LIFT OFF
BILLY
The first class lounge at the airport is blissfully empty. Just a couple people at the bar and one or two peppered around the different seating areas, most of them on their phones or laptops. I get recognized in airports more than anywhere, and despite the win last night, I’m not in the mood to take a million selfies and sign a million hats, jackets, cocktail napkins or whatever. Why? Because Frankie disappeared after the race. Just poof. She was nowhere.
Not at her hotel. Not at the track. Not at my hotel with her father. Not celebrating with the crew. She was nowhere.
I wanted to see her again—alone. I wanted to fuck her again too. But it wasn’tjustthat. She made a brilliant call out there during the race. One I doubted but I stuck with her anyway. That loyalty and blind faith earned me a podium and points that now has me second in the title race. I wanted to thank her for that, to her face. And lastly, yeah, I wanted to fuck her again.
Both those first few reasons are why I’m wandering the airport lounge four hours before my flight to Mexico and without Clara. I did see Bash last night. He and Adelaide had dinner with Mum and me. Not at all awkward pretending Mum wasn’t hitting on Bash every five seconds, in front of his pregnant wife. Luckily Adelaide either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Probably the latter. Adelaide has never doubted Bash’s love for her and my tipsy mum isn’t going to sway that confidence. Anyway, Bash happened to mention that Frankie had some business in Positano on this bye-week and so of course when my mum asked if I could take her to the airport at the crack of dawn for her flight back to Australia, I said yes and told Clara I would meet her there for our flight later in the day. I went through security with mum and kissed her good-bye at her gate, and now here I am looking for Frankie.
There’s always next week in Mexico. But waiting that long feels physically painful. I am about to sit at the bar when I notice a flutter of white out of the corner of my eye. I glance over my shoulder and there, by the juice bar across the room, wearing a flowing white cotton dress, is Frankie Castera. A smile overtakes my entire face. The kind of grin you feel in your chest. I make my way toward her.
She’s about to take a sip of the frothy green juice in her hand when her eyes land on me and she freezes. She doesn’t move a muscle until I’m right in front of her, and then she manages to finish that sip of juice. She doesn’t speak to me. But when I extend my hand she puts hers in mine with nothing more than a quick glance around the room, to make sure no one is watching us. Then she lets me lead her to the farthest, least occupied corner of the lounge, near the private relaxation rooms and the shower rooms. There’s an older guy who walks by us, exiting one of the relaxation rooms, who doesn’t even glance at us as he passes. She subtly pulls her hand out of mine anyway.
“Hi,” I say simply.
“Hi yourself.” She sips her drink. And I know when her tongue slips out to wipe her bottom lip, it’s extra slow on purpose. She knows how much I enjoy that tongue. “Heading home?”
“Nope. Straight to Mexico. Later,” I reply. She raises an eyebrow so I explain. “Australia’s a little too far of a trip for a small break.”
“I thought you lived in Monaco now?” She snaps her mouth closed after she says that, like she wasn’t supposed to let me know she has kept tabs on me. I don’t allow myself to smile at that, even though it feels like a victory.
“I own a place there. And Biarritz. And Paris,” I reply. “I usually spend the bulk of the down time in Paris when I can.”
“Love Paris,” she says with a contented sigh, and I watch her brush her hair back over her left shoulder. One obstinate lock stays forward, curling against her exposed neck, and I want to push it back for her with my face as I nuzzle and kiss that freckle on her collarbone. “But I’m surprised you do.”
“Great city to get lost in. No one pays me much attention because Parisians would rather die than profess any fan-like adoration. Oh, and the architecture is spectacular.”
“There’s nothing like a sunset stroll through Montmartre.” She sighs softly and gets a faraway look in her eyes.
“I’ll have to add that to my to-do list next trip,” I reply instead of saying ‘Why don’t you take me with you next time?’ which is really what’s on the tip of my tongue. This isn’t going to still be something by the time I make it back to Paris. It can’t be.
She nods. “Also, shopping in the second hand stores in Le Marais. And the salad at Les Philosphes. Damn. Now I’m hungry, and I’m on a juice cleanse until Wednesday.”
I laugh and she does too. When it dies off, I change the subject so I’m not tempted to ask her to ditch Italy and join me in Paris this week instead. “How did you celebrate the win?”
“I worked,” Frankie replies and takes another small sip of the juice. “I had some stuff to handle with my shoe line and planning out next month’s sponsorships with Jennie, and then I did a deep dive into the Mexico track. We’ve underperformed there in the past.”
“We have,” I agree. “You know what you’re doing, Frankie.”
“Told ya,” she says after a beat.
It’s like someone turned a dial up suddenly on the chemistry between us. I feel my need for her in my bones. It’s heavy and intoxicating and like nothing I’ve ever felt before. That’s a lie. I felt it when I was with her at seventeen.
“Thank you for trusting my judgement,” Frankie says softly.
“Trust has never been my issue. It’s yours,” I reply, and the honesty in that sentence seems to take her off guard. Her hazel eyes grow wide for a second, like she didn’t think I had figured that out about her. “When will you start trusting me?”
“I’m working on it.” She bites her lower lip and her eyes slide to the gold clock on the wall to our right and then to the hallway that leads to the showers and sleeping rooms. She tries to hide a smile, but I’m so hypersensitive to that perfect full, plump mouth of hers that I catch it. “I have forty minutes until I have to board. I was planning on drinking this smoothie while I lounged in one of the relaxation rooms. When does your flight leave?”
“I’ve got a lot longer than forty minutes until I lift off.”
The smile breaks free. “I think you’ll lift off much sooner if you join me in a relaxation room.”
“That’s the worse pun ever.” I’m smiling anyway.
“My ability to make puns isn’t why you’re here right now, is it?” She takes one last sip of her drink as I shake my head because she’s right. She could dump a truckload of bad puns and dad jokes on me, and I’d still want to be with her.
