Page 3 of Racing Hearts

It’s time to get that lemon bar.

. . .

Unfortunately, two minutes later, Sofi and I are gaping at an irritated woman and a nearly empty display case.

“What does she mean she just sold the last one?” Sofi’s voice has gone up about forty-five octaves. “Tell her you need that lemon bar and you’re not leaving until you get it.”

“Scusi,” I whisper to the cashier, thankful for my single year of Italian in college. I’m suddenly self-conscious about my damp braid, stuck to the back of my neck, and gray racerback darkened with rainwater. “Siamo Americani.”

We’re American—as though that explains it.

The woman presses her lips together in an expression that falls somewhere between a respectful smile and an irritated frown. “Si vede,” she says. That’s obvious.

I’m about to ask if she knows of any other establishments in this city that sell lemon bars when Sofi hooks an index finger into the hem of my shirt, pulling my attention to the high-back chairs behind us.

“He’s got it,” she hisses and points.

The man at the other end of her blue fingernail is hunched over a thick book, notebook to one side and the lemon bar on the other. He scribbles something furiously, seemingly too preoccupied to have yet touched his baked good.

“Oh, and he’s a hottie,” Sofi adds enthusiastically.

“Why is that relevant?” I ask, even though she’s unequivocally right. He looks to be a few years older than us, maybe just touching thirty, with a tight jawline and high cheekbones. His brown hair sweeps low, nearly into his eyes, and his concentration is so intense I think he could snap a pencil with his gaze. I’m probably the only one who finds that last bit attractive.

“Go ask him for it,” Sofi whisper-commands. “Use your charms.”

“What charms?”

Sofi sighs and theatrically jabs an elbow into my rib cage. “Then use your determination. I know you can white-knuckle your way through pretty much anything.”

Still, I hesitate. I’m willing to do some weird stuff to achieve my goals, but begging a stranger for his pastry is a step beyond normal behavior, even for me.

“Didn’t you say it was important? That you’ll race poorly without it?”

“Yeah,” I say as I picture myself approaching tomorrow’s starting line. Lately, my races have felt wildly unpredictable. It’s like, at any moment, my body could betray me and my performance could spiral without an ounce of my consent.

But this? This I can control.

“All right.” I suck in a deep breath and set my chin like I would just before the start of a race. “I’m going to get that lemon bar.”

Two

As I approach him, the stranger with my lemon bar is crossing out long lines of his own notes like they’ve done him a personal injustice. I brace my hands against the high-back chair across from his table, taking in the littering of espresso cups, insides coated with a brown film, and snapped pencils—casualties, no doubt, of his assault on these notebooks.

I clear my throat. “Mi scusi.”

His eyes rise to meet mine. They’re an unexpected shade of effervescent green, like slices of polished jade. The words I had planned to stammer out in Italian flee my mind. I fumble to regain them, like I’m grasping for droplets of water skittering across sand.

“Do you want that chair?” he asks after another beat passes and I still haven’t spoken.

“No, sorry, I—Oh. You’re not Italian,” I say as I place his accent. He’s almost certainly American, maybe from the West Coast or some Northeastern city.

“Fortunately not,” he says. “If I had daily access to this espresso, I’d spend my life in a half-delirious caffeine high.”

I re-scan his empty cups, mentally tallying the milligrams of caffeine he’s consumed in this sitting. “Do you need to stay awake for something?”

“Nah,” he says. “I just think this stuff tastes like they’ve found a way to liquefy a rainbow and pour it into an espresso cup.”

I smile, even as I speculate about the nutritional value of liquid rainbows. “You sure that would taste good?”