“The other journalists,” I said, stealing his fries. “Any suspicion?”
He laughed. “You ask harder questions than most of them. Yesterday you made me explain my gear choice in sector two.”
“Because it was wrong.”
“Exactly.”
Outside, Barcelona hummed. Tomorrow, the circus would move on. Austria next. Then Silverstone.
Careful distance in public. Stolen moments in private.
The championship was taking shape, Jonathan close enough to matter, far enough to hunger. I was writing well, and Thea was impressed.
Everything was possible.
15
ALTITUDE
Hotel Spielberg forcedthe paddock into intimacy. Thin walls, shared hallways, nowhere to hide.
Jonathan arrived with Shep and two engineers, travel-tired and focused. Our eyes met for half a second — enough to remind me that “unavoidable” was now a liability.
A text buzzed a few minutes later.
JONATHAN:View from 312 is spectacular.
WALLY:Not appropriate for journalist and subject.
JONATHAN:Extremely.
A beat.
JONATHAN:I’ll be in the restaurant in an hour.
I didn’t answer.
By the time I closed my laptop and checked the clock, the decision had already been made for me.
Tuesday Morning
By breakfast, the paddock hierarchy had assembled itself in miniature. Mason dropped into the chair beside me and followed my gaze.
“Hirsch looks different,” he said. “More… anchored.”
Before I could answer, Jonathan appeared in running gear. “Morning run. Trails are worth it. You coming?”
Mason’s eyebrow twitched. I said yes anyway.
The altitude hit fast. Jonathan slowed to match me, voice low.
“This isn’t about cardio,” he said. “It’s about ten minutes where no one can hear us.”
We stopped above the circuit, the track carved into the hills below.
“I should be thinking about setup,” he said. “But my brain keeps doing something else.”
“What?”
