“What do you mean?”
“You seriously don’t follow Formula 1?”
“Well, I know it’s about cars that go fast and men who wear skimpy cat suits. Is that a crime?”
“No,” he laughs. “So I guess that means you don’t know how famous this bend is?”
“There’s such a thing as afamous bend?”
“Well, when you say it like that… honestly, you’re ruining it for me. This is the Fairmont Hairpin Curve.”
“Are you serious right now? I have dodgy ankles. It’s a million degrees out and you made me walk all the way up here to look at a bend in the road?”
“A famous bend in the road!”
I shake my head and laugh, exasperated. “I refuse to accept that’s a thing!”
Gus is gobsmacked, looking between me and the bend, gesturing with his hands. “I can’t believe you don’t get it. It’sthebend.”
He’s not being serious. “Gus…”
“Sara…”
“Oh my God, is that guy proposing at a bend in the road?” I whisper, pointing at the couple behind us. The man gets down on one knee as a line of classic cars vroom up the hill towards the sharp hairpin.
Gus touches his heart. “Romantic.”
“It’s a fuckingroad.”
“It’s afamousroad,” he mutters, his tone laced with humour as he tows me away by the elbow. “Let’s leave them to it before you ruin the moment.”
After that we hop in a taxi to the Monaco Cathedral, then take a leisurely stroll through Old Town (because Gus knows this is where my heart truly lies) and take our time admiring the fancy yachts. Once we’ve exhausted ourselves and my bloody useless ankle is starting to complain, Gus says he’s taking me to his favourite bar. At first it doesn’t look like much, a tall building with yellow painted walls and a staircase that goes up and around the apartments out front, but once we reach the top, I realise we’re on a rooftop bar with views across the city and out to sea. A lovely breeze blows through the tables, shaded by mismatched awnings.
The barman greets Gus with a familiar handshake.
And because there’s hardly anyone up here, besides a few locals, Gus suggests I find a table I like, then returns a few minutes later with an espresso martini for me and a beer for him. “I assume you like caffeine in your cocktails too?”
“I do,” I say, with a pleased grin. “Especially when it’s early afternoon. So, have you been here a lot? You seem so familiar with the place.”
“I come here for the Grand Prix. It’s usually a lot busier.”
“I bet. Lots of vroom vroom people.”
“Thatiswhat they call themselves,” he jokes.
“Where do you usually stay?”
He fidgets as if the conversation catches him off guard. “A yacht.”
“Ayacht. That’s very specific. Do you own the yacht?”
“No. I am notown-a-yacht rich. I amborrow-a-smallyacht rich. At least, I couldn’t afford the big one that I stayed on.”
“Was it a friend’s?”
He wrinkles his nose, sliding down in his seat as if my line of questioning makes him uncomfortable. “Another ex.”
“Oh. I see,” I say, brushing it off. “Another rich girl, then.”
