“He is, but we have plenty of races to make up for this one. Go back, change, and relax. I’ll take care of everything else after the meeting.”
The meeting ends, and I head back to the RV. My brain is still spinning with thoughts of the day’s events and how Icould have done better. A voice breaks me of my thoughts…Dean. His long stride has easily caught up with me.
“Tough race today,” he says, looking like he actually means it. What is he playing at?
I shrug. Trying to play it cool, like I wasn’t just about to spiral. “It happens to all of us. Can’t win them all,” I partially joke, trying not to let my disappointment seep through.
“A group of us are going out for dinner tonight. Do you want to come?” He rubs the back of his neck like he’s nervous. I look up at him, confused. Usually, Leslie is the one invited to things and she brings me. Not the other way around. She is more approachable than me, I suppose, with her more outgoing personality. “You can bring Leslie, too,” he adds, as if reading my mind.
“Oh—umm,” I stammer. “Sure. Text me where you’re going and we’ll meet you there.”
A small smile appears on his face that makes butterflies go off in my stomach. Why are there butterflies in my stomach? This is not normal. I shouldn’t be feeling like this about my rival, of all people. I do my best to rid my stomach of the fluttering beasts, but then Dean flashes a wide smile at meand there they are again.
“Great. See you there.” He walks away with a pep in his step.
Interesting.
Before I hop into the shower, I shoot off a text to Leslie.
Me
Hey. A group of us are going to dinner. Wanna come?
Leslie
Sure. Who’s going?
Me
Idk. Dean invited me. Didn’t get specifics
Leslie
So it’s Dean now? but sure. I’ll meet you at your place
Me
ok see you in a few
I finish getting ready and wait for Leslie to come by for us to go to the restaurant that Dean texted me. I probably took way too long deciding on an outfit. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It’s just a group dinner. It’s not like I haven’t been invited before. But Dean is the one who asked me; that’s never happened before, and the way Dean asked was like he really wanted me to be there.
I decided on a pair of linen shorts, a plain blue shirt, and some sandals—simple, but still a little bit cute. A knock on the door pulls me away from checking my outfit for the millionth time, and Leslie is here for us to carpool to the restaurant. She's wearing some black leggings and an oversized shirt, her usual, casual self. Now I feel overdressed, but it’s too late now.
As we pull up to the restaurant, the group stands outside, waiting for everyone to arrive before getting a table. Dean seems deep in conversation with Taylor, but as soon as he sees me, he doesn’t look away. It’s almost as if he’s forgotten anyone else is here but me. It brings back those damn butterflies, and I don’t have a net big enough to capture them all.
Being forced to drive here together for the race and actually talk to each other has made me see more of him than just the cocky, playboy side that he shows everyone else.
Now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve seen any gridgirls this weekend. Maybe that’s because he doesn’t have his own space to use. That has to be it, it can’t be because of anything else.
Once the host takes us to a table, everyone seems to scramble to get a seat. Before I know it, the only seat open is the one next to Dean. Leslie, who’s sitting next to Chase, looks at me and winks. What the hell? Did she see something at Chase’s party? I figured she was too drunk to remember anything from that night. That doesn’t seem to be the case.
Great.
It feels like all eyes are on us as I take my seat next to him. I do my best to focus on the menu, but Dean’s scent invades my senses, sending hints of sandalwood and clean laundry. I try not to inhale too deeply because it is fucking intoxicating, just like it was at the hospital event when we posed for a picture.
Suddenly, I feel an elbow jab into my ribs, getting my attention. I mutter a curse and look up to see a waitress waiting for me to say something.
“Water and a Modelo, please.” My go-to order. I return to reading the menu, still unable to fully focus through Dean’s dizzying scent. The waitress returns with our drinks and places them down on the table. Dean ordered some kind of dark draft beer. It sounds good, actually.
