Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
Nash
W hile we wait for the Thai food to arrive, we share another drink and talk about my stint in the OWC. When she finishes her wine, Bex excuses herself to her room to change out of her robe, something I inappropriately wish she wouldn’t do. It molded to her curves and was distracting to say the least, but I could have suffered if she wanted to keep it on.
Tonight, she’s so relaxed and it’s something that doesn’t come easy to someone as driven as she is. In fact, the first thing I noticed when I walked into Bex’s flat is how perfectly it suits her. It’s small but neat, functional, with an unspoken order that screams “Bexley.” Her desk by the window is already covered in charts, notes and photos from races, the pinboard above it cluttered with plans. If I were to guess, that was probably the first thing she set up before she even unpacked her clothes.
A memory comes unbidden and causes me to chuckle. Bex notices as she appears, wearing a pair of sweatpants and an old Bauer Performance T-shirt. Her feet are bare, toenails painted a sparkling deep blue.
“What’s so funny?” she asks, plopping back down on the couch and grabbing her wine.
I nod toward her desk at all the charts and graphs. “Bet that was the first thing you set up.”
“You’d bet right.” She laughs.
“You’ve always been like that—straight to business, no time for distractions.”
“Like you’re any different,” she retorts.
I shake my head, cocking an eyebrow at her. “You used to sleep with your race data under your pillow. You were sure that the mojo would seep into you at night.”
Bex blushes but lifts her chin. “Yeah, well, it worked, didn’t it?”
“Not going to argue that.” Bex’s star always shone because she was fucking great at what she did. I wasn’t about to discount superstitious routines because we all have them.
I take in her easygoing smile as she sits on the opposite end of the couch, and for a moment, it feels like old times. Comfortable. Like we haven’t spent the last three years avoiding each other.
There’s a knock at the door and we both stand up. “I’ll get the food,” I offer.
“I’ll top off drinks,” she says and holds out her hand for my nearly empty bottle. I drain it and hand it over, feeling the tiny bit of spin the beers have induced. Bex takes two steps, seems to walk a bit sideways and then rights herself. Maybe we should have gone a little slower on the alcohol while we’ve been talking but the food will help.
I spread the containers out on the coffee table as I hear Bex grabbing plates. She returns to the living room, sets them down and heads back into the kitchen. I load up for both of us with pad Thai, green curry and spring rolls.
When Bex returns, I’m surprised to see a bottle of Stroh rum, a delicious spiced Austrian sipping liquor that was also a favorite of ours. “Thought this was appropriate,” she says with a sheepish smile and produces two small glasses.
“We’re totally walking down memory lane,” I muse, and then nod at the food. “Might as well eat on the floor like we used to.”
“Spot-on,” she exclaims in her proper British accent and moves around the table. She settles onto the rug, the couch to her back, and I follow suit, sitting very close to her but leaving a few inches of room so we don’t touch.
Bex is generous with her pour and I lift my glass. “Cheers and thanks for having me over.”
She taps her glass against mine. “Cheers. And you invited yourself over. I just let you in the door.”
“Well, thanks for that.” We grin at each other over the rims of our glasses as we take that first sip of nostalgia, and it goes down a little too smoothly. “Mmm. I forgot how good that was.”
“Right?” she asks, licking at her lower lip. Her expression turns a little serious. “Is this weird? Us… getting along.”
I pick up my fork and twirl my noodles because I hate using chopsticks. So freaking inefficient. “Yeah… it’s fucking weird.” I lift my fork but pause, looking at her. “But it doesn’t feel wrong.”
“No, it doesn’t, does it?” she asks, her eyebrows drawn inward. Then she beams. “Must be the alcohol.”
“Totally the alcohol,” I agree.
The conversation flows easier than ever, the sting of Jeddah fading with each laugh. The bitterness of our past dissipates with every memory we revisit.
“Why didn’t you come back to FI after the crash?” she asks, her tone curious but gentle.
I pause, my fork hovering over my plate. “Honestly?” I glance at her, and she nods. “I wasn’t ready. Mentally, I mean. After the crash… I don’t know, Bex. It messed me up.”
She sets her chopsticks down—she prefers them—and twists a little to face me. “Messed you up how?”
I shrug, picking up my glass and finishing the last swallow of the rum. She immediately pours a refill. “I didn’t trust myself anymore. Didn’t trust the car, the track, the team… anything. OWC felt safer, less pressure. Slightly less speed and danger. I needed to rebuild my confidence before I could even think about coming back to formula.”
She scoffs, shaking her head. “You? Not confident? Come on, Nash. You’re one of the most driven, fearless people I’ve ever known.”
Her words catch me off guard, and I feel a flicker of something warm and bittersweet in my chest. “Yeah, well,” I say, my voice quieter now, “I didn’t feel fearless back then. And honestly, I don’t know if I would’ve come back at all if Brienne hadn’t approached me.”
She raises an eyebrow, then takes a sip of her drink. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” I admit without an ounce of shame. “She gave me the push I needed. I wanted it—I missed it—but I didn’t know if I had the guts to take the chance.”
She stares at me, her expression unreadable. “Nash,” she says softly, “you’ve always had the guts. I guess you just needed someone to remind you.”
A thought strikes me, like a sharp punch straight through my chest. Because my tongue feels very loose given the alcohol, I throw it out there. “I would have returned sooner had we not broken up.”
Pain clouds her eyes and I rush to assure her. “I’m not blaming you. It’s just a fact. You would have made it easier.”
She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t—”
“You would have,” I cut in adamantly. “You would have given me that safe space to work through the demons, but you would have also pushed me to return once my injuries had healed. You would have known that was my deepest desire—to get back in a formula car—and you would have known that because I would have told you. You’re the only one I would have told, and then you wouldn’t have let me go to OWC. I know things would have played out differently.”
Bex’s head drops, her angel spun hair now dried and forming a curtain over her face. When she lifts it, I see regret plastered there. “I shouldn’t have let you walk out the door back in Vienna. I shouldn’t have let you chase me from your hospital room. So many things I didn’t do right.”
Her words mean a lot, but the conversation is turning heavy and sad, and I want to have a good time with Bex tonight. I want us to be friends again. So I grab my glass and say, “I’ll drink to that. It was totally your fault.”
She stares at me a moment, and I wonder if my joke is ill timed and way too soon to tease the way we always used to. Then she bursts out laughing so hard, she doubles to the side, placing her hand on my knee to balance herself. I freeze, the weight of her touch causing tingles to prickle all over my body.
Bex wheezes, straightens herself up and removes her hand. I have to force myself not to snatch it back. She shakes her head, still laughing, and takes her glass in hand. She taps it against my beer bottle. “Cheers.”
We both drink.
“All right,” I say, leaning against the couch, my belly full and my head swimming a bit. “Here’s a question for you, Toliver. If you weren’t in racing, what would you be doing?”
A thoughtful hum purrs in her throat as she swirls the amber liquid in her glass. “That’s easy. Probably working in some dull engineering firm, designing bridges or something equally uninspiring.”
“You?” I bark with a laugh. “Uninspired? Doubtful.”
“I’m serious!” she insists, putting her hand once again on my knee and giving a playful shove. “I’d probably wear boring gray suits every day and have some horrid boss who chews gum too loudly. And I’d spend every night dreaming about all the exciting things I could’ve done.”
“Like designing faster cars?” I tease with a lopsided grin.
“Exactly,” she says, pointing at me with her glass. “What about you? If you weren’t a driver?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” I say, stroking my hand over my jaw and giving her a smoldering look. “Male model.”
She bursts out laughing again, nearly spilling her drink. “Rubbish.”
“Seriously,” I reply, loving her mirth and not wanting it to end. “I’d walk the runways of Milan, Paris… maybe even dabble in cologne ads. ‘Eau de Nash.’”
She doubles over once more, clutching her stomach as she cackles. “You’d be awful! You can barely sit still for a formula marketing photo shoot, let alone walk in a straight line with a pouty face.”
“True,” I reluctantly admit. “I’d probably trip and end up taking out half the other models.”
That starts a giggling fit, and she wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. There’s something about this moment—this easy back-and-forth, the shared humor—that feels so familiar. So… us. The way we used to be before things got messy. We always made each other laugh, often with unrelenting pranks or even jumping out from behind doorways to scare the other.
The laughter dies down, leaving a comfortable silence between us. I watch as her face sobers, and I can see she’s fallen down into the pleasant memories along with me. The air shifts. Her toffee-colored eyes warm, her smile softens.
Setting my glass down on the coffee table, I lean toward her. “You know, I’ve missed this.”
“Missed what?” she whispers.
“This.” I gesture between us. “The way we could just… be. No pressure. No expectations. Just us.”
Bex nods, her words murmured low with a sad smile. “Yeah. Me too.”
My body seems to have a mind of its own as my hand reaches out slowly, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. Bex goes utterly still and when my fingers graze her cheek, she lets out a stuttering breath.
“You’ve still got that freckle,” I say, tapping the spot on her cheekbone. “The one right here.”
Bex’s hand goes back to my knee and she squeezes. Her eyes are locked on mine, and I don’t know what I see within, but nowhere do I see discomfort or a silent plea to take my hand off her.
I graze my thumb under her lower lip, just catching the full edge, still lingering on that freckle. “I think that’s my favorite spot on you. I’d always aim a kiss there.”
“I remember,” she rasps.
I can feel the smile tugging at my mouth, but I don’t let it break free. There’s nothing amusing about the intensity thrumming between us, probably fueled by alcohol. I hesitate a moment, giving her a chance to pull away, but when I see her lean ever so slightly toward me, there’s no other choice but to meet her halfway.
My lips brush against hers, so whisper light it can only be conveyed as a question.
Is this okay?
Are we being stupid?
How could we have ever given this up?
I feel Bex’s hand on my cheek, her head tilts and her mouth opens. A rush of emotions swallow me—yearning, peace, hunger, elation. I want to grab her to me, but I force patience, instead locking my hand on her wrist to keep her palm on my face and I deepen the kiss.
Slow, unhurried… all the time in the world.
It feels sweet. Like a beginning.
We pull apart and my forehead dips to rest against hers. I feel her breath on my lips.
Neither of us says anything, but the silence is filled with a thousand unspoken words, and I don’t know where to go next.
It could be a colossal mistake to start this up again with Bex because of the way we ended things before. So much hurt and pain and regret.
Maybe this is how we get past all of that, though. Maybe we need to latch onto this second chance. Sure… we’ve both had way too much alcohol and things are moving fast, but… I miss what we had so much, and I know she does too.
“Ask me to stay the night with you,” I say impetuously.
Bex stares at me for a long moment, weighing the cost of the answer she’ll give. It’s a nonverbal cue that comes in the form of another kiss, this one taking my breath away.
I have my answer.
I push up from the floor, snagging her hand and dragging her up with me, only to push her down onto the couch. I don’t even know where to start with her, but I’m guessing it’s with another kiss.