16. Alaric
ALARIC
It’s time to go racing.
I’m savoring a rich espresso, the only caffeine I allow myself to consume each week, as I wind through the back of the garage.
Our strategy is set, the goal clear: finish both cars in the points.
The weather looks decent, with clear skies and no hints of rain on the radar.
It’s colder than it’s been the last few years in Melbourne, and temperature very easily affects tires.
Thankfully, the temps were similar during practice session two this week, so we have adequate data about tire performance and shouldn’t have trouble adapting our strategy accordingly.
I’m nearly through the narrow catacomb that leads to the garages when I turn a corner too fast and smack into Evangeline.
She screams, and my instincts kick in. Before I know it, I’ve grabbed her hip and pulled her into my body protectively.
As if I wasn’t the one to startle her in the first place. It’s a wonder I didn’t spill my espresso all over the both of us.
“Are you all right?” I rush to ask, gripping her side harder than necessary.
With a hand to her chest, she tips her head back and searches my face.
She’s panting, her chest brushing mine with each inhale. Electricity sizzles, her proximity inspiring all sorts of untimely and inappropriate reactions in my body. Shit. Holding my own breath, I shift back. Though I hate creating space between us, it’s necessary.
Eyes still on mine, she brings a hand to her ear. She tugs at something, then says, “I’m so sorry,” the words breathy and melodic.
“No need to apologize. I’m the one who ran into you.” I inspect the space between our bodies. Our torsos are no longer touching, but I haven’t dropped my hand from her side. And despite knowing I should, I must, I can’t seem to bring myself to do it.
“What is that?” I nod at the small black object in her hand.
She holds it up and gives me a sheepish smile. “Noise-reducing earplugs. I’m watching the race from the grandstands today.”
“Smart,” I tell her. Races are incredibly loud, with the noise reaching over one hundred thirty decibels on some circuits.
The acoustics at Melbourne are especially intense near turns eleven and twelve.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask where she’s watching from, but I rein myself in.
The last thing I need is an additional distraction in the form of knowing her exact location during the race.
She ducks, eyeing my hand, which is still wrapped around the side of her body. Her head shoots up, eyes wide, then she jumps back as if she’s been burned.
Though I mourn the loss of contact immediately, I shake my head, banishing the sensation and silently admonishing myself for being so damn distractable when it comes to this woman.
“Are you ready for the race?” she asks, clearly trying to defuse the tension that crackles every time we’re together.
Nodding, I fish the gift she gave me out of my pocket. “Ready with my lucky charm,” I tell her, holding up the fidget proudly.
A grin paints across her face, her features illuminating.
God, she’s so pretty.
She reaches out once more, squeezing my forearm. “It’s going to be great,” she chirps, repeating the sentiment from yesterday.
With that, she gives me a little wave and carries on, striding in the direction she was originally heading.
It’s going to be great.
With a deep, cleansing breath, I let her optimism soothe all the anxious, unfocused edges of my worry.
And with a renewed sense of purpose, I carry on toward the garage.
It’s going to be great.
Surprisingly, I believe her. No amount of meditation or mindset work has ever quelled my nerves the way her smile, that twinkle in her eye, her assurance, does.
“Good luck today, boss,” a mechanic calls as she hustles past me.
I smile to myself, then stash my fidget back in my pocket for safe keeping.
I don’t need luck today. Not with the way I’m feeling after that interaction.
It’s going to be great.