“Worse,” she says sympathetically. “A girl as hot as you only looks as shit as this when she’s heartbroken. What did he do?”
“Nothing. I’m not heartbroken. Everything’s fine.”
“Uh-huh.” Amanda pins me with a dubious stare. “Now the truth, please.”
“Thatisthe truth.”
Amanda’s lips thin. “If you don’t want to tellme,that’s fine. But you should talk tosomeoneabout it.”
I hear the note of pain in her tone when she saysme, and guilt instantly suffuses me. Aside from tipping off Elio after our first meet up for coffee, which I believe was a careless mistake, she’s been nothing but kind to me.
“We had a fight.” I hate the way my voice cracks. “He said some really hurtful things and broke it off. That’s it.”
“I always knew he was an asshole, but I didn’t think he was that much of a moron.” Amanda’s expression softens. “I’m sorry. Truly. What did he say?”
I shake my head when I feel tears sting my eyes. Even after the fact, the memory of his words still cuts deep. I can’tstophearing him tell me that he’s going back to Ethan.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Honestly, I just want to get through the rest of the season, get over my heartbreak, and move on. I want to stay in F1, and I’ve grown fond of Gaston, but I don’t think I can stay on this team if Asher does. Seeing him all the time would hurt too much.
The alarm on my phone goes off, signaling the end of my lunch break. I pick up the disgusting joke of a latte and smile at Amanda. “I have to get back to work.”
“Samesies.” She stands up. “Let me know if you want to get drunk and shit-talk him soon, okay? I’m always down for a good rage-drunk.” She gives me a one-armed hug, and we go our separate ways. She presumably goes off to find Elio, while I sulk my way back to the analyst’s cave.
The rest of the day passes in a dull stupor; I plug away at my computer monitor in silence, going over race data. Technically, I’ve had full permission to work exclusively on my algorithm during company time for months, but I still do what I can to help out the other analysts, which consists of going over alotof data and writing up reports on it.
I don’t realize that everyone else has left until my10pmalarm goes off several hours later.
I guess I’m losing time now, in addition to not sleeping and subsisting on mostly coffee. Whoever invented love deserves to be shot in the head ifthisis the aftereffect of it.
I power off my monitors and start packing my laptop and tablet into my bag. I’m halfway out of my seat when I hear footsteps behind me. I assume it’s a straggler who left something behind, so I don’t pay it anymind… until a shadow falls over me, and Asher Lawrence parks his hip on my desk.
My breath catches in my throat as I gaze up at him. He’s wearing a black shirt and black jeans—his usual outfit. His shoulders are broad, biceps bulging. He looks like a god peering down at a mere mortal.
A burn prickles at my eyes, just from the sight of him. Ithurtsto look at him, knowing that—despite everything I did for him—I still wasn’t good enough.
Those days are over. I got him his upgrade package, and that’s it. I’ll request to be transferred over to Elio’s team as soon as I work up the stomach to do it.
“Intern,” Asher says, humor dancing beneath the word.
I swallow hard and straighten. We’ve been in this position so many times. As enemies, as friends, as productive coworkers, as lovers, and now… now, as a heartbroken intern and asshole driver.
“Asher.” I clear my throat. “How can I help?”
His brow wrinkles at my deliberate avoidance of playing into our inside joke. I don’t call him an asshole, even though he is one. I don’t want to start any sort of banter with him. My heart’s already broken; it might disintegrate entirely if I give him an inch.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Here I am.” I spread my fingers. “If there’s an issue in the simulator—”
“There’s no issue. This isn’t about work.” His Adam’s apple bobs. “It’s about us.”
Pain tightens around my neck like a noose. “There is no us.” The words burn on their way out.
Asher’s jaw ticks, but he manages to keep his voice calm. Nothing like the tone he used the last time we spoke, in his hotel room. “Isn’t there?”
“I’m just an intern, and you’re just a driver.” I can’t hide the many cracks beneath the words. I wish,desperately,that they weren’t true. I wish I didn’t go to his hotel—or that I’d gone to him at the hospital—oranyscenario that would’ve kept us from having that fight.
“You’re notjustan intern,” Asher says, every word steeped in quiet steel.
