Now #2
“I’ll finish my drink and head back, then. Call me if you need me, Vivi.”
“Thank you,” I say as we give each other a side hug.
Ignoring the stares, I follow Wesley. He takes me one level below, to a door that says “Authorized Personnel Only,” and opens it with a security code.
“You should be okay in here. There’s Rosie’s office over there, this is what we call the strategy room, where they have meetings before the races, and the drivers’ rooms are a little farther down the hallway.
I’ll go downstairs and see if I can catch Jackson when he returns to send him to you straight away. ”
“Thank you, Wesley. Truly.”
“Of course. Earlier this season, when you and Jackson were getting close again, I … I said some things that might have been a little heartless to him. I reminded him of his responsibilities and told him he had to fix his priorities. It was … uncalled for and unfair. I genuinely like him as a person, and I hope he’d consider me a friend after all these years—despite being his boss and forty years older than him.
As a friend, I should have known better.
He deserves love. He deserves to have you in his life.
And I’ll make sure you two get a fair chance this time around, alright? ”
All I can do is nod, touched by his endorsement. When the impulse to express my gratitude strikes, I don’t fight it and wrap him in a hug. “Thanks, Wes. You’re a good friend.” His smile is bright when I let go.
Finding myself alone in this private section, I suddenly feel out of place.
Especially in the middle of the hallway like this.
I consider the team principal’s office, but it seems invasive, and then the strategy room.
Worrying anyone might come into the latter, I walk down the corridor, seeking the one room that calls to me.
When I find it, I pass my fingers over the gold letters on the charcoal door.
This is Jackson’s room. His “home away from home.”
The teams’ motorhomes are more of a European thing, but Wesley made a point to have one for the three US races. It’s my understanding it was also driven down to Mexico for the Grand Prix there, and Canada, too. I’m sure this will start a trend among the other teams, who are always very competitive.
As I enter the room, I can’t stop myself from feeling like an intruder. But this man and I have been intimate in so many ways, he won’t mind.
The space is neat, tidy, and impersonal.
This was designed to be practical, not warm or homey.
It almost looks like a boat cabin, with everything built in and optimized, as well as a long, flat daybed.
There are still some touches of Jackson in there.
His scent lingers in the air, probably from the hoodie draped over the chair’s backrest. And there are some of his things on the small desk.
As I come closer, I see a picture of him and his parents, which must have been taken recently during a race weekend. And tucked into the frame, the old Polaroid photo of us, about to head out for the homecoming dance.
My eyes are still on it when hurried footsteps resonate in the hallway.
I turn around just in time to see the door open.
Jax appears behind it, his phone in hand.
My first thought is that Wesley sent him, like he said he would, but Jax’s surprise when he sees me contradicts it.
He had no idea I was in here. Not with the way he practically gawks at me.
Amused by his bewilderment, I smile and say, “Hi, Hot Wheels.”
A few beats pass before he regains control of his tongue. “You’re here.”
“I am.”
“In Vegas. In my room.”
I nod. “I wanted to talk to you, so I came with Cynthia and Yasmine. Then we came to the Altron motorhome and stumbled into Wesley, who brought me here so I could wait for you.”
“You came all this way to talk?”
“I considered calling, but it felt wrong to do this on the phone. This is a conversation we should have face-to-face.”
“You could have called and let me know you were coming.”
I nervously rubbed my forearm. “A small part of me worried you might say no. Which I realize was ridiculous, given what you just said to the press.”
He visibly tenses all over. “You watched the press conference?”
“Yes.”
“Evie, I’m so sorry. I lost it, and I shared way too much. If they come at you again, I’ll—”
“No, it’s okay. I … I really liked what you said. It was all perfect, Jax.”
I can see the way his shoulders sink with relief. But not entirely. To ease what I can guess is the rest of his concerns, I say, “I’m sorry I did it again, Jax. Froze you out and walked away.”
“At least you came back this time. Like you promised.”
“I did. Because I’m so tired of pretending I don’t know what I want. What I need.”
He stiffens again, enough for me to notice. “Which is?”
“You, Jax, and the life that comes with you. The racing, the traveling, the sponsor events, your ridiculous schedule, your fame … I want them because they come with the lazy afternoons in the house in Tuscany, the sensual evenings on a Spanish beach, the playful road trips across borders … All that makes you you. And I love every single part of you, Jackson Reyes. I have since I was fifteen.”
His smile is so big and so bright that he looks ten years younger. For a split second, I see the kid he used to be. The one who so easily won over my heart.
When he motions to take me into his arms, I don’t even try to stop him, needing it as much as he does. Moving in perfect synchronicity, we reach for one another to exchange a desperately intense kiss. One that feels long overdue and tastes like home and the promise of forever.
This feels right, as it always has. From that first kiss in our high school parking lot to this moment, kissing him has always felt like the most natural thing in the world. Despite the years together and apart, that fact has always remained true. And it forever will.
What started as a kiss full of hope and love evolves into something greedier, spurred on by our respective need for one another.
I cling to him while his powerful arms hold me close, our mouths devouring one another’s, our tongues bold and eager for more.
I missed him. My Jax. My Hot Wheels. My husband.
I missed him in my very soul. I’ve found my way back to him, and I’m never walking away again.
I’d rip my heart out of my chest before I do.
Because it’s never enough, our hands get involved, palming, gripping, and fondling.
I haven’t felt this alive in three months, and I suspect the same goes for him.
Being in his arms again is exhilarating, like being on a rollercoaster, like free-falling.
He’s mine. He’s been mine for fifteen and a half years. And he’ll be mine until the day we die.
“I love you,” I moan into our kiss when his hands grab my behind and pull me onto his crotch.
“I fucking love you, you stubborn, irritating woman.”
When his lips crash into mine again, we let ourselves spiral into the overpowering passion that consumes us. It becomes very clear what’s about to happen, especially when he nudges me toward the daybed, gently laying me down on it while never letting go of our kiss.
This isn’t at all how I thought I’d be doing this, but when have things ever gone the way I expected with this man?
“Jax, wait,” I plead as his lips draw a burning line from my jaw to my collarbone.
“Don’t worry. This room locks.” He stops his ministrations just long enough for his hand to reach the door and secure our privacy.
“No, it’s not—I have some things I wanted to say. I had a whole speech prepared. And I’m scared I won’t get to tell them if we let this escalate.”
“You’re worried you’ll have forgotten how to speak by the time I’m done with you?”
“Yes, and … that I’ll chicken out and never tell you, because you’re willing to take me back without having to justify myself or atone for leaving you again.”
There must be something in my voice that betrays how important this is for me, because he stops kissing the top of my breasts and adjusts us on the daybed.
We’re plastered onto one another on the narrow mattress, without a lick of space between us. I’m trapped between him and the backrest, and it might have been on purpose. Maybe some part of him is still worried I’ll change my mind and run for the hills.
“So, what did you want to tell me, princess?” he murmurs, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear.
Everything’s ready in my head. I’ve been rehearsing for over a week now. But as I sit right here, so close to him, it becomes a little jumbled. Especially with his amazing eyes, inches from mine. It’s probably why I begin more abruptly than I meant to.
“I know we both lost Ophelia. And I know it was so hard for you, too. I promise I’m not implying it was easy for you.
But … I had slipped into depression in the months that followed our move to Belgium.
And no matter how happy I was about being pregnant and the prospect of becoming a mom, it never truly went away.
Then, after she died, not only did I have to deal with the grief of losing her, but I also grappled with postpartum depression and survivor’s guilt.
The worst thing was knowing she died because I wasn’t paying enough attention to her.
I was in such a state of despair, Jax … I couldn’t pull myself out of it, no matter how hard I tried or wanted to. ”
I pause, the words heavy on my tongue. Admitting all this out loud, especially to him, is harder than I thought.