“Who says I grew up?”
He grinned. “Good answer, but you didn’t answer my question.”
She hesitated, but then shrugged.
“No one place really. We moved around a lot.”
“So, you grew up a nomad. A gypsy.”
“Something like that.”
“Okay, so how about this one: Why?”
That got her to look up.
She frowned. “What?”
“Why race? When you were talking with the photographer during the photoshoot. You never said.”
So, he’d been in the room.
She remained silent.
“You don’t want to tell me.”
That’s right. I don’t.
“Okay,” he said, “well if you won’t tell me, then at least you can tell me the truth about the drinking—the whole truth.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
“Come closer,” he whispered, “so I can hear.”
“You don’t have to whisper,” she said.
He continued to whisper. “You said it was a secret. Come closer.”
She was already close enough. She could smell the bourbon, caramel, and chocolate on his breath. She shivered when she felt his breath tickle her flesh.
“Are you cold?” he whispered.
She shook her head.
“Come closer.”
She inched forward but quickly stopped.
His lips were only a few inches away from hers.
“That’s close enough,” she said. “Any closer, and I’ll be behind you.”
“Not possible. ‘What’s behind you doesn’t matter.’ You know who said that?”
She knew. What she didn’t know was why he’d said it. What did he mean by it?
Just remember, he’s drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.
“Enzo Ferrari,” she responded.
