Chapter 6 Bahrain #2
“I’m shocked that you shared a cookie with someone.”
He laughs, and I’m pretty sure it’s the first time I’ve heard it.
It’s a nice sound, I gotta admit.
“Surprise, surprise,” he says, walking to the door. “See you in the morning, Salvia officinalis. I’ll have your revolting pickle seeds.”
My eyes remain on the doorway after he’s exited, and…
yeah, I’m confused by the guy. I mean, he’s definitely a prick.
Spoiled, pretentious. I’m not forgiving him for what he said in that blog post. I never give men a pass on shitty behavior.
I’m not the type to look at a man and go, But why is he acting like that? I need to understand him, fix him…
Fuck that noise. People are responsible for fixing themselves. Not my circus, not my monkeys. I’ve never had a boyfriend or girlfriend, only hookups, and this is exactly why. I won’t analyze people like they’re the goddamned Rosetta Stone.
I don’t care what makes Alexander Laskaris tick.
Still, he surprised me. Noticing that some random kid is staring hungrily at his cookies, then offering to share?
Even more shocking is that he was reluctant to tell me about the incident.
He seems like the type of entitled fuckchuckle who would’ve blamed me for his shit getting stolen, like, I was running all over town for you and I got pickpocketed, so you owe me a new phone.
But I suspect he might not’ve mentioned it if I hadn’t brought it up.
Wheeling around, I stalk back to the Go board and continue my strategy analysis. I place a fingertip on one of the Go stones and reposition it, and the slide of that cool stone against the board reminds me of when Alexander touched my chest and nudged me into the chair.
“He’s not gonna win me over by pretending to be a Nice Guy,” I mutter. “The rules don’t change mid-race.”
THE NEXT DAY
I’d already left for the paddock when Alexander arrived this morning, but when I get back in the early evening, my pickle-dust-coated sunflower seeds are on the coffee table. Perched on the corner of the bag like a hat is an origami-folded triangular pocket with a note:
The requested item, Your Grace
Respectfully, ~A
P.S. New mobile, same number
I tear open the bag. Flopping onto the sofa, I crunch the seeds, depositing damp split shells into the origami pocket. I send a text to Alexander’s new phone: “Your Grace”? Why don’t I get something fancier like Your Eminence?
Immediately he replies. Your Eminence is for cardinals of the Catholic Church. I suppose I could upgrade you to Your Highness or Your Majesty. But you’ll have to earn it.
“Oho!” I say aloud, sinking deeper into the cushions. “Very sassy.”
I text back. Dude, you are on thin ice with me already. Your next question should be “How else may I do your bidding today?” Don’t push your luck or I’ll use you as a fuckin footstool.
A few minutes pass and I wonder if he’s got his feathers ruffled, but then he says, I can be there in fifteen minutes if you need anything. Aren’t I supposed to help you create a video?
I’d forgotten about that, but now I have to play it out, so I tell Alexander, Yeah let’s shoot a post or two. Make it snappy, intern.
When I let him into the suite, it’s been exactly fifteen minutes, but he’s totally chill like he didn’t hurry—bespoke teal suit and a plum shirt unbuttoned practically halfway to show off his chest, not a “dark auburn” hair out of place.
He saunters to the sofa and manspreads himself, one arm uncurled across the back. I spit a few sunflower shells pointedly into the paper envelope, eyeing him.
“Putting that to use, I see,” he says, and the sly look on his face makes me wish I hadn’t spat anything out in front of him.
I drop his repurposed note into the trash can. “Wouldn’t’ve taken you for a craftsy guy.”
“I’ve loads of hidden talents.” He glances around the room. “Where’s Priya?”
“Downstairs at the gym. So, about the video thing. Ideas?”
His eyebrows lift. “What happened to your purported ‘concept’?”
I step onto the adjacent love seat and perch on the back so I can look down at him. “Yeah, there was no concept. I just wrote down random shit to keep you running around town all day.”
A brief narrowing of his gray eyes makes me think I’ve won and he’s going to throw a hissy fit, but he just chuckles. “Well played. But”—he points at me, and I feel it like a touch—“fool me once.”
“Psh! You think I’d recycle the same prank? I have a hundred better ways to torture you.”
“Seems you’d have far more pressing demands on your time, but make a meal of it.”
It’s annoying how this guy turns even my wins into losses.
Now I look pathetic for putting this much energy into it.
I slide down onto my back on the love seat and pull a throw pillow over my face and comically scream into it.
When I fling the cushion aside and look at Alexander, his smile is surprisingly genuine rather than smug like I expected.
“Rough day, pet?”
“I’m fucking tired. And tomorrow’s press day. I don’t have the energy to ‘be delightful on socials.’ I shouldn’t have dragged you over here. I guess just take a pic of me like this”—I flip him off with both hands and give a sarcastic open-mouthed grin—“and let’s call it.”
He gets to his feet, and when he leans forward, the partially unbuttoned shirt gaps open and I see more of his chest and I feel like some creeper ogling women on the subway.
Why does this shitbag have to be so cute?
He could at least smell less delicious—that’d be helpful.
But no. The complete wanker I thought I was going to put through the wringer is putting me through the wringer, with his smooth voice and big pretty hands and a scent that makes me want to bite his neck. Hard.
“Where’s that sack of nonsense you had me purchase?” he asks.
I throw one arm over my eyes and flip a wave toward the bedroom. “Chair in the corner. Why?”
I hear him walk off, then the bag crinkling as he brings it back. It thumps down and he rifles through it, setting items onto the coffee table. “Plenty of possibility here,” he says in a thinking way. “I don’t suppose you can actually tap-dance?”
I blow a raspberry. “Yeah, no. I’m a fucking great dancer, but not with anything formal. I just like dancing in clubs.”
More crinkling. Then, almost under his breath, “I’d like to see that.”
I uncover my eyes. “What, me dancing?”
“Indeed.” He takes one of the shiny black tap shoes from the box and holds it up. “Let’s start with this.”
“I already said I don’t know how.”
He takes his phone from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “YouTube. There’s a tutorial for everything. People would find it charming. Watching someone who’s enormously skilled in one field show a relatable lack of skill in another is funny. You’d be sure to get plenty of views. Shall we?”
I sit up slowly, trying to look casual. “You think I’m enormously skilled? Like, as a driver?”
He breaks our gaze, tapping something into his phone. “Obviously so, Salvia officinalis.”
“You said I was a no-talent gimmick who ‘slept my way to the middle.’”
He sets his phone down with a sigh. “I never thought that.” One side of his attractive mouth tightens. “I was courting your attention. Picking a fight was asinine, but… effective.”
“Bullshit,” I shoot back. “You’re saying this because you want me to forgive you and call off the internship so you can go home and, like, do whatever you posh douchebags do with your time.”
He pushes the pink shoebox across the table toward me. “Believe what you wish. In the meantime, I’ll do the tasks required of me. Let’s learn how to tap dance.”
“All right,” Alexander says, peering at his phone and rotating his free hand, directing me as the camera runs. “And again! Shuffle, brush, ball change, repeat.”
I switch my weight to the other foot and fling my arms out and completely fuck up the simple move. With a screech of frustration, I go into a ridiculous stompy dance, chicken-flapping and spinning like a manic toddler who needs a nap. “Delete that one. Let’s start over.”
“I’ll do no such thing. Your profound clumsiness is bewitching.”
“Hey!”
He gives me a wink, and usually I find a wink cheesy but it’s not bad on him.
“Did you claim you’re a good dancer?” he taunts. “Because I’m skeptical.”
“Get bent!” I say with a laugh. “I’m just not good with stuff that has rules. I’m a free spirit, babes. ‘A rider at the gates of dawn, and I take no prisoners.’”
A shocked smile freezes on his face. “You know that show?”
I’m equally shocked that he recognizes my quote from The Young Ones.
“Yeah, my brother and I watched my mom’s DVDs of it constantly when we were teenagers.
” A little wave of sadness goes through me, remembering when Jules and I still got along, and even hung out and watched shows together.
I push the feeling away and plant my hands on my hips.
“Hold on, you and I aren’t, like… bonding here.
You’re still a total fuckchuckle, even if you have good taste in old sitcoms.”
He cradles his perfect jaw with a mock-pensive look. “Is that an upgrade, from ‘posh douchebag’ to ‘fuckchuckle’? Be still, my heart.”
“Yeah, don’t count on it.” I take my Emerald F1 hat off and Frisbee it at him, and he ducks. “Fine, go ahead and send that video to Pri and she can post it in the morning.”
He inspects it, staring at his phone with a little smile that’s almost tender. Finally he looks up. “Would you let me write the copy as well?”
“Ha! As if. You’ve done enough damage, writing shit about me.” I hop on one foot, wrestling off one of the tight tap shoes.
“That’s why I’d like to make it up to you. I can send it to Priya for approval first.”
I wrench off the second shoe and underhand them toward the sofa. “I mean, go for it, but she doesn’t have any obligation to use what you write, got it? I still don’t trust you.”
“Understandable.”
I pull my hair out of its ponytail and can’t help noticing that he watches me as I run my fingers through it. I scowl and pass him, trying not to notice his warm, spicy smell as I go to the sofa and flop down.
“Okay, you’re off duty, Sandy. Hit the bricks.” I almost thank him, then decide he doesn’t deserve it yet.
He pockets his phone. “Anything I can bring you in the morning to make press day less trying?”
I close my eyes, feigning exhaustion, but to be honest I’m just trying not to look at his tailored trousers and wonder what’s underneath that pricey fabric. What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t wait for the Australian GP. There are some great clubs in Melbourne, and clearly I need to get laid.
“Sure. A jasmine tea with agave syrup.” I open my eyes to peek his way, then close them again. “And if I’m not too wrecked tomorrow night, we can do some more videos. Deal?”
“As ever, I am your creature,” he says with amusement. “Good night, Salvia.”
I keep my eyes closed as he leaves, like a kid “hiding” from the monster under the bed.
The monster I’m hiding from, I realize with dismay, is me. I think I might’ve hired this guy not as payback but because I want to fuck him senseless.