She sighs. “Gabe Allard was accused of fathering a kid earlier this year.”
“And a test proved he wasn’t the father.”
“But now he’s being accused of groping a woman,” she argues. “But he runs off to marry you? How long have you even been dating?”
I've reached the end of my rope. "Anything else? Do you want to remind me how badly I did in the seventh-grade play? Or perhaps we can rehash that time I tripped at one of Dad's movie premieres when I was fourteen and knocked over two photographers. Would you like to rub my nose in that mistake?"
“Axel…” Her tone is contrite, but I don’t care.
“Is the condo sale finalized yet?”
“Should have final papers tomorrow,” she says.
“Good. Please don’t call me when you get them. Just email them,” I reply and press end on the call.
It stings. But deep down, I know my sister might be right. I mean, have I really grown? I was worried about Gabriel when I found out who he was after that first kiss years ago. It’s one of the reasons I didn’t try to pursue him. He felt so much bigger than me. Like he was Prince Charming and I was Cinderella, only the shoe would never fit. And has anything really changed? He’s still everything I’m not—worldly, confident, passionate, and easily bored. And I’m pretty fucking boring.
Yeah, this rollercoaster we're on is fun, but fun can be fleeting. Even if I wanted to stick around after this job is done, and his name is cleared, would he want me to? Or will he be bored of me? Is what makes this so fun for Gabe the fact that it’s make-believe?
Those thoughts stew in my brain the whole way to the hotel.
23GABRIEL
“Ne t'inquiète pas.Ne t'inquiète pas. Ne t'inquiète pas.”I repeat ‘don’t worry’ in French to myself all the time when I’m stressed about something. To be honest, I haven’t been stressed in a long while. Not stressed enough to chant to myself. But I can’t get Axel’s face out of my head.
When Axel talked about the way the team wasn’t supporting me, the look on his face was so… concerned. He was truly baffled. I hated every excruciating moment of trying to explain to him the simple truth of this. It was embarrassing, and the humiliation of it all has settled over me like a sheen of sweat after a particularly long and hot race.
And then that dick of a reporter Nico Hilliard made it worse when he asked me about Axel. “I hear congratulations are in order. Not just for a solid top ten position for the race tomorrow, but because it’s your first as a married man.”
“Thanks. Yeah. Well, it was technically a commitment ceremony,” I clarify and smile, trying to focus on memories of last night with Axel and not this dickhead’s smug face. He’s smiling like he’s got a knife up his jacket sleeve he’s waiting to shiv me with though, so it’s hard to ignore him. “If I got married without my dad, there would be hell to pay.”
“Of course.” Nico’s mean-hearted smile deepens. “You don’t do much without your dad. And besides, who would pay for it? You know, your boyfriend just lost his company. And he’s selling his house.”
Is he seriously trying to say Axel might be a gold digger? I fight to keep my face from showing anger because the idea makes me furious. Instead, I roll my eyes. "I don't discuss my hus…partner's personal life. Thanks for the well wishes. Do you want my thoughts on how I'll do in the race tomorrow since I'm starting fifth?"
“Sure. Tell us what you think,” Nico says all too adamantly. It reeks of sarcasm. “I asked Bob when he did his interview but he didn’t have much to say about the team’s strategy for you tomorrow. Is there one?”
“Depends on the weather, but if it’s hot and dry like today then tire management will be my focus,” I mutter and then thank him for his time with the biggest, fakest smile on my face before moving on, my fists balled angrily at my sides.
Now back at the hotel, I take a deep breath as I step off the elevator and exhale slowly as I proceed down the empty hall. I get to my door, lean my head against it for a second, trying to push down all those uncomfortable feelings that have been swirling and tap my key card. The light flicks to green and I push the handle down.
The suite smells wonderful in a bunch of different ways. I smell savory food and some lavender and melting wax. But I don’t smell the simple crisp scent of Axel’s cologne. And I don’t see him anywhere. “Axel?”
There's no response as I walk slowly into the room. By the couch is a room service tray with silver domes on it and a pitcher of mint ice water. Candles flicker from the bar and the coffee table, which are the only lights in the room. I stick my head in the bedroom and the place is empty, bed pristinely made and a small cluster of fresh lavender is on the night table in a very small, ornate crystal vase.
In the bathroom on the counter, propped up on my toiletry kit, between the black marble double sinks, is a note on hotel stationery. Axel's handwriting is much like him—neat and precise.
Gabe,
I know that you need to focus tonight. I ordered you some food and will be next door if you need anything. Fresh lavender always calms me down. Not an easy thing to find in Vegas, but it was worth it if it helps you.
See you at the paddock tomorrow.
Your husband, ;)
Axe
I re-read the note about ten times. I don’t know how I feel about it. I mean, it’s logical. I have never spent the night before a race with anyone other than my trainer or strategist. Back in F2, when people believed I earned my spot, I would sometimes hang out with the other drivers. We’d play a couple video games, but everyone was back in their own rooms by nine.
