‘He needs to listen to you too,’ I insisted. ‘Then maybe you wouldn’t have needed that tattoo. You wouldn’t need to hide behind me.’
His response showed me I hadn’t made my point – or he hadn’t accepted it anyway. ‘The tattoo is the least bad thing I could have done. I have to take my kicks where I can get ’em.’ His forced laugh made me wonder if he included me in these ‘kicks’. ‘Plus,’ he added, giving me a look that shot concern up my spine, ‘I do stupid things when you’re leaving.’
I knew he was talking about September, but the implication that he…caredclashed with everything else he was trying to make me believe.
‘I’m…’Not leavingwould be a lie. ‘I’ll see you in less than two weeks.’
He just flashed his eyebrows at me, as though I’d proved a theory he hadn’t voiced. If he was waiting for me to fall in a lovesick heap at his feet, he’d be waiting another lifetime. As strange as it was to admit I felt… something here, I wasn’t that stupid.
‘With a nice, healed tattoo,’ he added with a twitch of a smile. ‘But you know how wild it gets during the Tour.’
I nodded, wondering if this was the part where he let me down gently. ‘No more stolen moments in cars.’
His smile faded. ‘Too many people around during the Tour.’ His voice was gravelly with discomfort.
But I got the message. This was it. We’d had our fun. We had work to do now.
He glanced down at me, his playful expression back. ‘Thanks for the orgasms, Kubicka. You’re shit-hot in bed, overthinking and all.’
I tried to ignore the stutter of my heartbeat when he brushed a thumb under my chin. So much tenderness I didn’t know what to do with.
I forced out a response. ‘I’ll see you at the team presentation. Say hi to your nonno for me.’
‘Give Babcia a kiss on the cheek.’
‘She requires three – on each cheek.’
‘That’s hardcore.’ He slipped his arms around my waist and dragged me in for a hug that was far too quick and still seemed to tilt the earth. ‘Take it easy.’ Pressing a kiss to the top of my head that interfered with the electrical signals through my whole body, he drew away with a mock salute.
‘You too,’ I called after him. ‘I mean it! And take proper care of that tattoo!’
After turning to place a warning finger over his lips, he disappeared through the doors back into the reception area – some kind of goodbye.
Gathering the edges of the accidental ventilation in my dress, I hotfooted it to my room and spent ten minutes trying to take the thing off. The damage meant I couldn’t get enough tension in the zip to pull it down and I nearly dislocated my elbows trying, before I gave up and ripped an even bigger hole.
Perching on my bed in my bra and a fresh pair of underwear, I finally let my overactive brain sink its teeth into what had just happened – in the tattoo studio, the car and, more concerningly, in my heart.
I wanted him to spread his wings – his sad dragon wings. With me, he’d only stamped another number on his butt. I was off course, but he couldn’t afford to be. Somehow I had to stop thinking that my heart would be beating for him while he raced.
24 June this year
9.40 p.m.
Me: My Zia just made ravioli and I can’t eat it, so I thought I’d send you a picture.
Kubicka: You thought you’d torture me with a picture so I share your suffering, you mean. That looks incredible.
Me: Doesn’t your babcia cook?
Kubicka: Of course she does, but I’m too kind to send you a photo of the pierogi she made me when I arrived. Now I’ve been here a few days, she’s out of energy and won’t let me help, so we’re back to broth.
Me: Broth sounds veryOliver Twist. And no, I have not read that book, but I bet you have.
Kubicka: I’m not really into Dickens.
Me: Not the way you’re into me.
Kubicka: …
