Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, I clip his ear before guiding him to our table.
‘Don’t worry, the party has arrived! Call off the search, the evening can begin,’ I announce dramatically, then slide in next to Caleb. Nils sits opposite me, next to Elijah. Harper sits next to him, with Cole next to him and Ash opposite, beside Caleb.
At first it was just me and Harper against the world, but now it feels so good to have the table full. It’s nicer than I could have imagined to have a little gang of friends. I catch Caleb’s eye and smile.
Nice, indeed.
ChapterEight
Caleb
I’m on edge, sitting at the table alone with our competition and the driver who beat Johannes to P1 in today’s race. Don’t get me wrong, Harper and Elijah and their two race engineers have been nothing but welcoming towards me, but I really wish Johannes wasn’t late right now.
‘I did tell him seven, but he’s not answering his phone and Nils’s seems to be switched off or on DND, so fuck knows.’ Harper shrugs, before taking a swig of his beer.
‘I’m sure they’re fine, just stuck in traffic or something,’ Elijah suggests with the same nonchalance.
The set of villas and apartments we are staying at are completely locked off to paparazzi, but the second you’re out of there, they are an assault on the senses, and who knows what hassle Johannes and Nils are facing trying to get here.
But if Johannes doesn’t show for some reason, and I’m left here awkwardly on my own…
I breathe a sigh of relief when the bar cheers and my eyes shoot straight to Johannes’s six-foot frame, his hand on Nils’s shoulder guiding him through the crowds.
The contrast between the two men is striking. Nils is baby-faced with that white-blond hair, and despite no longer being the youngest driver on the circuit he still looks like such a kid compared to Johannes. He’s dressed casually, while Johannes, with his shaved head and strong features, is dressed to impress in silk trousers that hug him in all the right places, accentuating his long legs. He’s left several of the buttons on his pink shirt undone, leaving what feels like miles of gleaming chocolate skin on show. This man is a sin. An absolute sin.
I’m very much afraid that my mouth is hanging open. I close it with a snap, but I’m not the only one who’s noticed that Johannes is radiant tonight.
The friends all greet each other enthusiastically.
‘Hey,’ I finally say after Harper stops ribbing him about being late because he was doing his hair. Being in such close quarters, it’s impossible to ignore how good he smells. It’s sweet like vanilla, with a nutty hint– maybe pistachio?– and with top notes of femininity that make him intoxicating.
‘Hey, yourself. Sorry I left you alone with these knuckleheads. Apparently, I’m incapable of getting ready in half an hour.’ He chuckles before spreading his arms out across the back of the booth, relaxing into the plush seat.
‘Oh, no problem,’ I rush to reassure him. ‘They were getting a bit restless, though. I think Harper’s already put in a food order for everyone. It took him like five minutes to reel off, so I hope you’re hungry.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry, I can eat. That’s why I run so much,’ he says, patting his flat stomach. I’m all too aware that under the pink shirt is a set of washboard abs. I lift my eyes back up to his face and realise he’s caught me looking. I hope my pale skin isn’t revealing the heat I feel flood into my cheeks.
The most obnoxiously sized plates of wings and ribs, alongside a bunch of potato sides are delivered to our table, and the way the six other people dive in reminds me of animals in the wild. Part of me almost feels like a bit of a spectator at the table. It’s not that I don’t fit in– I’m as much a part of the racing world as all of these guys– but I don’t really know them.
Even Nils seems quite relaxed with them, and I know he wasn’t really part of this group last year. I didn’t know Cole or Ash were either, to be honest.
It feels like I’m back in senior school, which is kind of pathetic when I’m almost thirty-three years old. So, I grab a wing and bite into the juicy flesh. It’s spicy but the ranch dressing they’ve provided helps take the edge off. I’ve definitely had better in America, but it isn’t the worst attempt at it.
‘Good, huh?’ Nils comments from across the table, hands already sticky and hot sauce coating his lips.
‘Did the kids’ meal not come with wet napkins?’ Johannes asks Harper. Nils sticks his tongue out at him in reply. ‘Seriously, wipe your mouth, you animal. Can’t take you anywhere.’
Nils doesn’t. Instead he sucks the meat off a rib in protest, blue-cheese dipping sauce trickling down his chin. It’s the messiest meal I’ve eaten in a long time, but as the bones stack up and the trays of fries go down, we all end up resembling Nils. Except Johannes.
Torturously, he sucks the sauce off his fingers between every piece of meat, dabbing a napkin at his lips to catch any sauce. I almost drop a forkful of fries the first time I see him do it. I have to force my eyes to look away from each mesmerisingly delicate suck. It must be the multiple beers I’ve sunk, because my mind is going places it really shouldn’t. Not at a table surrounded by colleagues. Not at all. It’s not a place I often let it wander. My life is full enough between work and education. I don’t have room for anything else. I wish my brain would tell my body that before I embarrass myself.
I focus back on the food, joining in on conversation about a soccer game that’s being shown on one of the screens. I think there’s a big European competition going on right now, but it’s not exactly a sport I follow. The US Men’s soccer team isn’t anything to write home about.
The Brits and Johannes have a whole bunch of opinions, but when I squint at the screen I don’t think it’s either of their teams even playing. I’m just happy to be here, to be included, even though I have no idea what’s going on on the pitch. I have no idea what time it is, and I feel relaxed and loose.
When the match is over, they turn the music up and Chayce Beckham’s song ‘23’ starts playing.
‘I love this song.’
