The wet slate vehicle. The one that probably costs more than my entire education.
"I don't—my car is here—"
"Your tires are still bald."
"They got me here fine—"
"Thea." He opens the passenger door. "Please."
It's the please that does it. The way he says it, not quite asking, not quite demanding, but something in between.
I get in the car.
The interior is exactly what I'd expect from someone who races professionally—sleek, minimal, expensive. The seats are leather. Everything is black and silver and impossibly clean. There's that new car smell that I thought was a myth but apparently isn't.
He gets in the driver's side, and suddenly we're in a very small space together, and I'm hyperaware of every single thing—the way he moves, the way his hands look on the steering wheel, the faint scent of his cologne that makes me think of places I've never been.
"Where is this trail?" he asks.
"Oh. Um. Take a left out of the parking lot, then—actually, I'll just direct you. It's easier."
He nods and starts the engine. It purrs to life, smooth and quiet, and we pull out onto the main road.
The drive takes fourteen minutes. I know because I'm counting in my head, trying to distract myself from the fact that I'm in a car with Santino Aleotti and we're going hiking together and I have no idea what to say to him.
But he doesn't seem to mind the silence, and eventually, I find myself simply watching—and well, okay,admiring—the way he drives. It’s like the car is a part of him, and it’s...breathtaking.
"Left here," I say when we reach the turnoff.
He turns.
"And then—there's a small parking area about half a mile up. You can't miss it."
He finds it easily. There are only two other cars in the lot—this trail isn't popular in winter. Too cold for most tourists. Too isolated.
We get out. The cold hits immediately, that sharp February air that makes your lungs ache and your eyes water. I pull my coat tighter and wish I'd thought to bring gloves. Or a hat. Or possiblya completely different personality that knows how to function around attractive men.
"This way," I say, and I start walking toward the trailhead.
He falls into step beside me. Not ahead, not behind. Beside. Like we've done this before. Like this is normal.
The trail starts easy, winding through trees that are bare and stark against the gray sky. Snow covers the ground in patches, crunching under our boots. The air smells like pine and cold and something clean that I can't name.
We walk in silence for a while. I'm counting steps (forty-seven to the first bend in the trail, sixty-three to the clearing where you can see the mountains), and I'm trying not to think about the fact that I'm alone in the woods with a man I barely know.
Except I do know him, don't I? I've been watching him for almost forty days. I know how he holds his fork, how he drinks his coffee, the exact expression he gets on Tuesday mornings when he reads something on his phone that makes his jaw tighten.
I know him, and I don't know him at all.
"Kansas," he says suddenly.
I glance at him. "What?"
"You said you grew up in Kansas."
"Oh. Yeah. Small town. Middle of nowhere." I wait for it—the Wizard of Oz joke. Everyone makes the Wizard of Oz joke. It's like a reflex. You say Kansas, and people immediately say something about Dorothy or tornadoes or red shoes or clicking your heels together three times.
But he doesn't.
