Hold on, did he just insinuate I’mhot?
No, I must’ve misheard. Or he must’ve misspoken. If there’s one thing that Asher has made abundantly clear, it’s that my attraction to him ispainfullyone-sided.
“I only need them when I’m overtired and the blue light from computers gives me a headache.” I clear my throat. “I saw your stats from the simulator.”
His expression grows very serious. “And?”
I swivel my office chair to the side and click over to my algorithm. It’s nowhere near completion, but this model has already started spitting out forecasts based on hard data. “If you continue optimizing use of X-mode, you’re projected to gain one-twentieth of a second during races.”
Asher’s face sours. “That’s not going to get me any awards.”
“No, it won’t,” I agree. “But if youalsooptimize boost mode, keep an eye on battery power, and—”
“Get to the point,” he snaps.
Jerk. “If you optimize several other fields by an average of one twentieth of a second, you’ll hold solid rank in midfield.”
He scowls. “That’s not good enough.”
I laugh. “What are you expecting? A podium?”
When he scathes me with the force of his glare, my laugh abruptly cuts off. “Oh shit, you actually are.”
“You don’t have to saypodiumin the same tone you sayEbola.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just…” I shake my head. “I’m confused. You’ve been placing last or close to last for years now. What the hell changed in the span of one evening? The results of your race yesterday were—” I pause when his glare nearly sets me on fire, “—underwhelming.I’m trying to understand what’s different.”
“I’m a man of many mysteries. Pack up your shit, let’s go, and I’ll tell you about them.”
Since I Ubered to work, a bank account-draining habit I’ve developed because I’m usually too tired to drive safely, Asher begrudgingly offers me a ride in hislimited editionMcAllister. I’ve had the pleasure of driving and being in extremely nice cars throughout my life—Hunter has aninsanecar collection he uses when he drives himself—but I still have to work to tamp down my excitement. I want to get under the hood of the car and explore itdesperately, but figure Asher would sooner shoot me than let me deconstruct his McAllister.
I don’t comment on the fact that he drives a car manufactured by a competing F1 team—a team that’s ranked #4—and he doesn’t offer any explanation.
The bar he takes us to isn’t what I expected from him. It’s a small, hole-in-the-wall dive bar that looks like it’s right out of a Western movie. Wooden countertops,crumbling beams holding up a questionable ceiling, and nuts on each table.
We take a table in the back. My chair creaks suspiciously beneath my weight, and I feel a touch out of place, but Asher looks right at home. He greets the bartender and waitress by first-names, and I think he almost smiles.
Weird.
He orders a Guinness for himself; I get a glass of white wine. We stare at each other as we wait for our drinks to arrive.
“So,” I say after a beat. “Assuming you haven’t brought me here to kill me, I’d love it if you explained your sudden change of heart. It’s giving me a serious case of whiplash.”
“If you make me bare my heart to you, I might end up burying you out back.”
His tone isjustdry enough that I question whether or not he’s joking.
“Alright, no heart-to-hearts. But still. If you want my help, I’m entitled to know why.”
“You aren’tentitledto shit. You’re just an int—”
“If you finish that sentence, you can find someone else to help you,” I hiss.
He cuts off. His glare loses its sharp edge. Before we can answer, the waitress returns with our drinks. Asher picks up his Guinness and downs half of it in a matter of seconds. Lazy tendrils of heat curl through me as I watch his throat work.
I focus on my own drink, taking a sip. He needs to stop being so hot so I stop gettingdistracted.
“I want to stay in F1,” he says, slamming his glass back on the table. Drops of beer slosh over the side of it, spraying the already-sticky wooden surface.
