Chapter Four
THE NEXT MORNING, I arrive at the café with a plan.
The plan is simple: be professional. Take his order.
Bring his food. Do not think about the way he looked at me across the street yesterday while Kimberly's smile died on her face.
Do not think about the fact that his name is Santino Aleotti and he races cars for a living.
Do not think about anything except coffee pots and omelet orders and getting through this shift without dropping anything or saying something mortifying.
It's a good plan, but it only lasts for approximately seven minutes.
He walks in at seven-twenty-three (I'm not counting, except I am, I'm always counting), and he goes to the corner booth, and I walk over with the coffee pot and my best customer-service smile.
"Good morning," I say. Professional. Neutral. Perfect.
"Good morning, Thea."
My name in that accent does something to my nervous system that should probably be studied by science.
"Coffee?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"Please."
I pour. He watches me pour, which makes my hands slightly unsteady, but I manage not to spill anything, which feels like a victory.
"The omelet today?" I ask.
"Yes. Thank you." He pauses, and I'm about to walk away when he says, "What do you do when you are not working?"
I freeze. "What?"
"When you are not here. What do you do?"
It's such a simple question. Such a normal question. The kind of question people ask each other all the time during small talk. But coming from him, with that intensity in his dark eyes, it feels like more.
"I—" I don't know how to answer. Because what do I do? I go to school. I study. I sleep. I count things. I try not to think about Kansas. "I hike sometimes. There's a trail near here. By the frozen lake."
"Show me."
I blink. "What?"
"The trail. Show me."
"You want—you want me to show you a hiking trail?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you mentioned it. And I would like to see it."
I'm standing there with a coffee pot in my hand and approximately zero coherent thoughts in my brain because Santino Aleotti—professional race car driver, Monaco Grand Prix champion, man who lives a life I can't even begin to imagine—wants me to show him a hiking trail.
"I'm—I'm working until two," I say, which is not an answer but also not a refusal.
"I can wait."
"You want to wait until two o'clock to go hiking?"
"Yes."
"That's—it's February. It gets dark early."
"Then we will not wait until dark."
I should say no. I should tell him I have homework or I'm tired or I have literally any excuse that would make this reasonable. But what comes out of my mouth is: "Okay."
His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes does.
Something warm.
"Okay."
"I'll—I'll meet you here. At two."
"I will be here."
I walk back to the counter on legs that feel uncertain, and Jolie is beaming at me. “Well, well, well.”
I look at her in exasperation. “It’s like you’ve got supernatural hearing.”
“Only for the right things, I promise, and don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not.”
Jolie puts Wuthering Heights aside, and I almost feel honored. She doesn’t do that for just anyone or anything.
“This is good, Thea. Don’t let any evil voices in your head convince you otherwise.”
I press my hands flat against the counter. "He just wants to see the trail."
"Uh-huh."
"It's not a date."
"Okay."
"It's just—he's new to town. He probably doesn't know the area."
"Right. That's why he specifically asked what you do when you're not working, and then immediately said he wanted to see it. That's definitely about learning the area and not at all about spending time with you."
I want to argue with her some more, but Gail wants to talk to me about an order, and so I can only make a face before leaving.
Jolie has it wrong, I try convincing myself. This is not a date. Really. Right?
I’m just going to show him the trail.
That’s it.
Easy-peasy.
SIX HOURS LATER, AND I realize it’s all a lie.
It’s not easy peasy at all.
I cannot do this.
It's one-fifty-eight, and I'm in the bathroom of the café having what can only be described as a minor crisis.
My shift ended at two, but I told Santino I'd meet him here, which means I have approximately two minutes to look like someone who goes hiking regularly and not like someone who's about to pass out from anxiety.
I splash cold water on my face. It doesn't help.
I look at my reflection. My hair is falling out of its ponytail again, and there's a coffee stain on my shirt, and my eyes look too wide, too uncertain.
"You can do this," I tell my reflection. "It's just a hike. People hike all the time. It's not a big deal."
My reflection doesn't look convinced.
I dry my face. Retie my ponytail. Take three deep breaths that Sarah taught me.
I’m safe. I’m loved. I’m okay.
I walk out of the bathroom.
He's waiting by the front door. He's changed out of the sweater from this morning into a dark jacket and jeans, and he's got his hands in his pockets, and when he sees me, he straightens up.
"Ready?" he asks.
"I should change—"
"You look fine."
"I have a coffee stain—"
"Thea." He says my name like a period. "You look fine."
I don't feel fine, but I nod anyway. "Okay."
We walk to the parking lot together, and there's this moment where I realize I don't know whose car we're taking, and I'm about to offer mine when he gestures at his.
The wet slate vehicle. The one that probably costs more than my entire education.
"I don't—my car is here—"
"Your tires are still bald."
"They got me here fine—"
"Thea." He opens the passenger door. "Please."
It's the please that does it. The way he says it, not quite asking, not quite demanding, but something in between.
I get in the car.
The interior is exactly what I'd expect from someone who races professionally—sleek, minimal, expensive. The seats are leather. Everything is black and silver and impossibly clean. There's that new car smell that I thought was a myth but apparently isn't.
He gets in the driver's side, and suddenly we're in a very small space together, and I'm hyperaware of every single thing—the way he moves, the way his hands look on the steering wheel, the faint scent of his cologne that makes me think of places I've never been.
"Where is this trail?" he asks.
"Oh. Um. Take a left out of the parking lot, then—actually, I'll just direct you. It's easier."
He nods and starts the engine. It purrs to life, smooth and quiet, and we pull out onto the main road.
The drive takes fourteen minutes. I know because I'm counting in my head, trying to distract myself from the fact that I'm in a car with Santino Aleotti and we're going hiking together and I have no idea what to say to him.
But he doesn't seem to mind the silence, and eventually, I find myself simply watching—and well, okay, admiring—the way he drives. It’s like the car is a part of him, and it’s...breathtaking.
"Left here," I say when we reach the turnoff.
He turns.
"And then—there's a small parking area about half a mile up. You can't miss it."
He finds it easily. There are only two other cars in the lot—this trail isn't popular in winter. Too cold for most tourists. Too isolated.
We get out. The cold hits immediately, that sharp February air that makes your lungs ache and your eyes water. I pull my coat tighter and wish I'd thought to bring gloves. Or a hat. Or possibly a completely different personality that knows how to function around attractive men.
"This way," I say, and I start walking toward the trailhead.
He falls into step beside me. Not ahead, not behind. Beside. Like we've done this before. Like this is normal.
The trail starts easy, winding through trees that are bare and stark against the gray sky. Snow covers the ground in patches, crunching under our boots. The air smells like pine and cold and something clean that I can't name.
We walk in silence for a while. I'm counting steps (forty-seven to the first bend in the trail, sixty-three to the clearing where you can see the mountains), and I'm trying not to think about the fact that I'm alone in the woods with a man I barely know.
Except I do know him, don't I? I've been watching him for almost forty days. I know how he holds his fork, how he drinks his coffee, the exact expression he gets on Tuesday mornings when he reads something on his phone that makes his jaw tighten.
I know him, and I don't know him at all.
"Kansas," he says suddenly.
I glance at him. "What?"
"You said you grew up in Kansas."
"Oh. Yeah. Small town. Middle of nowhere." I wait for it—the Wizard of Oz joke. Everyone makes the Wizard of Oz joke. It's like a reflex. You say Kansas, and people immediately say something about Dorothy or tornadoes or red shoes or clicking your heels together three times.
But he doesn't.
He just nods, like Kansas is a perfectly reasonable place to be from.
"And now you are here."
"Yep."
"Why Jackson Hole?"
I should have expected this question. It's a normal question. A reasonable question. But answering it means explaining things I don't want to explain. Things about courtrooms and prison sentences and the way my father looked at me before they took him away.
"Fresh start," I say finally.
"From what?"
"Just—life. Kansas. Everything."
He's quiet for a moment, and I can feel him looking at me, but I keep my eyes on the trail ahead. Then: "You do not have to tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"Whatever it is you are not saying."
I look at him sharply, but his expression is neutral. Not pushing. Not prying. Just...acknowledging that there's something I'm not saying, and that's okay.
"I'm not—"
"You are." He says it gently. "But you do not have to. I only asked because I wanted to know. Not because I expect an answer."
Something in my chest loosens slightly. Just slightly.
We keep walking. The trail climbs gradually, and my breath starts coming harder, white clouds in the cold air. He's barely winded. Of course he's not. He's a professional athlete.