Chapter 29
LIFT AND COAST: EASING OFF THROTTLE EARLY TO SAVE FUEL/TIRES
Iwake up before she does, which is unusual since, for most of my life, waking has been something I’ve endured. A daily reminder that I was invisible in a life I wanted desperately to escape from.
After last night with Christin, though? Morning brings something much more profound than dread. I feel small tendrils of hope.
The light filtering through the curtains is soft. Barcelona is already warming into the day—the faint hum of the city rising somewhere far below. For a second, I don’t move. I just lie there, holding Christin close while letting the reality of yesterday settle in properly.
The win. Her. Us.
Then I turn my head to study the gift I’ve been given: her lying in my arms.
Christin is tucked up next to me. In her sleep, one arm is thrown over my chest and the other is wedged between us.
Her hair—disheveled from having my hands buried in it all night long—spills across the white sheets in a way that’s completely at odds with the precision she carries herself everywhere else.
But what strikes me the hardest is there’s no tension in her face.
Just peace.
Something that’s been wound tight in my chest shifts long enough for me to accept that I never again want to be the kind of man she walks away from. Or, I think with a smile, in our case, the man she throws out.
She stirs, brow furrowing before her eyes squint open. She immediately hisses at the light. For a moment, there’s a flicker of disorientation in her expression—like she’s placing where she is and whose arms she’s in.
Then her gaze lands on me. I get the pleasure of watching as the disorientation I just witnessed shifts into a soft smile meant for me.
“Good morning,” I say quietly, tugging her closer.
Her voice is still rough with sleep when she murmurs, “This is earlier than you prefer to function.”
A breath of laughter leaves me before I can stop it. “I’m evolving.”
“Or malfunctioning.”
“Possibly.”
She tips her head back so she can study me at length. Something thoughtful settles into her expression.
“I—” I start, then stop because I don’t want to get this wrong. “Last night meant everything to me. But I don’t expect you to feel the same. I want you to have time to think about it without worrying about how I feel.”
“That sentence is packed with too many different emotions before coffee.”
Silence settles between us, but it’s not empty. My voice breaks when I murmur, “I meant what I said. Yesterday. About trusting you. About us.”
Her gaze softens slightly at that. “‘Us’ did a lot of work last night.”
I grin lazily. “Us did.”
“And you’re comfortable with me making emotional decisions after a night with little sleep?” she teases.
“I’m comfortable with any and all of what happened last night. In fact, I’m hoping we can do it again soon,” I admit.
That elicits a wicked smile. “I feel comfortable agreeing with that.”
Then I blurt out, “I don’t want you to feel like you have to forgive me for what I did because we slept together again.”
Her brow quirks. “You’ve met me, right? Do you think I’d do that?”
“I think you’re someone who evaluates risk and calculates outcomes. I don’t want you factoring my well-deserved guilt into any forgiveness I haven’t earned.”
“Last night happened because we both wanted it. I trust you’re committed to earning my trust differently.”
I huff out a quiet breath, shaking my head. “That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say.”
Her voice takes on a teasing note. “Shame. It was such a compelling strategy.”
“Christin.” But even I can’t restrain the humor in my voice.
“Don’t worry, Leo.”
“I do.”
“One night didn’t make me forget. It simply reminded me what’s worth fighting for.”
I deadpan, “So, sex with me didn’t wipe your brain clear?”
She laughs. “No. You’re good.”
“Good?” I fake indignation.
She amends herself, “Incredibly good. But not that good.”
I groan.
She grins. “You’ll have to earn the rest the old-fashioned way.”
Before I can speak, she sobers, her humor softens into something achingly real. “What you said, it mattered.”
“Of all the stupid things I’ve done or said, hurting you is going to haunt me.”
“I know I trust you again, but our relationship is going to be different this time.”
“I wouldn’t expect it to be the same.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “No?”
“No,” I repeat. “If it were, I’d question whether either of us actually learned anything.”
Christin rolls up so she can fully face me, sunlight spilling across her bare shoulder as she studies me with the same intensity she uses when she’s trying to determine whether a system is stable or moments away from collapse. “And what exactly did you learn?”
I exhale slowly, brushing my fingers along her waist over the sheet. “That loving someone and trusting them with the worst parts of you are two different things.”
Her gaze flickers to my lips. “And?”
“We spent so much time talking to each other that we forgot to actually communicate with each other.”
For a moment, she says nothing. Then, “No, neither of us did.”
Her acceptance settles deep inside my soul because she’s still willing to be with me, instead of walking away.
I trace my thumb lightly against her hip, grounding myself in the fact she’s within reach at all.
“I don’t need perfection, Leo, but I do need consistency.”
“You deserve that.”
“I deserve someone who doesn’t punish me for caring about them.”
God. My eyes squeeze shut at her words because there’s no defense against them when she says them so calmly and with devastating precision. When I open them again, she’s watching me carefully. “You’re right.”
“I mean it. I think that has been hurting the most. That you could accept my love and then—”
“Chris.” Her name comes out as a low rasp. My hand slides up her side slowly, over her collarbone, until it settles right over her heartbeat. “I was indoctrinated to believe people would hurt me. I made the mistake of treating you like you already had.”
Her breath catches softly.
“And the worst part? You were trying to love me while I was bracing for impact.”
Christin’s fingers brush against my chest absentmindedly. “You really do live in your head too much.”
A quiet laugh escapes me. “Occupational hazard.”
“No. Survival mechanism.”
The accuracy of it nearly undoes me. I lean forward before I can think better of it, pressing my forehead gently against hers. “I’m trying to change that.”
“I know.”
Simple words. No absolution, but hearing them from her still feels like something dangerously close to hope.
“I unconsciously shoved you away before you even had a chance to fight for us.”
“And now?” she asks.
“Now I don’t want easy. I want what’s real.”
She studies me for a long moment, like she’s running that through whatever calculation she uses to measure risk versus reward. “What are you asking for? Lay it on the line.”
“Time,” comes out of my mouth immediately.
“Why?”
“Because you deserve it to make your own decision about what you want this—us—to be.”
“What does time get you?”
“A chance to show you I never meant to hurt you. That I love you. But since I’m the one who made this impossible in the first place, accepting that love is entirely up to you.”
Her expression shifts slightly at that. “And if I decide this—us—isn’t worth it?”
The question hurts my heart, but I still respond, “Then I’ll accept that.”
“Will you?”
“I never said I wasn’t going to try to change your mind.”
That earns a reaction from Christin. She exhales slowly, glancing toward the window before looking back at me. “So, where are we going?” she asks.
I decide to lighten things up. “Austria next. You know, the next race of the season.”
She gives me a sharp look. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“I do.” Then I concede, “I don’t think I have the answer to that yet.”
“Good, because I don’t either.” She studies my face before admitting, “I need to feel your honesty.”
“You will.”
“And just because we—” She gestures between us.
“Last night doesn’t override everything else,” I conclude. “I wouldn’t want it to.”
“Okay, that’s a good answer.” She pauses before asking, “What’s next?”
I lean back slightly, considering my answer. “Breakfast and a conversation that doesn’t involve telemetry or race strategy.”
“Acceptable.”
“Then we go back to work, because unfortunately, we don’t exist in a vacuum.”
“No,” she agrees. “We don’t.”
We hold each other’s gaze for a second longer, and I realize what Christin needs from me is transparency and showing up the way she deserves.
The way I should have from the start.