He looks confused for a second before his lips spread into a grin.
“Fire engine red,” he says.
“That’s oddly specific,” I point out.
“And teal isn’t?”
“Why fire engine red?”
“One of the first toy cars my parents ever bought me was fire engine red. It was an Amato Racing replica.
“Fifteen years later, I signed my first contract with Amato in my first year on the F2 circuit and less than a year later I was promoted to the F1 team.”
I nod, knowing that’s the name of the team Travis races for.
“They’re one of the original F1 teams,” I say.
His smile widens. “They’retheoriginal team,” he corrects.
It’s not the firm passion in his voice that has the hairs on the back of my neck standing, or the way his arm holds my waist while the other braces against the door to the side of my head, holding me up with his chest pressing against mine that nearly undoes me.
The fire in his eyes makes me want to know more about him, to open up and tell him more about me.
“I’m glad you achieved your dream,” I whisper.
Travis shakes head, his eyes dropping to my mouth. “It hasn’t come true yet.”
The championship.
That’s right. He still hasn’t quite achieved the ultimate crowning of F1 royalty.
But the way his eyes linger on my mouth, a small voice at the back of my mind wonders if that’s the dream he’s referring to.
Someone clearing their throat draws our attention.
It’s the hospital administrator again. The rest of the members of our group stand behind her, a couple of them smirking.
I turn to Travis once more, recognizing our awkward position. I don’t want to imagine how this looks to the staff and the rest of the group.
“I have a recommendation for your hospital,” Travis tells the guide. “Wider hallways. We were almost run over by a stampede. Good thing I have some of the quickest reflexes in the world.”
“Is that true?” she asks, grinning.
“According to my team principal, but he likes to butter me up. It helps win the races.”
She playfully nods and gestures toward the hall to continue the rest of our tour.
Travis finally releases my waist, but moves a hand to the small of my back. We trail behind everyone, arm in arm, and it takes everything inside of me not to lean my head against hisshoulder every time we stop to listen to our guide explain some new feature or element of what the hospital has to offer.
For this little while it feels okay to let myself imagine we’re a real couple.
“They even have private rooms,” I tell Travis, flipping to one of the pages in the brochure.
“This hospital is rated as one of the best in the world,” I whisper in his ear.
“It’s terrific,” he tells me, slowly guiding me to the side as a woman in a wheelchair and her attendant pass us.
“When I broke my arm a while back, I had to come here for surgery and rehab. State-of-the-art.”
