“So what do you say?” Stefan prods, nudging my shoulder with his. “Will you be Schatzi’s godfather?”
“Schatzi?”
“It’s German for little treasure,” he explains. “That’s what we’re calling the baby until it’s born. Lina didn’t want to find out the gender until we’re in the delivery room. She says delivering a baby is straight up hard, and not knowing will give her motivation to push. And we won’t get bombarded with name suggestions from well-meaning friends and relatives.”
I chuckle in spite of myself. That definitely sounds like Lina. Then the magnitude of his request hits me again, like a series of waves crashing against the shore, and I swallow hard.
I don’t deserve this. I may not know exactly what a godfather does, but I know it’s an honor. Something that’s typically bestowed on favorite relative or family friend. I’d be punching way above my weight class here. But there’s no way I can say no to him. Not when, after everything that’s happened, he’s still calling me his best mate. I mean, I know that’s what I consider him too, but to hear him say it—
I swallow again, trying to force words around the lump that’s formed in my throat. “I’d be honored.”
A smile spreads across his face. “Danke. I can’t wait to tell Lina. She’s going to be over the moon.”
The crowd is starting to disperse, some leaving, others heading to the bar in the far corner of the room. Someone calls Stefan’s name, and he swivels his head around to see who it is.
“Go,” I tell him, giving him a brotherly hug before I stand, my feet protesting in my rarely worn dress shoes. I only have them—and the tux—for times like this, when I’m forced against my will to attend social functions. “Meet your adoring public. I’ve got to find Grady anyway.”
We’re supposed to be showing everyone we’re the motorsport equivalent of LeBron James and Dwayne Wade. Kind of hard to do if we’re not even in the same room.
“We will catch up again soon, ja?” He unlocks the brakes on his wheelchair and grips the push rims. “Maybe I will see you after the race on Sunday. Or I can meet you in Italy after the summer break.”
“That would be nice.” This time I mean it. Seeing him today was nothing like I expected. I still haven’t forgiven myself for my role in his accident. And I don’t know if I ever will. But Stefan clearly has. And maybe if I spend more time with him, some of that compassion can rub off on me.
“Gut. Good luck this weekend.”
“Thanks.”
He wheels away, and I start my search for Grady. I don’t have to look far. So much for meeting him backstage. He’s already out front, leaning against the bar with a drink in his hand and sporting an elegant, single-breasted tuxedo that looks every bit as good on him as I’d imagined.
Maybe more.
The only thing my imagination got wrong was the hair. He hasn’t bothered to try and tame it—or maybe he has, but he sure as hell wasn’t successful. His curls are wild and unrestrained, the polar opposite of the clean, meticulous lines of his tux. The unlikely combination somehow works to make him even hotter.
He’s obviously spotted me, too, and he strides across the room toward me with the confidence of a Fortune 500 CEO and the easy grace of a jungle cat, stopping periodically to acknowledge one of his many friends and admirers.
“So what did you think?” he asks when he finally reaches me, striking a pose reminiscent of the one he did at the end of the catwalk. “Did I do LaRue Motorsports proud?”
“You did,” I answer, trying to ignore the way his jacket pulls tight across his broad chest and shoulders, the sleeves hugging his muscular arms.
He gives me a not-so-subtle once-over, his gaze raking me up and down. “You clean up nice, too.”
“Don’t,” I growl, low and vaguely threatening.
“Don’t what?” he asks, feigning innocence. The little shit knows exactly what he’s doing to me. And from the wicked glint in his eyes, he’s enjoying it.
“I told you, we are not going there again.”
“Going where?” He has the nerve to bat his sinfully long eyelashes at me. Fucking brat. “The only place I’m interested in going to is the bar for a refill.”
He lifts his nearly empty glass, smirking at me over the rim.
“Fine by me,” I admit grudgingly. “I could use a drink.”
Just one. Maybe two. No more than three. I’m not usually a big drinker, but fuck it. Alcohol is the only way I’m going to get through this torture of a night.
CHAPTER10
Grady
