No, he isn’t. There are two empty lanes that haven’t seen a car since Julien arrived, but his older model sedan doesn’t match the vibe of the hotel and they both know it.
“S’il vous plait, cinq minutes?”Julien tries again.
The guard sighs and points to his watch, as if he will personally keep track of every ticking second.
“Merci.”Julien looks at his phone and back up to the glass doors. Is he in the wrong place? Should he text again?
This is a bad idea. It was stupid to get his hopes up.
Rafael Souza has better things to do than show up to some family dinner. He has magazine covers to shoot. Cologne commercials. Award shows. Not?—
A crowd forms in the lobby, backing towards the entrance like a school of fish. They spill out of the sliding front doors and the front of the pack shuffles backwards without a care as to what they might run into.
“We’re running late!” Julien calls out over the crowd. Some individuals in the mass notice him and turn their cameras as Rafael wades through.
He looks extra good in maroon, with his collar unbuttoned just enough to show a little cleavage. He smiles when they lock eyes, but his expression falls when he spots the car. “That’s your car?”
“Don’t make fun of her.” Julien knows she looks a little worn with her paint peeled off in large chunks around the hood and roof. He lives next to the sea. Salt water isn’t good for any car, much less antiques.
Rafael has his phone out in the next second. “I'll ask Marco to give us a ride.”
“Just get in.” Julien jiggles the handle of the passenger door and holds it open for Rafael. Not for chivalry reasons—only because the burly man might accidentally break it off.
As Julien rounds the car, he spots the guard. The man stares wide-eyed at the crowd clamoring for pictures and autographs with both Ferraro drivers. Julien smiles for a couple of selfies before falling into the driver’s seat.
The car stutters when Julien starts it, but that’s just because she’s nervous about all the attention. Once they get going, she runs well enough, and soon they’re even up to the speed limit.
After several minutes of crackling radio-assisted silence, Julien says, “I can feel you judging me.”
“I’m not judging you.”
“It’s a good car,” Julien insists. “And it works.”
“Does it have air conditioning?”
No. “It has a perfectly reasonableelectricwindow. You don’t even need to crank it by hand—it goes down all by itself.”
Rafael presses the button and the window drops all the way open. He jolts with surprise and urges it back up, clicking the up button over and over until it reaches the top.
At least this time it closed.
“I live in a walkable city.” Julien checks his mirrors several times before merging onto the interstate. “I’m always at my place in Italy so this thing stays parked for most of the year anyway.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
Julien isn’t usually so defensive over his shitty car, but there’s something terrible about allowing Rafael to see a part of himself that isn’t up to par. About opening up and admitting that this is the quality of life Julien lives in.
That this is all he has to offer.
Rafael collects rare super cars as a hobby. His flat in Monaco has a car elevator so he can park his favorite toy in his living room twenty stories up.
Julien can’t even afford a living room.
The comparison stings a little.
Rafael clears his throat. “That sound is a loose timing belt.”
“Okay.” There's nothing Julien can do about that information right now.
