18. Alaric
ALARIC
SUZUKA, JAPAN
The bus driver up front huffs and yanks on the lever that opens the doors, snagging my attention.
“Sorry, sorry,” a musical voice floats up the stairs, followed a second later by footsteps.
Evangeline appears, wide-eyed, focus darting from place to place.
I rise out of my seat. Because it’s the chivalrous thing to do. Not because I’m equal parts surprised and delighted to see her.
“I didn’t know you’d be here.” I blurt out the greeting and immediately wince. The desperation behind my words is pathetic. Of course I didn’t know she’d be here—it’s not my job to keep track of her whereabouts.
A dozen employees from Granata are volunteering at the Kyoto Animal Rescue Isle today as part of a broader Formula 1 outreach initiative.
Each team takes turns providing volunteers at grand prix all over the world.
When it’s our turn to serve, we try to ensure we send a nice mix of staff from all departments.
It makes sense that Mauricio would send Evangeline, given the ebb in the rep assessment team’s workload at the start of a race week.
Despite the logic, I’m wholly unprepared for my visceral reaction to being in her presence now. This is the first time I’ve seen her since we arrived in Japan.
“Please find a seat,” the driver instructs.
Eyes flaring, Evangeline catches her lips between her teeth and scans the bus for open seats.
On instinct, I step out into the aisle, block her path, and extend one hand. “You’re welcome to sit with me.” The moment the words are out, I internally scold myself for the complete lack of chill behind the suggestion.
She considers the vacancy beside me.
We’re on a luxury charter bus, so there’s plenty of room between the individual seats. Too much space, honestly, for my liking.
“You’re sure?” she asks, worrying her glossy red bottom lip once more.
The urge to cradle her face in my hands and pluck it from between her teeth hits me.
My god. The way my control withers to nothing when I’m in her presence is pathetic.
“Absolutely,” I assure her, stepping back a bit more to make room.
With a grateful smile, she squeezes past me.
Once she’s settled and the bus is moving, she pulls out her laptop, headphones, and a notebook, then lowers the tray attached to the seat in front of her.
She peeks over at me then, catching me watching her, and a tentative smile teases the corners of her mouth, making that tiny dimple come out to play. “Hi.”
“Hello. How was your flight to Japan?”
She wrings her headphones, though she quickly catches herself and sets them down.
“Really good. I slept for most of the flight. That was a first for me. It was awesome being in business class.” Her cheeks pink with the confession.
“Our ops director prioritizes comfort for the team whenever she can.”
Internally, I groan. I don’t want to talk about work with this woman. I want to talk about her. I have an unexpected ninety minutes of her undivided attention, and I want to take full advantage of it.
Mentally scrambling, I rush to ask, “What are you working on?”
Another question about work. My god.
“Oh.” She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip once more.
I ball my hands into fists to stop myself, fighting the urge to reach out and soothe her concern.
“I have a body-doubling session in ten minutes,” she says, her mouth turning into an uncertain frown. “I assumed I could do it on the ride to the sanctuary. I didn’t think—”
“Of course you can do it,” I insist.
I’ve got ten minutes, then.
Grappling for a topic change, I ask, “Do you like animals?”
It’s a good thing my hands are already balled up. It helps keep me from smacking my palm against my face. Dammit. What a ridiculous question.
She smirks, side-eyeing me with a twinkle behind her eyes like she’s picked up on my self-censure. “I like them enough that I don’t eat them,” she reminds me.
Oh. That makes sense. “I assumed you were a vegetarian because of the texture of meat.”
Her eyes brighten. “That’s part of it. But when I was seven, I realized the turkey my dad prepared for Thanksgiving was actually a turkey. I had an obsession with penguins and toucans around that time, so I couldn’t stand the idea of eating any kind of bird. I’ve been a vegetarian ever since.”
“Are penguins and toucans still your favorite?”
She shakes her head, laughing to herself. “They’re on the list for sure, but my favorite changed year to year growing up. Although I did have a three year-streak where I obsessed about giraffes. Specifically reticulated giraffes.”
I roll the word around in my head—reticulated—but come up without a definition. “What kind of giraffe?”
She whips out her phone and leans over her armrest, closing the space between our seats.
My pulse picks up from the proximity.
“The reticulated giraffe is the largest of the species and tallest land mammal,” she says. “It gets its name from the Latin word reticulata, which translates to net or web. They have a defined, net-like pattern to their patches, see?” She holds up her phone, showing me the screen.
I home in on the photo but am quickly distracted by the way her fingers delicately grasp the device and the way each of her nails is polished Granata red.
Clearing my throat, I will myself to refocus. “What—what else do you know about giraffes?”
She side-eyes me again, her expression tightening this time. “Do you really want to know?”
Yes.
I want to know every detail she’s willing to share.
I want to discover what makes her who she is: what she likes, what she hates, how she views the world, what she wants most out of life.
“I do,” I confirm, hoping like hell I sound sincere.
She doesn’t speak. Like she’s waiting for me to change my mind or tell her I’m kidding.
She’ll have to wait an entire lifetime. Because I’m hanging on her every word.
“The Masai giraffe are a smaller species,” she finally continues. “They get their name from the maple leaf-like patterns of their patches. Oh.” She straightens. “Have you ever seen a giraffe’s tongue?”
“Maybe?” I hedge.
“They’re dark blue or purple. Do you know why?”
“No clue,” I admit, smiling.
She shifts a little closer.
I can’t help but lean in.
“To prevent sunburn,” she explains. “They also have massive, heavy hearts. I’m talking twenty or twenty-five pounds. That’s how big they have to be to pump blood all the way up a giraffe’s neck.”
“Fascinating,” I murmur, examining the freckles dusted over the bridge of her nose.
Her vast knowledge is impressive. But it’s her unabashed enthusiasm that truly transfixes me. I don’t think I’ve ever cared about anything outside of work and my son as much as she cares about giraffes.
“Do they have giraffes at the rescue?” I wonder out loud.
She nods enthusiastically. “They have three Masai, one of which is only two years old. The email Mauricio forwarded mentioned we might have a chance to feed them.”
The hopeful note of her comment zips right to my heart, bringing with it a need to ensure she gets to feed a giraffe today.
No matter what it takes.
Her phone vibrates then, startling us both and breaking the moment.
Sitting back in her seat, she frowns at the screen. “My session starts in five minutes.” She scrunches her nose in the cutest way. “I’m going to have to put headphones on,” she tells me with what I swear is a hint of regret coating the words.
“No worries.” I keep my tone light, casual, despite how deeply troubled I am by the loss of the quality time I wish we could share. “I have my own work to catch up on.”
I reach for my tablet, and as Evangeline settles in, I pull up my email.
While she greets a few people who join her call, I eavesdrop, watching out of the corner of my eye as she reads a message in the chat box and laughs.
A hot pang of jealousy hits me square in the chest. I want to be the person she’s laughing with; the one to earn all her smiles. Shaking my head, I chide myself.
Get it together, Ric.
I have plenty of work to do. Hell, I almost pulled out of this engagement so I could review more sim data for this week’s race. Amira, though, insisted I be present for this engagement, and Quinn assured me he’d carve out time for me to review what we collect after the practice sessions.
Despite my heavy workload and my usual ironclad focus, I spend the rest of the bus ride pretending to scroll on my tablet while sneaking glances at Evangeline. It’s indulgent and ridiculous and so out of character for me, but I can’t stop myself from hanging on her every word.
I’m so fucking screwed.