Chapter 3 #3
By the time we’re done, the restaurant has quieted down and we’re approaching closing time. I’m hit with the realisation that I don’t want the night to end.
“Come on. I’ll drive you home,” he says, rising from his seat.
I’m calling over a waitress to take care of the bill, but she only casts a sly smile at Peter before telling me it’s taken care of.
Of course.
They probably cast one look at the famous F1 driver and decided that he doesn’t need to pay, even though he has millions in his bank accounts.
I roll my eyes, shaking my head as he looks exasperated at me.
“What? I didn’t ask for that. I’d gladly pay that bill, even if I would be paying for that tool, Jeremy.”
I’d never expect Peter to pay for our meal; it’s more the principle that when the staff takes one look at him, he’s off the hook. But as he said himself, he didn’t ask for that, which means I can’t hold it over him.
“It’s not that. I just wanted to take care of it myself,” I tell him as we start making our way out of the restaurant.
When we’re nearing the exit and the coat closet, it gets more crowded around us, and Peter steps up closely behind me. When he places his hand on my back, the sensations in my core are right back.
Relax, Molly.
It’s just a simple touch from a man.
A very sexy man.
But still, just a man.
I’m in serious need of some release if one dinner, or rather dessert, with Peter can make me feel this unbalanced.
I’m handed my coat, and when Peter grabs it out of my hands before helping me put it on, I’m once again reminded of his ability to be a gentleman when he wants to be.
He continues to surprise me.
When we get out to the street, his car has been pulled around by the valet, who he tips before we settle into the car.
The restaurant is located in one of the nicer districts of Manana, and as he starts driving, I watch the flickering lights of the city pass by.
The upcoming race weekend is the Bahrain GP, and McLaren started strong, taking the first win of the season. I’m tempted to ask Peter what his strategy is going forward. Then I remember we haven’t discussed Formula 1 once throughout the evening, and it’s been so pleasant, so I decide against it.
I’m not surprised to see that he drives an Audi. Most drivers receive cars from their teams, especially those run by car manufacturers.
As Peter drives through the city towards the track, I realise I haven’t even told him where to go.
Maybe he knows I stay on one of our buses, along with most of the Star News team. Occasionally, I stay at a nice hotel, preferably with a good spa, but I like staying close to the track. It also saves time when getting to work.
“You staying close to the track?” he asks, looking at me out of the corner of his eye before turning his attention back to the road.
“Yes. I basically stay on track, in one of our buses.”
It’s not the most glamorous life, but I love it.
It makes me feel close to the sport and the family we’ve built in our team.
Movie nights in our lounge with too much popcorn and soda.
The occasional water fight when the weather gets too hot.
And best of all, dinners where we’ll discuss all the latest happenings on and off the track after an exhilarating race.
We drive in comfortable silence, with me looking over at Peter too many times for my own good but not being able to stop myself.
I’ve seen a different side to him tonight, or rather, several sides, and I’m feeling the effects all over.
His tattoos are peeking up from his collar, the dark ink a stark contrast to the white shirt he’s wearing. He catches my stare, raising that signature eyebrow, but doesn’t comment as I look away.
I sense his smile but will myself not to look again.
Too soon, we approach the gates to the track, and Peter drives over to our trailers before parking.
I look over at him, feeling my heartbeat in my chest.
“You should probably go before anyone sees you with the paddock bad boy,” he says lazily.
It’s quiet outside, my senses high-wired on all things Peter as he regards me with his intense stare.
“Yeah, wouldn’t want to ruin my reputation,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, desperate to have something to do when he’s looking at me so attentively.
“Better to be seen with a guy like Jeremy.”
That makes both of us chuckle, and even though I do feel bad for mocking him, he freaking snuck out on me, which means I’ll get a pass.
When Peter leans closer to me, I hold my breath, half-expecting him to kiss me.
Instead of going for my lips, he presses his own to my cheek, lingering a second before pulling back.
“Goodnight, Molly.”
Well shit.
I really shouldn’t be disappointed that he didn’t kiss my lips.
And I really shouldn’t be burning up on the inside from a simple kiss to the cheek.
But here I am, feeling the longing deep inside me.
“Goodnight, Peter.”
Then I carefully slip out of his car, careful not to slam the door on the beauty, before I make my way to the door.
I look back one last time, realising I’ve had the best night in a long time, with Peter Centimo, who might have more under the surface than I first thought.