14. Fair Trade
Fair Trade
Elio
Today was both the best and the worst training session of my life.
Lucy has a way of making everything light and fun.
But on the other hand, it was impossible to concentrate with her so close, laughing, chatting—and wearing those tight pants.
She looked stunning in that outfit, even if she claims it’s her pajamas.
After we shower and change, I drive Lucy to town for lunch and our promised shopping session.
“I just have to call my brother real quick,” I say. “I just remembered, I was supposed to meet him for lunch. ”
“What?” She shifts in her seat. “You can’t cancel on him. It’s fine. I can go alone. Just drop me off in town, and we can meet up later.”
“Nonsense. I said I’d take you. Plus, I want you to try this pasta restaurant. I think you’ll like it.”
“Well, in that case, why not ask your brother to join us? That way you’re not blowing him off.”
I arch an eyebrow, glancing at her. “Yeah? You wouldn’t mind?”
“Of course not. I’m the one inserting myself into your life. Just go about your day as if I’m not here.”
Yeah. Like that’s an option.
“Okay. I’ll just call to let him know where we’re going.”
“You don’t have to switch your lunch spot for me, though,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear the way she always does.
“I really want you to try that pasta. It’s phenomenal. And Matteo loves that place anyway.”
I ask the car’s system to send him a text, letting him know about the change of plans. A few minutes later, he replies saying that he’ll meet us there.
After another fifteen minutes, we’re finally parked and approaching the restaurant. The late summer air is warm, tinged with the inviting aroma of grilled meats and garlic wafting from somewhere nearby. As usual, a long line snakes out the front door, wrapping around the corner of the street.
Lucy stops in her tracks, folding her arms across her chest as she gapes at the crowd. “Well, there’s that,” she says with a chuckle, though her tone betrays a hint of doubt.
“What do you mean?” I slow down to match her pace.
She gestures toward the line with a tilt of her head. “Just look at the line! There’s no way we’ll get a table.”
“It should be fine,” I say with a casual shrug, catching her skeptical glance out of the corner of my eye.
Her brow furrows, and she tugs her bag higher on her shoulder. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Nope, but maybe the wait isn’t that long,” I reply. Before she can voice her doubts, I spot Matteo leaning casually against the wall, scrolling on his phone. “Oh, here’s my brother.”
Matteo looks up as we approach, slipping his phone into his pocket.
“ Ciao, frà ,” I say, pulling him into a quick hug and patting him on the back. “This is Lucy, the journalist from Pulse Sports who’s following me around,” I add, gesturing to her.
“Nice to meet you,” Matteo says, extending his hand.
She casts him a warm smile. “Likewise.”
Matteo’s gaze shifts to the long line of would-be diners. “So, where should we go now?” he asks, arching a brow.
“Here,” I say, nodding toward the door with confidence.
Matteo glances at the crowd again, his disbelief on full display as he crosses his arms. “There’s no way they’ll fit us in, frà. Even with your celebrity status. ”
Lucy’s lips twitch, like she’s suppressing a laugh, but she can’t hide the amusement dancing in her eyes.
“I know that, but I love this spot. I’ll just ask how long the wait is. Maybe we can grab a drink or go for a walk in the meantime?”
They both nod, so I tell them to wait while I head toward the restaurant entrance.
A couple waiting in line recognizes me as I hustle past. I see it in their faces.
The wide-eyed expression, the jaw hanging slightly agape, and the smile frozen in place.
I give them a nod before entering the restaurant, walking around the mass of people waiting in the lobby to reach the welcome desk, where two hostesses are working.
“ Ciao ,” I say, offering my best smile. “Could you please tell me how long the wait would be for a party of three?”
The first hostess glances up from her computer, and within seconds, her cheeks are as red as her dress. “Oh, Mr. Spinelli. I’m sure I can find you a table.”
“No, no, no,” I quickly say. The last thing I want is to cut in line when all of these people have been waiting. “I’m perfectly fine waiting for a table. Just wondering how long it’ll be. We’ll go for a walk and come back.”
She frowns, taken aback. “Um, okay. It looks like it’ll be about an hour.”
“Great,” I say, tapping the counter. “Thank you.”
“Elio,” someone calls out, and I pivot on my heels to find a group of four guys in the corner. “Are you looking for a table?” one of them asks in Italian.
“ Ciao . Yeah. Pretty lo ng line, right? But it’s well worth the wait. Have you ever eaten here before?”
They just stare back at me, dumbstruck, probably unsure how to react to me being so “normal.” It’s funny—people always expect celebrities to be wildly different from everyone else.
“You can have our table,” the tallest guy says. “We’ll go somewhere else.”
“No, I wouldn’t want to take your spot. You’ve been waiting in line for a while, I’m guessing. Don’t worry, I can wait. Nice of you to offer, though.”
“Please, we don’t mind,” the blond guy says. “If you could just take a picture with us, that’d be thanks enough.”
“Of course. You don’t have to give up your table for a selfie, though,” I say with a wink.
We take a few selfies, and as I’m about to leave, one of the guys calls my name again. “For real, though. Take our table. I’m sure you have a busier schedule than we do. It’s our summer break.”
I hesitate for a second. The offer is tempting. I do have a tight schedule, and it would be a big help. I know we could just go somewhere else, but I really want Lucy to experience the food here. “What are you guys doing next weekend?”
They all frown, glancing at each other. “Nothing much.”
“How about VIP tickets to the Monaco Grand Prix?”
Their jaws drop, and one of them even darts his eyes around the room, probably trying to spot a hidden prank camera or something.
“I’ll even throw in accommoda tions and airfare. Better trade-off than a selfie, right?”
“W—yeah.” The blond guy shakes his head in disbelief. “Thank you. That’s amazing.”
My chest fills with warmth. Making fans happy never gets old. “Sure thing. Just give me your number, and I’ll have my agent call you to organize your reservations.”
“Wow,” they keep repeating.
“What’s your name?” I ask the blond guy, drawing my phone out of my pocket.
“Luigi.” He glances around. “Please, someone take a picture of me giving Elio Spinelli my number,” he jokes.
“Well, thanks, guys.” I shake my phone for emphasis after noting down his contact info. “My agent, Patrick, will be in touch.”
“You’re welcome,” they all say.
“We’ll let the hostess know, and then we’ll go find someplace else to eat,” Luigi says. I wave them goodbye before heading out to find Lucy and Matteo. We meet up, and the three of us walk back toward the restaurant.
A few people in line have their phones ready, watching me expectantly as I pass by, so I take some selfies with them before entering the lobby.
The fame that comes with Formula 1 has never been my favorite aspect of the sport—far from it—but I always oblige when I can.
Our fans are the fuel of our team, and popularity plays a major role in this sport.
Plus, if I can put a smile on someone’s face, it’s always a pleasure.
We follow the hostess to the tabl e, and she hands us our menus with a big smile before disappearing back into the lobby.
“I don’t even want to know what you did to get this table,” Matteo teases, shaking his head.
Lucy’s head snaps toward me, and I just shrug. “It wasn’t like that.”
Matteo snorts. “Right.”
As we dive into our menus, we chat about the offerings. It’s an all-pasta menu with every garnish you can think of. Everything is handmade with local produce.
The food doesn’t take long to arrive, and I suspect they made our table a priority, because the people next to us still don’t have their food even though they were here when we arrived.
“It looks delicious,” Lucy says, grabbing her fork and spoon. “There goes our entire training session this morning, but I’m so hungry, I couldn’t care less.”
I chuckle. “It’s fine. We had a good workout. We need to refuel.”
“So, you guys exercised together?” Matteo asks. His tone is casual, but he looks at me intensely.
I know what he’s thinking. That it’s weird. That I never invite anyone to my home. That I don’t ever work out with other people, not even him.
I avoid his gaze. “Yes. Giacomo prepared a tailored training program for her so she could join in, since she’s shadowing me and all.”
“Ex actly,” she says. “Because there’s no way I could do what he does. You probably could. Elio told me you’re a professional swimmer. That’s incredible.”
He throws me a pointed look, and I focus on my pasta. “He did, huh? And yes, I probably could keep up with this one. But I wouldn’t know for sure. He’s never invited me to train with him.”
“Ah, don’t be jealous, frà . I just don’t want you to feel inadequate next to me, that’s all.”
Matteo bursts out a laugh. “Right. That must be it.”
There’s a pause in the conversation as we all dig in and enjoy our meal, and I’ve never seen Lucy so happy. She’s taking spoonfuls of pasta, her eyes closing as she savors the taste, and suddenly, everything I did to get this table was worth it.
“Mmm,” she moans, and I almost knock my glass on the floor. “This is really good. Whatever you had to do to get us a table, I am one hundred percent on board with it.”
Matteo laughs hard. “I doubt it was much of a sacrifice.”
“Oh, come on,” I say, putting my fork down. “Do you really think I’d pimp myself out for a meal?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Lucy says, her pretty eyes widening.
“I know, but he did.” I hit my brother on the shoulder.
“Hey, I was kidding. I know dropping your name is enough in this country.”
I fork another bite of pasta. “ Actually, a group of fans left us their table. They overheard me looking for one, and they gave it to me.”
Matteo narrows his eyes. “Just like that?”
“Well, they did ask for a selfie in exchange,” I say with a small smile.
“I like their style,” he jokes, wiping his mouth.
“So, I got them an all-expenses-paid trip to Monaco for the race next weekend.”
“What!” Lucy and my brother both exclaim.
“You’re crazy,” Matteo says, shaking his head. “All for a table.”
“You said it yourself.” I wink. “It was worth it. Plus, they insisted on giving me their table when they’d been waiting for over an hour. I wanted the trade to be fair.”
“Yeah, I think they got a good deal,” Matteo jokes, and Lucy nods. She shoots me an indecipherable look, her green eyes studying me.
“So, what’s on the agenda for this afternoon?” Matteo asks. “Strategy meetings?”
“Yes, but we’re going shopping first,” I say, glancing at Lucy, who’s all smiles.
“Ah, come on!” Matteo groans. “Shopping again. You just bought a five-hundred-thousand-dollar car. What else could you possibly need?”
I point my fork at him. “Hey! It’s a great car.”
“Sure, but when are you going to drive it? You have twelve cars, bro.”
“I like having options.” I sh rug. “Don’t be jealous. You’ll get them all if I die before you, which is highly probable.”
He gives me a reprimanding look. My brother has never appreciated those kinds of jokes. “Whatever. Don’t forget, next Monday we have the appointment at the—”
I step hard on his foot, and he finally shuts up, wincing. The daggers I shot him with my eyes weren’t enough, apparently.
He frowns, and I glance at Lucy, who clearly caught the weirdness of the situation.
“It’s a personal thing,” I say quickly. “In fact, put it down in your planner. You’ll have next Monday and Tuesday free.”
“Oh, okay,” she says, setting down her spoon.
“You know, since you like planning so much,” I tease, and she smiles.
Matteo shoots me an apologetic smile, and I nod.
I know it was an innocent slip-up, but no one knows about my private life or my difficult past, and I intend to keep it that way.
Not to mention Lucy is, first and foremost, a journalist. As much as I want to trust her, I don’t know for sure that I can.
Not with the most well-kept secret of my career.