“I told you,” his garbled voice comes from the bathroom, where he’s brushing his teeth. “I want to see where you grew up.”
“And I told you, there’s not much to see. Unless you count the Pump-N-Dump and Mrs. O’Hara’s prize-winning heifer.”
“Let me be the judge of that.” I hear the water running and then the unmistakable sound of Grady gargling. Look at us, so goddamn domestic. Like an old married couple, keeping the bathroom door open while we do our business. It makes me irrationally giddy. “Besides, I’ve never seen a prize-winning heifer. What makes it prize winning? Does it sing and dance? Recite the Declaration of Independence? Do simple addition and subtraction using its hooves?”
“Sadly, none of the above.” I click on another website. This one’s got the top-ten gay vacation destinations. “How about Puerto Vallarta? This article says it has one of the best gay beaches in the world. And—I quote—‘a fabulous gay scene, with bars, pubs, clubs, and events like the PV Pride Festival and an ever-present air of queer acceptance.’”
It’s not exactly my thing. The party scene part, not the acceptance. But maybe that’s what he’s into. And I’m finding I’d do just about anything, no matter how much my cranky, antisocial ass despises it, to make him happy. Even if it means—shudder—dancing.
“You can keep surfing the internet and spouting random facts about random LGBTQ+-friendly tourist attractions, but I’m not budging.”
He comes out of the bathroom, his chest bare and a towel draped around his neck. His hair is damp and water droplets cling to his ridiculously sculpted torso, making it shimmer in the early morning light streaming in from the open blinds. It’s almost as good as my beach fantasy.
I swear, if it wasn’t for the fact that he wants to hit the gym before heading to the track and I’ve got a meeting with Jacques I’d strip off his workout shorts and have my wicked way with him. Or let him have his wicked way with me. I’m flexible.
“Well, you’ve got a stubborn streak, that’s for sure. A fact I’m well acquainted with as your race engineer.”
“It’s only fair,” he says, rubbing himself down and regrettably exchanging the towel for a T-shirt before sitting on the bed to put on his socks and sneakers. “You know all about my upbringing. I want to learn about yours. See where you grew up. Visit all your high school hangouts. Meet some of your friends. Maybe grill them about what you were like in your misspent youth.”
“I didn’t have a misspent youth. I was too busy getting straight As and working at the local hardware store.”
“We’ll see what the residents of Clearapple, Kentucky have to say about that.” He disappears back into the bathroom and comes out a second later with his LaRue ball cap, jamming it on his head. “Bathroom’s all yours. I have to run. There’s only one treadmill, and I want to grab it before René gets there.”
I close my computer and stand. “Don’t think this discussion is over.”
“We can discuss all you want, but you know I’m going to win in the end.” He blows me a saucy kiss as I head into the bathroom. “See you at the prerace briefing.”
Annoying little fucker. It doesn’t help that he’s right. I have a hard time saying no to him. But that doesn’t mean I’m going down without a fight. It’s more fun that way. And I can’t let him think I’m a pushover, even if I totally am. At least where he’s concerned.
I shower and shave, taking my time under the warm spray. When I come out, I’m surprised to see Grady sitting on the edge of the bed, my cell phone in his hand and his face somber.
“Are you okay?” I hitch my towel tighter around my waist. “I thought you were going to work out?”
“I was. But then I saw this.” He holds up my phone. “I grabbed it by mistake, thinking it was mine, and a text popped up. From Jacques.”
Fuck. I try to calm myself. It could be anything. It doesn’t have to be about our meeting this morning. Where we’re going to discuss the possibility of me taking on a different role with the team. One that doesn’t involve me working so closely with Grady. And how that will impact the deal we made when I signed on with LaRue.
“I didn’t open it,” Grady continues dully. “But I couldn’t help seeing what flashed on the screen. You don’t want to be my race engineer anymore?”
Double fuck.
“I can explain—”
“And you only agreed to come on board in the first place because of some sort of bargain for LaRue to fund Stefan’s charity?”
“Yes, but that was before—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” The hurt in his voice is palpable, slicing me open like a dull knife.
I sit down next to him, and the knot in my gut starts to loosen ever so slightly when he doesn’t move away. “About my deal with Jacques? Or about not being your race engineer?”
“Both.”
“The deal has nothing to do with you. I made it before we even met. Yes, I needed a little extra inducement to return to racing. But that would have been true no matter which team came calling. And as for the job change—”
“That’s a nice way of saying you’re quitting and leaving me high and dry,” Grady scoffs.
“I’m not leaving the team,” I assure him. “Or you. I just think I might be better suited for a different role, and I wanted to run it by Jacques first in case he vetoed the idea.”
