He sinks an arm into the bag and fishes something out, then hands it over. “Not exactly. I had it made in a tourist trinket shop.”
I flip it over it on my palm. Yep, blue glitter, withI HEART BAHRAINin pink lettering. “Okay, points. That was resourceful.”
The guy’s a dick, but it’s amusing to have him around.
“Are you really going back to London?” I fold my arms and give him a bored look, like I’m just curious but don’t actually care.
“I might. But… if I didn’t, what would you ask of me tomorrow?”
I spin the keychain around a fingertip, avoiding his eyes.Spin, catch. Spin, catch.“On your way over in the morning, I need you to pick me up a bag of pickle-flavored sunflower seeds. The kind in the shell. I’m craving them pretty bad, and Dagna won’t let me have ’em.”
His lips tilt in a skeptical way. “Pickle?”
“It exists! Feel free to look it up on your phone.”
He takes a bracing breath and follows it with a grumpy exhale as if reluctant to say something.
“What?” I prod.
“My mobile was stolen today. I stopped for a bite in the old market district and was sitting at an outside table with a coffee and two tahina–chocolate chip biscuits. An unattended child loitering nearby was eyeing my plate with longing, so I offered him the second biscuit, and when he came over to collect it, he plucked my mobile off the table and sprinted into the crowd.”
My jaw drops open. “Whoa. Mind…blown.”
“You’re shocked that I was pickpocketed?”
“I’m shocked that you shared a cookie with someone.”
He laughs, and I’m pretty sure it’s the first time I’ve heard it.
It’s a nice sound, I gotta admit.
“Surprise, surprise,” he says, walking to the door. “See you in the morning, Salvia officinalis. I’ll have your revolting pickle seeds.”
My eyes remain on the doorway after he’s exited, and… yeah, I’m confused by the guy. I mean, he’s definitely a prick. Spoiled, pretentious. I’m not forgiving him for what he said inthat blog post. I never give men a pass on shitty behavior. I’m not the type to look at a man and go,Butwhyis he acting like that? I need to understand him, fix him…
Fuck that noise. People are responsible for fixing themselves. Not my circus, not my monkeys. I’ve never had a boyfriend or girlfriend, only hookups, and this is exactly why. I won’t analyze people like they’re the goddamned Rosetta Stone.
I don’t care what makes Alexander Laskaris tick.
Still, he surprised me. Noticing that some random kid is staring hungrily at his cookies, then offering to share? Evenmoreshocking is that he was reluctant to tell me about the incident. He seems like the type of entitled fuckchuckle who would’ve blamed me for his shit getting stolen, like,I was running all over town for you and I got pickpocketed, so you owe me a new phone. But I suspect he might not’ve mentioned it if I hadn’t brought it up.
Wheeling around, I stalk back to the Go board and continue my strategy analysis. I place a fingertip on one of the Go stones and reposition it, and the slide of that cool stone against the board reminds me of when Alexander touched my chest and nudged me into the chair.
“He’s not gonna win me over by pretending to be a Nice Guy,” I mutter. “The rules don’t change mid-race.”
THE NEXT DAY
I’d already left for the paddock when Alexander arrived this morning, but when I get back in the early evening, mypickle-dust-coated sunflower seeds are on the coffee table. Perched on the corner of the bag like a hat is an origami-folded triangular pocket with a note:
The requested item, Your Grace
Respectfully, ~A
P.S. New mobile, same number
I tear open the bag. Flopping onto the sofa, I crunch the seeds, depositing damp split shells into the origami pocket. I send a text to Alexander’s new phone:“Your Grace”? Why don’t I get something fancier like Your Eminence?
Immediately he replies.Your Eminence is for cardinals of the Catholic Church. I suppose I could upgrade you to Your Highness or Your Majesty. But you’ll have to earn it.
