Chapter 5 #2
I sit for a moment, looking at my drink, my gaze softening as I zone out.
A disorienting mixture of alcohol in my veins and the reality of what Jack is telling me makes me feel dizzy.
Even if this is an exaggerated rumor, it’s still deeply worrying.
I get this big break, and then . . . what?
The team folds before we finish the season?
What kind of legacy would that be? Could I ever recover? Everyone knows you only get one shot.
The bartender arrives with my plate of chili crab, and the spicy, fishy mix hits my nose and makes my stomach growl with a confusing mix of hunger and nausea.
“It’s just been one thing after another today,” I say, standing, gathering up my things. “Sorry, Jack. I should wind down. Race tomorrow.”
“Let me walk you to your room,” he says, picking up my crab dish and knife and fork, and nodding toward the lift. “What floor you on?”
“Seven,” I say, and he thumbs the button as I hold my card to the reader. I am swimming, exhausted suddenly. “Thanks for writing about me, and for being so kind.”
As the lift rises slowly, I start to dream of crawling into my bed when Jack says, “Just being nosy here, but do you know if Matt has spoken to Stavros since the crash?”
“No,” I say, yawning. “Not heard.”
“Probably not, then,” he says.
“That would be ice-cold, but also another example of Matt blissfully ignorant of the impact he has on people.”
The doors open with a ding, and suddenly, in the quiet intimacy of the hotel hallway, I realize allowing Jack to walk me back was probably ill-advised. Not that he fancies me or anything, but I really shouldn’t have a journalist walking me to my hotel room.
When we get to my door, there is an awkward dance where, because I have no room in my full hands to take the crab from Jack, he slips inside my room and slides the plate on my dresser for me while I lean on the door to keep it open.
My room is dark, with only the small lamp on next to the bed, and it feels uncomfortable having him in my space.
“It’s not a terrible room,” he says, grinning as he quickly exits into the hallway.
“Stay in touch, hey?” I say lightly.
“I’d love to,” he replies, his eyes darting down the hallway, toward the sound of another door opening. “See you around, Chloe.”
I watch as he pushes through the door to the stairwell, a little relieved to be alone. But just as I step back to let the door swing shut, a large, socked foot inside a red-and-green Gucci slide appears in the doorframe to block it.
“What the hell are you doing?” says that familiar husky voice.
I drop all the paperwork and my purse onto the side table and pull the door back open, looking up to see Matt Warner standing there—towering, really—his palm high and flat against the doorframe, a black sleeveless T-shirt hanging loose around those strong racer shoulders.
My eyes drop to his black cotton boxer shorts and the short tufts of curly hair on his hard thighs.
I linger on the taut athleticism of those legs just long enough to make my own feel a little weak.
NO. This isn’t undeniable attraction talking. It’s the three Singapore slings on an empty stomach. Please let it be the booze.
“What are you doing in the hallway, with no pants on?” I ask, snapping my head back up to meet his glare. “Sneaking in and out of hotel rooms seems a little crude, even for you.”
“I’m not . . . what?” Matt snarls at me.
“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”
“The better question is why was Jack Sheppard in your room?” he barks.
“Er . . . none of your business,” I reply, my eyes grazing his stubbled jaw, which is grinding with irritation.
“He’s a reporter.”
“He’s a friend.”
“He’s a virus in plimsoles,” Matt snaps, and in my slightly woozy state, I struggle hard not to laugh.
“It’s only Jack. Jesus. Nothing happened.”
Matt’s eyes dart down the corridor as a couple fall out of the lift, drunk, and make their way down the hallway toward us to their room.
Matt pushes past me into my room.
“Quick, shut the door before I’m spotted,” he orders.
Oh, because he’s such a celebrity. I should say no, but instead, I step forward, letting the door close behind me as we are plunged into the dim golden glow of my bedside lamp.
The suite, with its rich dark furnishings, feels suddenly very small, and so I shrink myself back against the wall, trying to create as much space as possible between us.
Matt peers out the window, then yanks the curtains shut and begins to pace the room.
“We just had a drink. He wanted to congratulate me on my new job. It was nice, you know, to have someone notice that today was a big day for me,” I grumble, kicking off my shoes. Why am I explaining myself to him?
“Jack fucking Sheppard,” he says, before he stops to face me. I feel my heart kicking up a gear under his scrutiny. “You’re not dating him, are you?”
“What? No!” I let out an involuntary laugh, but Matt’s expression remains deathly serious. The little hairs on the back of my neck begin to tingle. He seems so . . . bothered by the possibility.
“He’s an old friend,” I protest, all the anger and upset of our past in very real danger of bubbling up inside me. “Remember those?”
I swear I see him flinch; something uncatchable passes across his face before he regroups and crosses those strong bare arms across his chest. My god, those thick forearms and rounded biceps. It should be fucking illegal to wield them in public.
I shake my head. I’m more tipsy than I thought.
“Don’t be so naive, Chloe.” He takes a step toward me, and I suddenly feel pinned by his unwavering gaze.
“Fuck you. I’m not naive,” I reply, forcing myself to straighten up, step forward, and meet him. I mirror his stance, arms folded. “Don’t talk down to me, you asshole.”
He tilts his head. “You don’t know what it’s like in this league.” His voice is quieter now, as he takes another step closer.
“I don’t need you to help me.”
Matt doesn’t reply, the corner of his mouth twitching uncertainly.
“I’m not that kid anymore, Matt,” I remind him, taking a final, unsteady step closer, head tilting up, defiant. I’m just inches away now, close enough to see those green flecks in his eyes catching the dim light. God, he is so beautiful. I hate him.
Matt’s jaw moves as he drags his eyes across my face. Scanning me.
“No. You’re not that kid anymore,” he replies slowly, his voice deep and gravelly as his eyes trail to my mouth, and then everything stands completely still. The room is silent, except for the shallow hitch of my breathing.
It’s too much.
I close my eyes, feeling my cheeks on fire.
It is hopeless. My body is reacting to Matt’s presence like I’m seventeen all over again.
It doesn’t matter what happened in the years between, I’m back there, begging for him to notice me as something other than that girl.
He can see it, I’m sure of it. I can feel myself starting to shrink back toward the wall and away from him again.
When I open my eyes, Matt is watching me, his eyes narrowed in what looks like concern. Then he drops his arms to his sides, and his body relaxes.
“Everyone watches everything. Just . . . be careful, Bug,” he says, more softly now.
“Don’t call me that,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “Or I’ll call you fucking Dials in front of everyone.”
Matt’s face immediately breaks into a grin, a twinkle returning to his eyes. He steps back just once, and I allow myself to breathe out, as space finally appears between us.
“See, I never knew why calling my mum was so damn funny to everyone.”
“I think it was the sheer volume of calls,” I say, my body starting to relax. I eye my crab on the dresser. I sure don’t feel hungry anymore.
Then he turns away from me and wanders to the window. He pulls back the curtain a little, the sky outside a midnight blue, the twinkling lights of the Singapore skyline reaching out into the distance. He needs to sleep, I realize suddenly. But I can sense he isn’t done talking.
“Matt, it’s late,” I say. “I know you didn’t come to talk about Jack Sheppard.”
“Yeah. I tried to find you earlier,” he says quietly.
“I did call you at least five times after qualifying.”
“It’s this situation.” Matt puts his hands in his hair, sitting back on the windowsill.
I want to feel bad for him, I truly do, but after watching him fumble through that press clip earlier, and now barreling into my room, throwing his weight around like he still has the right, and then calling me naive?
“You hate it,” I say plainly.
“Yes. I mean, no,” he says quickly. “It’s my driving.” He looks suddenly overcome with a different kind of stress. “I need to be able to talk to you. And you’ve been avoiding me. You can’t do that, Chloe. You’re the boss.”
“I am the boss,” I say. I can’t help but take a jab at him. “You want to talk about that? I saw your interview.”
Matt’s face is frozen as it quickly dawns on him what I might be talking about.
“I was hijacked.”
“Gun rammed into your rib cage?”
“Felt like it,” he says.
I cannot help but smirk at him. “The time it took you to answer . . . Wow. You could have done several laps of the circuit. Even in the Arden.”
He stands abruptly. “You being my boss is the least of my worries right now,” he says impatiently.
“You being my driver is the biggest of mine,” I shoot back, and I immediately, completely regret it, as I watch him stiffen.
“I didn’t mean that,” I say quickly. “I don’t.”
“You do mean it. And honestly? You should.” He moves past me and back toward the door, pulling it open, the light from the hallway spilling into the room.
“Wait.” Bad, bad, bad management, Chloe. I need him. I need Matt to drive tomorrow. I need him not to think I’m awful. “Don’t go, Matt. Come on, let’s talk.”
I rush to the door before it closes but he’s already walking down the hall and toward his room. I watch him pat himself down and then kick the door, as he realizes he left his key card inside.
I contemplate calling out to him again, but he pulls out his phone and walks toward the window at the far end of the hall, entering almost mid-flow into conversation with someone.
And so, I step back from the door and let it swing shut.