Nils’s laugh echoes up the plane, and I risk a glance along the aisle to see what’s going on back there, but all I see is a stony-faced Johannes staring back at me. His eyes have lost their sparkle– though how I can tell that from this far away is anyone’s guess– and I hope he’s not going to fall back into the dark pit of sadness that robbed him of what he deserved in first Spielberg and then Silverstone. It can’t be because of what happened last night. I’m the one making it out to be more than it was, not him. I’m the one holding on to how special it felt. He probably cooks for guys all the time, fucks them, and moves on. Not guys he works with, but still.
Johannes turns into his conversation with Nils, leaving me feeling hollow.
Hollow, like when he left the room without even saying a word last night. Hollow like this morning when he refused to even look at me.
He’llbe fine, I tell myself. I can’t let this ruin the season we’re building together. Keeping Johannes performing is what’s important here, and if that means I have to grin and bear it then I will. Whatever it takes.
A small voice whispers inside my head–Whatever it takes? Maybe you should have fucked him, then.
No, I have to move on and forget it ever happened. I have to focus on the driver’s championship and giving Johannes everything he’s ever wanted.Professionally, I mean.
Obviously.
ChapterThirteen
Johannes
So, apparently, I’m now the king of making mistakes with people I work with. What is wrong with me?
The wannabe principal of our rival team? My race engineer? What am I even thinking? Am I thinking? Clearly not.
Waking up in Belgium from a dream about a ginger-haired, green-eyed man with freckles across the bridge of his nose and skin that flushes pink and red when he gets turned on is like a bucket of ice-cold water down the back of my neck.
I really don’t want to go on this run. But if I lie here, I’ll end up doing something that future me won’t appreciate when I’m desperately trying to forget that night. Thinking about him while I touch myself will only cement the memory more firmly in my brain, and that’s the last thing I want.
No, a run will clear my head, get me set up for the day– and I can get a coffee before Nils and I go to record some promo clips for this week’s race in Belgium.
The villa is silent and still, the rising sun casting a golden glow on my bedroom as I pull back the curtains and dress for my run. My shorts are snug after a week of wine and carbs that aren’t on my dietary plan, but I don’t feel sluggish as I grab my phone and keys, tucking them into the back pocket.
I’m just pulling on my trainers when my phone vibrates. I ignore it because it’s so early in the morning that whatever it is, it will either be from someone in a different time zone or the kind of news I could do without. But when it vibrates again a second later, I abandon my laces to retrieve it.
Unfortunately, it’s from someone who’s definitely in the same time zone as me, and therefore it’s not good news.
My heart sinks into my stomach.
Hey. I know we haven’t spoken since the wedding, but I miss you so fucking much, Jo. I know you probably don’t ever want to speak to me again, but things are so much more settled than I thought. I’m going to be announced as interim team principal over the summer break, and I can see I’ve fucked up losing you. I think I can have both and I just didn’t see it before. If you have time while we’re in Belgium, I’d love to spend some time together. Please.
I hurl my phone onto the bed. I would have flung it at the wall, but I need it. Who the fuck does he think he is? To text me that,weeksafter what he did. Like a few meaningless words can make up for all the heartbreak he’s caused? After every date he bailed on, every call he never returned, every text left unread? He dropped me like it was nothing, and he thinksthiswill somehow make up for it?
No chance.
I pocket my phone so I don’t get lost on my run, not even justifying his pathetic message with a reply, and tighten the laces on my trainers. Now I really do need this run. I need it. Now.
Jackson Calder can get fucked.
I set my watch to anoutdoor runand stretch out my quads. As I look up to decide whether to go left or right, I spot a lone ginger-haired figure waiting for me at the end of the path leading up to our villa, running tights hugging his long, lean legs and stupidly perfect ass. An ass that I’ve seen naked, that I’ve had my hands all over.
Fuck this.
Really, universe. Why are you testing me so much this morning?
I pause my watch so it doesn’t track something inaccurate and make my way up the path to where he’s waiting.
‘Hey,’ I say casually. I notice his hands tucked in the pockets of the windbreaker he’s sporting. I think he’s clenching and unclenching his fists. I don’t know what he’s got himself so worked up about. He’s the one that said no.
‘Hey,’ he begins. ‘Um, I hope I’m not intruding, but I thought you might be heading out on a run this morning. Is it okay if I join you?’
I really regret us talking so much about our love for early-morning runs– and specifically how 6 a.m. is the perfect time for them. I regret a lot of things.
