“You are,” he points out. “But that doesn’t have to be your reason for racing. You should race for you. Because you love it. Because you can’t imagine doing anything else.”
There’s something else I’m imagining doing right now. And it involves my lips on his and my tongue in his mouth.
But a quick scan of the deck tells me there are too many people around for that. So I settle for what I hope is the next best thing.
I inch closer to him, the light, minty smell of his body wash mixing with the sea air, salty and fresh. “Can I ask you something?”
He arches a brow. “You just did.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I thought we were done with twenty questions.”
“Just one more. I promise.”
“Fine.” He holds up a lone finger. Not his middle one, fortunately. “One question.”
I take a deep breath and go for broke, lowering my voice so only he can hear. “If we weren’t working together, would you kiss me again?”
He glances around frantically, no doubt to see if anyone’s paying any attention to us, which, thankfully, no one is. Still, he lowers his voice to match mine. “Are you always this reckless?”
“Occupational hazard. Now answer the question.”
“What does it matter? We’re working together for the foreseeable future, unless one of us gets let go.” That wicked eyebrow disappears under his hair again. “You’re not planning on having me fired so we can fuck, are you?”
“Hardly.” I scoff. “I don’t think you’d be inclined to fuck me if I put you out of work. And going through three race engineers in one season wouldn’t exactly be a good look for me either.”
“Then what’s the point of me answering your question?”
The captain’s voice comes over the loudspeaker before I can respond, letting us know the gangway is in place and we’re free to disembark. As frustrated as I am with the interruption, it might be a blessing in disguise because, honestly, I don’t know what I was going to say. The only thing I could think to do was get down on my knees and beg for an answer. Which I doubt would have swayed him. Annoyed him, more likely.
We make our way off the boat with the rest of the guests, saying our goodbyes to the other drivers as we go our separate ways. Jacques shakes our hands before getting into his chauffeured Range Rover and Elodie gives us a thumbs-up, letting us know that, as far as she’s concerned, we’ve aced our first assignment in Operation Bromance.
When we reach the end of the dock, Ben stops and turns to me. “This is where we say goodnight.”
I was kind of hoping we’d share a cab, giving us a few more minutes of privacy. Maybe even a chance to finish our conversation on the yacht. Or start something way more fun. I’ve always been a fan of back-seat makeout sessions. But I’m going to my apartment in the Fontvieille section of the city, and he’s going in the opposite direction, to a hotel in Monte Carlo where the rest of the team is staying.
“Thank you for a delightful evening,” I say with false lightness and an equally fake—and truly terrible—British accent. “We simply must do it again sometime.”
He rolls his eyes, which I suppose is better than, I don’t know, grimacing or making gagging noises at the thought of hanging out with me again. Then again, maybe I’m reading into things and the eye roll is a totally justifiable reaction to my pathetic Tom Hiddleston impression.
“I’m sure we will if Elodie has anything to say about it.”
“True,” I agree. “Operation Bromance has just begun.”
“Operation what?” he asks, signaling to one of the taxis waiting at the marina that is no doubt looking to score a fare from some wealthy, overly generous race week tourists stumbling off the boats.
“Bromance. That’s what I’m calling it now. Brilliant, right? Maybe when I retire from racing, I can get a job in advertising. Or public relations.”
“Brilliant,” he echoes dully, clearly unimpressed. So much for that potential postracing career. The taxi pulls up, and he reaches for the door handle. “You catching the next cab?”
“Nah, I think I’ll walk. It’s a nice night. And it’s not that far.” And I could use some exercise and fresh air to clear my head from this mind-fuck of a night. I need to get my shit together if I’m going to do well in qualifiers tomorrow. “See you first thing at the track.”
I expect him to lay some advice on me like get some sleep or don’t forget to hydrate, but he just nods. I start toward home—during the season, at least—but I only get a few steps before he calls my name. I turn back around and he’s still standing next to the taxi, his hand on the door frame.
“Yes,” he says simply, his voice low and sultry, with a hint of a Southern twang that I’ve noticed comes out more when he’s tired or been drinking.
Or turned-on.
