m in town.”
“I don’t care what you do.”
“Right.” His voice dripped with skepticism. “That’s why you brought it up. Because you don’t care.”
I glared at him. “I was making conversation.”
“No, you were fishing.” His smile was infuriatingly knowing. “And since you asked so nicely, I’ll tell you. My routine now involves a lot more nappies and a lot less nightlife. Haven’t even thought about it.”
I nodded. “Makes sense.”
“Does it?” His voice dropped lower. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not.”
He laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “You’re a terrible liar.”
