Chapter 13 #3
My heart trips over itself at his offer, and there’s a part of me convinced he’s only saying it out of obligation – that he’s the kind of man who’s hung up on duty and playing all the roles he’s expected to take on, and now that he’s had the label of father-to-be slapped on him, he’s just going through the motions of it all.
But that part of me is pushed to the side as I take him in, not getting the sense that he feels like he has to do this. I think he truly wants to.
‘I can stay at a hotel,’ I offer. ‘I’ll pay for it on my own.’
‘Ava, I want you there,’ he says, eyes holding mine, and there’s no doubt any more that he’s fully committed to this. ‘I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t sure.’
‘Okay.’ All the hotels in the city are probably booked by now anyway – at least, that’s how I’m justifying this, even though it’s ingrained in me to keep taarofing, to not be a burden. ‘I’ll stay with you.’
He nods, and I swear he relaxes a little more, like he was nervous to ask me to be his houseguest. ‘I have a motorhome that I bring to the circuits for the rest of the European races, if you’d like to stay with me there too,’ he goes on. ‘It’s more private than hotels. Better security.’
If his motorhome is anything like the two-million-dollar mansion on wheels that Axel had commissioned last year, then I’m sure it’ll be nicer than any hotel I could ever stay at.
‘Sure,’ I answer. ‘All depending on how Monaco goes, of course.’ Because while I’m leaning toward traveling with him, I don’t want to be hasty with my decisions.
But speaking of Axel . . .
‘Actually, there’s one more person I need to tell before we announce the news,’ I go on. ‘I need to personally talk to Axel. I don’t want him finding out with everyone else. He’d never forgive me.’
Zaid winces. While the two are on better terms these days than they have been in years past, in no world would I call them friends or even friendly.
Hell, I don’t think I’d even call them anything more than grudgingly cordial.
The crash in Singapore aided in toning down the animosity, but this, plus the four-point difference separating them in the championship, is sure to ratchet it back up.
‘I understand,’ Zaid says evenly, but he’s not keen on it. ‘You handle that, and I’ll get my PR team to draft a statement for us.’
It’s a relief to have professionals all over this, and that Zaid has it handled. He’s given me no reason not to trust him or think he can’t take on these tasks, so I’ll let him do what he’s decided is best.
‘That should work.’ I pause, thinking about his season so far and the chaos he’s been inspiring on-track. I know he told me not to worry about how all this would affect his performance, but this is a lot to add into the mix. ‘A little off-topic, but how are you feeling about the race weekend?’
He shrugs a shoulder. ‘Better than I thought I might,’ he replies, and it sounds a little like an unexpected confession. ‘I’ve had some . . . complicated feelings about my career lately. Led to me taking some unnecessary risks.’
‘Oh, is that what you’d call what you’ve been doing on-track lately?’ I ask dryly, bumping my elbow gently against his.
Zaid cracks a broad smile, the first I’ve seen since . . . Well, since our night together. Watching him light up and being the reason for it makes me feel like I’ve accomplished the impossible. More than anything, though, it makes me want to keep doing it.
‘I’ll admit, I’ve been a bit of a menace,’ he says with some semblance of humility. ‘But remind me, who’s leading the championship?’
‘I told you not to get cocky,’ I say, instinctively grinning back at him. I even think I’m leaning in. ‘It’s only by four points.’
‘I’ll do my best to make it more on Sunday when you’re wearing my number.’
I laugh at his confidence, but it’s heartening to know he still has his head in the game. ‘Can I confess something?’ I say after a few beats.
Zaid nods, thumb still moving soothingly across my skin. ‘Of course.’
‘I know you hate hearing it,’ I preface, apologetic, ‘and if anyone from Specter ever asks, I’ll deny it, but . . . I really want to see you win your eighth championship.’
He dips his head and exhales, smile turning wry. ‘You and a lot of people.’
I wait for him to say more, but he makes no move to expand on whether he’s part of the club. ‘But what about you?’ I ask, hoping I haven’t pushed too far. ‘What do you want?’
Zaid’s silent for a long, heavy moment. ‘I’d like to win it,’ he says quietly. ‘Because then I can finally be done.’
——
On Sunday, I walk into the paddock wearing Zaid’s number.
Unlike the big show he probably expected, I’ve done it subtly by wearing it in the form of a necklace, a gleaming silver charm with the number 45 resting at the hollow of my throat, almost hidden by the neckline of my shirt.
You’d have to be looking for it to know it was there.
Or be one of the photographers following after me with a gigantic telephoto lens.
‘Ready for today?’ Stella asks as she loops her arm around mine, escorting me through the throngs of people who move out of the way when they see her coming, many of them gawking at the sight of her.
I can’t blame them. She’s wearing a custom silk slip dress in McMorris green, and her own charm necklace – boasting Thomas’s number, of course – is on a chain long enough that the gold 70 nearly dips down into her impressive cleavage.
‘I’m ready to eat everything in hospitality,’ I say honestly, earning a laugh from her.
In addition to being my paddock pass dealer, Stella is also the reason why I’m wearing this necklace, because who else casually has an Italian jeweler on speed dial who could make me the charm in a matter of hours? No one other than Stella Margaux Maxwell-Brown, that’s who.
When I told her about the bet Zaid and I had made and that I wasn’t sure how I wanted to hold up my end of the bargain, she’d lifted a finger, made one phone call, and then declared that she had solved my problem.
Two hours later, I was opening a jewelry box with this stunning creation draped inside, along with another necklace with a citrine pendant.
‘Edith told me you’re due in November,’ Stella said with a shy smile. ‘I wanted to get ahead of the curve and gift you something with the baby’s birthstone.’
I burst into tears on the spot.
Thankfully, there are no tears now as we make our way to the McMorris motorhome, but as Stella starts up the steps in her magnificent heels, someone snags my other elbow, tugging me away from her.
A protest lifts to my lips but falls away when Axel’s face comes into view.
I hold up a hand to Stella when she turns and narrows her eyes at Axel – a look I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of – to tell her I’m okay.
Still, she hesitates before nodding to me, but the expression on her face is a clear I will publicly murder this man if that’s what you want.
Good thing for Axel that it’s not on the agenda for today, because I wouldn’t put it past her.