Chapter Three
I WAKE UP FEELING STRANGELY restless and excited the next day, but this turns into chagrin as soon as I get inside my car and start the engine.
It catches on the first try this morning, which feels like a small mercy, but then I back out of my parking space and hear this sound—this grinding, scraping sound that definitely wasn't there yesterday—and my heart sinks.
The tires.
Of course it's the tires.
I make it to the café without incident, but the sound follows me the whole way, and by the time I pull into the parking lot, I'm convinced my car is approximately three miles away from complete mechanical failure.
Your tires. Fix them. Or I will.
I turn off the engine. Sit there for a second. Then I get out and walk around to look at them, even though I don't actually know what I'm looking for because my automotive knowledge begins and ends with "put gas in the thing with the gas icon."
They look...fine?
I mean, they're definitely worn. The tread is shallow. But they got me here, and they'll get me home, and I'll worry about it later, after I survive this shift.
I walk into the café through the back door. Gail's already there, prepping the kitchen, and she gives me a wave without looking up from the eggs she's cracking.
"Morning, Thea."
"Morning, Gail."
"Coffee's fresh."
“Thank you.” I pour myself a cup of coffee—black, no sugar, which I realize with a
jolt is how he drinks it, and now I'm even copying his coffee preferences, which is a new low—and I take it to the front counter.
Jolie’s already there, like always. She’s a daily fixture at this point, and she even helps out whenever we’re understaffed. Her family’s pretty well-off, albeit not quite like the Foxes. Even so, you wouldn’t be able to tell with her. She’s just so wonderfully down-to-earth—
“You have bags under your eyes,” Jolie declares impishly. “Dare I guess why?”
—but at the same time, so not-wonderfully-persistent as well.
“Don’t start,” I warn her.
“I gave him your number.”
I freeze mid-sip. “You did what?”
Jolie’s grinning now, leaning against the counter with Wuthering Heights sitting next to the register.
“How did you—”
“Another secret.”
Argh.
“Why would you give him my number? Did he ask for it?”
“Sorry, that’s another secret.”
Seriously?
“That’s not funny—”
“Ask him if you want, but for now—” Jolie looks at me eagerly. “What did you talk about?”
“Tires.”
Jolie blinks. “Tires.”
She follows me inside the locker room, and I tell her everything as I change into my uniform.
“That’s so sweet of him,” Jolie remarks. “And very telling, don’t you think?”
I know a bait when I see one, and Jolie laughs when I just hold my silence.
“Even if you don’t say it out loud, we both know what he did means something.”
I shrug.
“Have you thought about what you’re going to say to him when he comes?”
“If he comes.”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
It’s a really good question, and one I unfortunately don’t have an answer to come seven-thirty...and his booth remains painfully empty.
By eight o'clock, I've refilled the napkin dispensers twice, wiped down the same counter three times, and started to accept the possibility that he's not coming.
Maybe he's done. Maybe the tire text was his way of saying ‘fix your life, I'm out.’ Maybe he realized that following a waitress home was weird and now he's embarrassed and he's found a new café, one where the staff don't drop coffee pots and stare at customers for thirty-six
days straight.
By eight-thirty, I'm almost convinced.
Then the door opens, he walks in, and my heart does something structurally unsound.
He's wearing dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that matches the shade of his eyes. His hair is slightly damp like he just showered, and he looks exactly the same as yesterday except somehow more, like someone turned up the contrast on a photo.
He sees me immediately, but he doesn't smile, doesn't nod, doesn't acknowledge me beyond that one look.
And yet...
I feel it anyway—that recognition, that weight of attention that makes my pulse jump.
Then he walks to the corner booth and sits down.
I stand frozen at the counter.
"Breathe," Jolie whispers beside me.
I breathe.
"Now walk over there."
"I can't—"
"You can. You're literally a waitress. Walking over to tables is your job."
"Jolie—"
"Go. Before I go instead and tell him you've been obsessing over his coffee routine for a month."
I go.
I walk across the café with a menu I don't need because he knows the menu by heart at this point, and my hands are steady even though my heart is doing that thing again, and when I reach his table, I open my mouth to say—
"Good morning."
His voice stops me. Low and unhurried and carrying that accent that does something to my nervous system I don't have a name for.
"Good morning," I manage.
"Your car." He's not looking at the menu. He's looking at me. "It made it here."
"It did."
"The tires."
"Still attached."
His mouth does that almost-smile thing. "For now."
I should say something clever. Something that indicates I'm a competent adult who doesn't need a stranger's opinion on her vehicle maintenance. Instead I ask: "How did you get my number?"
The words just come out. Unplanned. Unfiltered. And I immediately want to take them back because we're in the middle of the café during breakfast rush and this is not the time or place for this conversation.
“I think you already know the answer to that.” A slight smile plays over his lips as he says this, and I have to fight against the urge to smile back...just because.
“Jolie?”
“She offered it out of the blue.”
Aaaargh.
His eyes gleam. “It was a joke, Thea.”
And behind me, I hear Jolie laugh, and...argh.
Like, seriously.
How did I end up being a personal clown for these two?
"I told her I was concerned about your safety."
I find myself glancing over my shoulder at Jolie as he says this, and she blinks innocently at me like she’s saying it’s my fault for falling for her act earlier. She had acted all surprised and impressed when I told her about him showing concern over my tires, and it was just so convincing!
I take a deep breath. Doesn’t matter either way, I tell myself. Whether he asked for my number or Jolie offered it first—none of it matters in the long run. I’m just going to take this one thing at a time, like I’ve learned to do with everything in my life.
“So...” I look back at him politely. “Do you want your usual today? Omelet and black coffee?”
“You remember.”
"It's my job to remember."
“Ah, of course. I stand corrected.”
And yet he says the words so silkily I can feel my cheeks heating up because I just know.
He’s on to me.
He’s always been on to me.
Hasn’t he?
I clear my throat. “So...the usual then?”
“Yes, Thea. The usual please. Thank you.”
His tone has changed again. This time, it’s low and velvety, and it has my heart racing so fast that I can only trust myself to nod before hurrying back to the kitchen.
Breathe, Thea. Breathe.
I put in his order. But...coward that I am, I ask one of my coworkers to take his order to his table, and I don’t look his way the entire time. But I know the moment he leaves...just like he knows that I know.
JOLIE INSISTS ON MEETING with me that night at Good Tidings. It’s another one of those hidden spots in Jackson Hole that only locals know, and the thing I love the most about it is unapologetic choice of interior, with the owner’s obsession with all things nautical.
Jolie sets Wuthering Heights on the small table between us before crossing her arms over her chest as she looks at me. “What was that this morning?”
“He said you offered my number out of the blue,” I blurt out.
“I did not!”
I can tell her indignation is real, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“He also told me he was joking,” I admit. “But I was worried.”
Jolie shakes her head. “I would never do that. I know where to draw the line, I promise.” Her expression turns questioning. “What else did you talk about?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I asked if he wanted the usual, and he noticed that I remembered his order, I told him it’s part of my job to do so. That’s it.”
“I did notice you asking Skye to serve him his order.”
I shrug.
“Why did you do that?”
“He just seemed...out of my league.” I notice Jolie’s expression changing when I say this, and my gaze narrows. “What is it?”
“I was at Fox Lodge earlier, and Damian was in a meeting with him.”
Since Damian is a billionaire and billionaires usually only do business with other billionaires...
“I did a little digging,” Jolie says as she hands me her phone, and my heart is just numb as I finally find myself reading his name for the first time.
Santino Aleotti.
He’s a professional racer apparently, and if the news reports are anything to go by, he’s really good at it, too.
Santino Aleotti claims victory at Monaco Grand Prix, continuing Elite Speed Inc's dominant season.
I look at the phone.
Then at Jolie.
Then at the phone again.
Then at Jolie again, because maybe if I look at her enough times, the answer will change.
But it doesn't.
So I start scrolling through more images. Him on a podium. Him in a tuxedo at some formal event. Him with his helmet off, hair messy, that same unreadable expression on his face.
"There's not a ton about his personal life online,” Jolie volunteers as I go on scrolling.
“He's pretty private apparently. But racing?
That's all public. He's been doing this for years.
Started karting as a kid in Italy, worked his way up, got picked up by Elite Speed Inc when he was twenty-five.
He's thirty-four now. Never been married.
No public relationships that anyone knows about. "
“Did you...did you read anything about where he lives?”
“Italy.” Jolie’s voice is awkward. “But that was from an article years ago, so things could have changed since then.”
Yes, I’m sure things could have changed since then.
But it also couldn’t.
And that means...