She crossed her arms likewise. “Okay.”
“Well …”
“Well, what?”
Rocco could hear clicking.
Is he photographing us now?
He shoved that thought aside, pushing it to the background.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“Go ahead and what?”
“Get up on the hood,” he muttered between clamped teeth.
“You get up on the hood.”
“He said you were to get up on the hood.”
“No, he didn’t. The photographer said one of us should get up on the hood.”
“Well, okay, not him but the asshole in the crowd.”
“Well, we agree on one thing: He is an asshole. But even the asshole never mentioned me by name.”
“No, but he said—” He stopped himself.
Her eyebrows flew up like green flags.
He could practically hear her thoughts.
Assholes, start your engines.
“What?” she demanded.
He didn’t respond.
“Flash us some thigh?” she ventured. “You’re a total snack? Let’s see some cake up on the hood?”
He sighed. “Will you stop already with the semantics. It’s obvious what he meant.”
“Why? Because I’m a woman?”
“I notice you pull that card out whenever it suits you.”
“I wasn’t the one who pulled the card out, you were. And trust me, that card never suits me. But I guess I can’t expect you to understand because you don’t know what it’s like to go through this world as a woman. Not to mention what it’s like to go throughthis Formula 1 worldas a woman. The fact of the matter is I never would have done that coffee stunt if you hadn’t made it clear to everyone how I should be viewed. Not only as a woman butonlya woman. Certainlynotas a serious driver. Not as anyone who has just as much hope and dreams and drive as you do. Not as someone who’s worked her ass off to get here. No, not any of that. You made it clear that I should only be seen as some twit who’s only here to serve a man—and in particular—to serveyou.”
He stared at her throat. It looked as though she were choking out the words and it was difficult to swallow.
Her dark eyes glistened.
Fuck. She’s not going to cry, is she?
He felt like shit.
“Come on, Nico,” a guy in the crowd yelled, “show us some leg.”
