“I’m sorry,” I add. “For making it sound like a joke.”
“You can joke,” she says. “Everyone here jokes. You’d have noticed.”
“A little.”
“But the joke can’t be the only thing you take away.”
“No,” I say. “It won’t be.”
She studies me for a moment. I let her, even though I am sitting on the ground with a naked face, damp hair and the dignity of a wet paper bag.
Then she holds out her hand.
I look at it.
“Come on,” she says.
“I should warn you, I may require mechanical assistance.”
“Hand, AJ.”
I take it.
Her grip is firm and warm, and she pulls as I push myself up. My legs object, but they do it privately, which is considerate of them.
For half a second, when I’m upright, we are closer than expected.
Not touching now.
Close enough.
Her eyes meet mine, and I have the very stupid thought that clean-shaven skin may be even worse than the beard because there is nowhere for my face to hide.
Then Pippa’s mouth curves.
Small.
Quick.
Dangerous.
“That doesn’t mean,” she says, “I didn’t enjoy watching you suffer a bit.”
I stare at her.
She winks.
Philippa Hart actually winks.
Then she turns towards the garage before I can form a single useful word.
“Lunch is ready.”
I stand there for a moment, phone in one hand, helmet at my feet, pulse doing something that has nothing to do with training.
Then Dan calls from inside, “Babyface, you coming or what?”
I pick up my helmet.
