Page 34 of On The Edge

I steal glances at him as he drives. I’m torn between the view around me, the man beside me, and the endless thoughts over what it was like to wake up beside a rumpled, sleep-tousled Cruz. I’ve never found pillow creases and bedhead sexy but then again, I’ve never woken up beside him.

I may have feigned that I was still asleep when he rose from the bed and stood in his shorts, staring at the world outside our hotel room, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t sneak a peek or two. And I can’t deny that those peeks may have had me thinking thoughts I clearly shouldn’t be thinking.

It’s delirium that had thoughts about what those strong hands would feel like on my body. Delirium and a dose of pure Cruz Navarro sex appeal. That’s all it was. That’s all the weird flutter in my stomach still is. Write it off, Maddix. Move on.

He drives, seemingly oblivious to my thoughts. I don’t ask where we’re going and he doesn’t offer. Rather, I revel in not having to think about anything. I simply sink into the rich leather seats and take in the world Cruz is showing me.

First stop of the day is lunch on the canals in Jordaan.

“I rarely get to explore when we travel,” he says, taking a sip of water and glancing over his shoulder at someone laughing on the other side of the outside patio where we’re sitting. He slinks a little lower in his seat and adjusts the brim of his baseball hat a tad. He’s yet to be recognized, and his quick glances around make me think he’s hoping it stays that way.

“No?”

“No.” He takes a bite of food and looks at me while he chews, almost as if he’s contemplating how much he’s going to tell me. “Typically we fly in, spend a week in whatever city’s on the schedule, but it’s all business, all the time. Even when we’re going to sponsor dinners or laughing with our crew, we know that every minute of every day we’re being watched by the public, by our team, and by the people who pay the teams’ bills. So this is . . .” He motions absently. “Different. Nice.”

“And here you thought being stuck with me was going to be miserable,” I tease.

“You’re right. I did,” he says unapologetically. “But . . .”

“But we’re in the early stages yet.” I chuckle. “It’s okay to reserve judgment for later.”

“Are you talking about you or me here?”

“How about both?”

He taps his water glass against mine. “Deal.”

After lunch, we head to Vondelpark and walk around.

“For a country with this many bikes, you’d think they wouldn’t be big into Formula 1,” I say as a steady stream of bikes and their riders move down the pathway in front of us.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning cars and gas and racing don’t seem to be a part of their culture and yet, clearly it is, because we’re here,” I say as I lift my phone to snap a picture of a tree-lined path.

“Never thought of it that way,” he says as another bike bell rings and we move out of the way of a horde of bikes making their way down the path. “Hey, Madds?”

“Cruz.” I go to scold him for the nickname until I notice he’s holding his phone up for a selfie.

“We need documentation of our togetherness, no?” He steps in beside me and puts a hand on my waist to pull me closer.

“Yes. Sure.” The heat of his hand on my back flusters me. Thoughts of yesterday on his lap and waking up this morning beside him only make that heat more prevalent.

And when he leans in so his face is right beside mine, our reflections in the camera looking back at me, I can’t help but stutter a breath. We are opposite in every way but look incredible together.

He clicks a few pictures, and I swear it’s only after he steps away, his hand leaving my back, that I feel like I can breathe again.

After Vondelpark, we head out of the city, driving endlessly through fields of flowers, a never-ending sea of color.

Cruz allows me to be absurdly giddy over every windmill I see, stopping every time I ask him to so I can snap a quick picture. He may roll his eyes and give a quick shake of his head at each of my squeals, but not once does he tell me I’m being ridiculous or to stop like I know Michael would have.

He lets me be me, when it kind of feels like I’d forgotten how to be that.

Our conversations—when we have them—consist of superficial topics. Tidbits he knows about the country. Its history I look up on my phone until we lose service. An anecdote here and there about different times he’s raced here.

At other times we fall silent. The quiet is easy between us. Comfortable when it probably shouldn’t be. But it is. We don’t have to work at conversation. We either have it, or we don’t. And it seems that either way, we’re fine.

We get lost on some backroads, or at least he says we do, but I secretly think it’s on purpose so he can keep driving at top speeds and not have to work at being not recognized.