Page 49 of On The Edge

And it’s unnerving.

People are on the go everywhere around us. Race teams come in and out of their selected places and cross the walkway to the garages where the race cars are housed, and the crews work on them. People with press passes around their necks mill about with their cameras in their hands or their camera crews standing beside them. People—celebrities I’m assuming by the entourage of people crowded around them—hang back with their favorite team gear on. Or rather whichever team gave them the pass to be in this area.

It’s a coordinated dance that I learned from watching qualifying can either look like a flash mob rushing in to take its places or a synchronized swim team that knows exactly what the other person is going to do next.

Kind of like me and Cruz. After a week of virtually living together, we’ve created our own rhythm of sorts. For the most part, it’s giving each other a wide berth of privacy while we do our own thing.

For a while I struggled with that. We had sex. How can everything be back to normal . . . or even weirder, how can there be more distance between us than before?

I had to put my hurt feelings aside. I had to tell myself that Cruz creating distance between us was a necessity for this to work and in the end, probably better for me, a woman who is suddenly thinking about sex way more than she ever has in her entire life.

That’s not a bad thing.

It’s just not an opportune thing when you think you’re growing a secret crush on a man you shouldn’t have one on and who clearly isn’t one to crush back on anyone for an extended period of time.

But with race weekend upon us, we must get back to the business of being a couple again for the show of it.

It rings different this time around though. More forced. More scripted.

Or at least I thought it would, but walking in here together, making this visual statement, makes me realize we’re okay. This is okay. And that I need to stop overthinking fucking everything.

“You still good?” Cruz asks and lifts a hand to wave to someone across the way.

“Yep,” I say and look over at him. “Is this weird for you?”

“So fucking weird,” he says and flashes a grin as we reach Gravitas Racing’s paddock. Its exterior is a bright white with a splash of orange throughout to match the color and schematics of Cruz’s car—or livery, as I’ve learned it’s called in my Welcome to Formula 1 crash course. A lesson of sorts that was put on by Cruz’s public relations minder, Amandine.

“Why though?” I ask.

He stops and tugs my hand when I keep walking. Even through his sunglasses, I can see his eyes narrow, puzzled. “You do realize you’re the first woman I’ve ever brought into the paddock with me, right?”

“I—what?” I ask more out of reflex than anything, startled by his admission. I know he’s never had a real girlfriend, but surely, he’s brought a woman to the track with him before. Right?

“I made a rule a long time ago to never mix business with pleasure. Never.”

My smile is stuttered in response. Then I murmur, “Well, if you want to be technical, the rule’s not really broken. This is one hundred percent business.”

Our gazes hold, and I’m confused by what I see in his eyes but that I can’t exactly decipher. And before I can, Amandine appears out of nowhere.

“Hi,” she says with enough enthusiasm for the entire race team. She’s the perfect definition of the saying dynamite comes in small packages. From what I witnessed yesterday, she’s fiery when she needs to be, not afraid of putting Cruz or the press in their place. She’s coaxing at other times. And gentle at others.

She was my everything all rolled into one yesterday when I was brought into the paddock through a private entrance. My tour guide. My teacher. My protector. My go-to. Our decision for me to stay out of public view yesterday during qualifying was a joint one. Cruz wanted to concentrate without distraction on securing a good spot on the starting grid and I agreed, willing to keep as much of my anonymity that was still left for one more day.

At the time, a part of me was assuming he wanted to hang on to his solo status publicly as long as possible. Posting pictures on Instagram is one thing, but showing up with a woman on his arm to a race takes things to a whole other level.

But after his admission, maybe his promise to himself was what he was trying to hold on to. Maybe that’s what him saying it was better if I stay out of sight yesterday was all about.

And now today, that promise he’s made himself for the last four or five years is broken.

“Good morning, Cruz. How are you feeling today?” Amandine asks, her smile big and her eyes alive.

“Like it’s race day,” Cruz teases, placing his hand on the small of my back, something I’m still getting used to the feel of.

“Well, starting in P4 makes any race day a good day, right?” she asks.

“Unless you’re starting in the first three spots ahead of P4.”

“Grumpy,” she counters.