‘I’m sorry—’
‘I want to do something about it.’
I cut him off so quickly he’s almost stunned. Darien is not at all the kind of man to stand in silence and shock, but he’s here in front of me, open-mouthed at the raw honesty that seems to have emerged from my previously undecided heart.
The confession is automatic, the way everything is with Darien. I don’t even have to try. Around him, there is possibility. There is a chance of regaining the security I have lost over the last year. Maybe there is even a chance of my heart letting someone in again.
‘Me, too,’ he says, still slightly dumbfounded.
‘What if I said I shouldn’t want to do something about it?’
‘Probably same. One hand doesn’t quite work right, you know; it wouldn’t be fair to you.’
I bite my lip to hold in my amusement.
‘And …’ I exhale a breath full of raw emotion. ‘What if I said Ishouldwant to?’
‘Thendefinitelysame.’
In that moment, every barrier between us dissipates. Darien turns to me, moving his hand to tuck an errant curl behind my ear. His touch is warm and careful yet intoxicating.
‘Let’s do something about it,’ I murmur, letting my eyes close as my cheek falls against his palm.
After weeks – months – of suppression, Darien’s fingers gently tilt my chin upward. His hand travels to my neck, while both of mine pull him close to me.
He kisses me slowly, and at first, he’s tentative. He tastes like coffee, lips soft against mine. I’ve never felt my soul explode the way it does now, bursting with all these feelings that I have the sudden need to act on. That innocent kiss grows into something more frenzied; his touch is full of the same abandon as his driving. His tongue parts my lips perfectly, and he groans slightly against my mouth as his hand moves to my back, his grip firm yet tender. I turn my head as if beckoning him, and he obliges, brushing his lips across my jaw. I can’t help the quiet whimper that escapes me when he finds that perfect spot on the side of my neck that sends a tingle down my spine.
Every touch of his fingers sends part of the wall around my heart crumbling to oblivion. I almost protest when he pulls away with a nervous laugh. ‘Well, shit.’
‘Shit,’ I agree, biting back my smile. I’ve not smiled like this in ages; I’ve not been touched like this in ages.
He exhales, presses his forehead to mine. His eyes glitter as they meet mine in a gesture more intimate than any physical contact.
‘I think I can go ahead and dump out the rest of my coffee.’He smiles goofily, innocently. ‘You made me feel like I just downed five Monsters.’
I can’t help but giggle quietly. I’ve never met a man so vulnerable and yet resilient, mature and yet naïve. He sees no evil in anyone, not even in me, not even in the fact that – as right as this moment feels – I am still standing at a crossroads.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Shantal
It’s Monaco up next on the calendar, second to last before the summer break. Darien and Miguel have been neck and neck in the tables for the Championship, with Miguel now a mere twelve points ahead, and although the Constructors’ title is clearly looking like a lead for Heidelberg, it’s everything to play for as we travel to this next destination. Endless thoughts bounce around in my mind the entire flight: the high of the points starting to rack up, the sim working its magic,everythingthat happened in Imola, including that Monday morning. I came into this with shaky hands, and they’ve finally begun to steady. It’s as if someone’s thrown my soul into the sky; it’s sitting high up in the clouds now.
Needless to say, the Monaco Grand Prix puts me back in my place the second my feet touch the country’s soil.
As we drive through the city, I gape at how very put-together everyone is here. The women are clad in Dior and Chanel, some with big, floppy hats and Ray-Bans, others shading their eyesusing hands bearing lavishly painted acrylic nails. The men step out from glossy sports cars and adjust their button-down shirts with chins tipped slightly up as if they’re royalty. Is that the way I should be carrying myself at this race? I’m not completely sure, and I ask Celina as we make our way through the aisle fenced off from fans and into our hotel, which is a hotbed of the Monegasque wealthy.
‘Oh, honey, no,’ she replies. ‘Don’t let them get in your head. But also, don’t let themnotget in your head. Make sure you put your outfits together well for the next couple days.’
I take her advice in stride. For the first race-related event, the press rounds on Thursday, I make sure I’ve washed my hair and have it in neat waves down to my shoulders. I wear a longer forest green sundress with a tight top and flared bottom that reaches just past my calves, along with small gold hoop earrings and, naturally, my trusty white Hokas. I may need to dress well for Monaco, but I also like to be prepared to walk fast whenever the need arises.
I love listening to Darien – his deep baritone voice is gorgeous, and that slight rasp I’ve come to love grips the entire audience whenever so much as a word leaves his mouth. But I’ve glimpsed Monte Carlo and now I’m itching to explore it. When else am I going to get to travel to a place like this?
Darien reads my mind, because the moment the press conference ends and a smattering of polite applause follows the drivers as they step off the panel, he immediately beelines my way with the most massive grin. ‘Why don’t we get out?’ he says over the buzz of the media. ‘Go see the car collection. You’ll love it.’
‘You meanyou’lllove it,’ I tease him with a poke of his shoulder.
It’s hysterical how flustered he gets. ‘Oh, wait, I mean if you don’t want to … we can always—’
