Three feet.
He took a step closer without me realizing it.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been serving you all this time—”
“You know what I mean. And I want to know why. I thought we had an understanding.”
“I...”
“But something changed, and you stopped believing in me again.”
Did I?
“What changed, Thea? Did someone talk to you?”
All I can do is shake my head. I just know I won’t be able to repeat Kimberly’s words without breaking down, and I...I don’t want to look even more pathetic in his eyes than I already am.
"Thea." He's close enough now that I can see the snowflakes catching in his hair, melting on his shoulders. Close enough that I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw. "Tell me what happened.”
"Nothing happened."
"Do not lie to me."
"I'm not—"
"You are." His hand lifts, and for a second I think he's going to reach for me, but he just runs it through his hair instead. Frustrated. "Something changed. One moment we were dancing, and you were—you were there. With me. And then after, youretreated. You went back to being invisible. And I want to know why."
“Kimberly.”
His jaw tightens. "Didn’t I tell you not to believe anything she says?”
“It’s just...”
“She’s more honest than I am, is that?”
When he puts it that way, I suddenly feel rather silly.
"You saw what she wanted you to see." He takes that last step. No space between us now. "All she cares about is hurting you.”
And she succeeded in doing that, I realize now, because of my own insecurities.
“Stop letting her cause trouble between us.” His hand lifts again, and this time he does reach for me. His fingers catch my chin, tilting my face up so I have to look at him. "Stop letting her forget how precious you are—”
“But what if she’s right?” The words burst out before I can stop them. "Look at me, Santino. Look at what I am. A waitress with coffee stains and bald tires and a studio apartment that's barely bigger than a closet. And you—you're—"
"I am tired," he says quietly, and his thumb brushes my cheekbone once. Twice. "Of being what people expect. Of being the driver. The champion. The name on the trophy. The man who dates women who know which fork to use and how to smile for cameras and how to look perfect at galas." His other hand finds my waist, pulls me closer. "I came to Jackson Hole to stop being that person. And you—" His voice drops lower. "You mademe feel like just Santino. Like I could be something other than fast. Something other than empty."
"For two weeks."
"What?"
"You have two weeks to decide." My voice is shaking now. "Twelve days left. And then you go back to that life. Monaco. Racing. Women who actually belong with you. And I'll still be here. Pouring coffee. Being invisible."
"You are not invisible to me."
"I'm a phase, Santino. A fun story about the small-town waitress. That's all I—"
