Chapter 26
ALARIC
Istare at the connecting interior door that’s been taunting me for days. Knowing Evangeline is on the other side, just out of reach, has fueled countless fantasies about what could happen if I buried my doubts and stopped overthinking.
As it stands, avoiding her does nothing to quell my desire.
It’s been a long, lonely forty-eight hours. I didn’t see her at all on Thursday. I only caught a glimpse of her profile this afternoon when I passed through the cafeteria on my way to the pit wall.
Qualifying didn’t go well today. We’re P8 and P11 for tomorrow’s race. Heath was on used mediums for his hot lap—a superfluous error by the team. He should be in the top ten, and I can’t help but feel responsible for the snafu.
The day is done. I can’t foretell tomorrow’s results. Tonight, I have one focus, and I better act fast or I’ll lose my window to set this plan in motion.
Lifting my chin, I knock three times.
Evangeline’s voice cuts off. When it starts up again, it’s farther away. Exactly as I expected.
For a moment, I wait. Then, as her voice grows fainter still, I knock again.
A small part of me regrets interrupting her.
I know she’s live, because not only can I hear her through the wall, but after Japan, I used a discreet email address and subscribed to the highest membership tier she offers.
Now I receive alerts for all her sales and body-doubling sessions.
I even watched a few replays from the archive in the member portal.
Tonight, I’m not settling for watching her through my phone.
I promised myself I would make amends for what Luca has done to destabilize her life. She’s essentially working two full-time jobs because of him, and I’m almost certain she didn’t eat anything at headquarters today.
Is it a gross overuse of power to access the team swipe records to determine whether she’s eaten? Perhaps.
But it’s no less delusional than a team principal knocking on the door connecting his room to that of his employee after hours and intentionally catching her with her guard down, knowing she’ll let him in that way.
Muffled metal on metal refocuses my attention as Evangeline unlatches the door on the other side. My stomach swooshes as uncharacteristic nerves send my heart hammering at rapid speed against my ribcage.
When she opens the door, she’s a sight to behold.
She’s wearing a light pink sweatshirt with her business logo stitched along the front. The neck’s been cut out, making it hang off one shoulder. The lacy strap of a hot pink bra peeks out, taunting me.
The light clipped to the top of her phone casts a halo of illumination on her gorgeous face.
We lock eyes.
I fall harder.
Wordlessly, I hold up the brown paper bags I’ve been clutching as I worked up the nerve to knock.
“I brought supplies,” I mouth, tipping my chin, silently praying she lets me in like last time.
“We’re going to have to start playing a new game on these lives,” she says in her “on” voice.
That’s something else I’ve learned from watching older videos. Evangeline has a very specific energy and pitch when she’s live for her audience. Now that I’m aware of it, I’ve noticed her using it around the motorhome as well.
With me—and I assume with her friends—though, her octave lowers and she sounds like the version of herself I have the privilege of knowing.
“When someone knocks on my door and interrupts my stream, they have to cover shipping for every order that night.” She grins into the camera, no doubt reading the comments and reactions from her viewers.
I shrug, the movement catching her attention. The idea isn’t a bad one. I’ll support her and lighten her load in any way she’ll let me.
With her free hand, she holds up one finger, being sure to keep it off camera. Then she backs into her hotel room and motions me in.
I approach slowly, giving her space.
She doesn’t stop until she’s in the kitchen where her phone stand is set up. The workspace here is much neater than the one I stumbled upon in her hotel room in Japan. She snags her stand and a few other piles off the counter, then spins, continuing to keep the camera off me.
She retreats into the living room and arches a brow, leaving me to do my thing.
I pull out various ingredients and get to work.
The kitchen is fully functional and well stocked, just as I hoped.
Vinnie, one of Mick’s guys, shopped for me this afternoon.
I may or may not have told him that I wanted to prepare my own food.
Which isn’t entirely wrong. I’ll also be eating this meal.
My goal is to replicate the orzo pasta I made for Evangeline at my home before the start of the season. Vinnie sourced several local ingredients I’m eager to incorporate into the dish, so I’m hopeful this will be an even better version.
I forgo turning on music or cueing up a podcast, opting to listen to Evangeline as I work.
My only grievance is that with this setup, I can’t watch her while I cook. It’s a creepy sentiment, I realize, as I grate a fresh block of parmesan.
My body buzzes with pleasure. She let me into the room so easily and very quickly gave me space to do something for her. It may be small in comparison to the damage I’m trying to counterbalance, but it’s something.
When she reminds her viewers about her current shop specials and membership sale, nerves spark to life inside me.
She’s almost done.
With any luck, our night is just getting started.
She gives her final spiel, then falls silent for several minutes.
I hold my breath, waiting. Hoping. Wanting.
When she rounds the corner and comes into view, I finally allow myself to exhale.
Her eyes are dull with exhaustion, shoulders slumped like last time.
She pauses on the threshold, assessing my setup. “You’re here.”
“I am,” I hedge, offering what I hope is a reassuring smile before refocusing on the tomatoes I’m slicing for a salad.
I don’t know if she even likes salad. But Vinnie picked up basic ingredients, along with eight varieties of bottled dressing since I wasn’t sure what she might prefer.
In retrospect, eight might be overkill. Especially considering they were hard to source, since bottled dressing isn’t as common here as it is in the States.
If I needed a pulse check on my feelings for this woman, surely purchasing almost one hundred dollars in salad dressing is insight enough.
“Is this okay?” I ask. I wish she would come closer and give me an indication of what she’s thinking. “That I’m here, I mean?”
With her arms crossed over her chest, she pads toward me.
My exhalation locks up in my lungs, hope and desire suspending the practiced motion of breathing.
As she circles the island and closes the space between us, I lower my knife, shifting to face her.
Rather than stop at my side, she shimmies between my body and the countertop and peers up at me.
“It’s more than okay,” she whispers, blue eyes sparkling.
I grip the countertop on either side of her, effectively trapping her.
With a cheeky smile, she loops her arms around my waist and rests her chin against my chest.
“Hi,” she murmurs, the greeting soft and vulnerable.
“Hi, angel.”
Her nose scrunches in the cutest way. “Angel? That’s really what we’re going with?”
Shrugging, I ignore the edge of self-consciousness seeping in. Now that she’s in my arms, I’m more committed than ever to showing her how much I care. “It’s right there in your name,” I tell her. “Plus, when I watch your lives, and that bright light reflects like a halo against your pupils—”
Her eyes go wide. “You’ve watched my lives?”
I press my lips together, heat creeping through me.
“Did you know I was going live tonight? Did you plan all this?” She looks from me to the shopping bag and partially prepared ingredients spread across the island.
“I… Well, actually—” I mentally stumble through a series of explanations that could pass as a reasonable excuse for my obsessive behavior but come up short.
Fuck it.
Why the fuck should I be embarrassed to admit my desire to show up and care for this woman?
Yes, I did plan this. I stalked her socials, planned the menu based on her needs, and arranged my schedule so I’d be finished with work by the time she started her live stream.
Now, I’m standing in her hotel room, slicing tomatoes, initiating the most intentional interaction we’ve ever shared.
Clearing my throat, I stand straighter and lean into my truth. “I assumed you’d be exhausted after your live. I thought perhaps you could enjoy another bath while I cooked. Then we could sit down and have dinner together.”
Her eyes narrow, but the corners of her mouth turn up almost imperceptibly. “How do you know my hotel room even has a tub?”
Nope. Not going there. I’m eager to express my admiration and desire to spend time with this woman, but admitting I have anything to do with her luxury accommodations is a step too far.
“My room has one, so I figured yours does, too.” Licking my lips, I resist the urge to kiss her.
Her brows lift, hinting that she sees right through my lie. But rather than admonish me, she rests her cheek against my sternum, nestling close and taking in a deep breath.
When she exhales, her body relaxes a little more, her soft frame molding against me perfectly. We’re two puzzle pieces, clicking into place. Two weary souls, disarmed and vulnerable, trusting each other enough to lean in despite all the unknowns and potential consequences.
“Thank you for showing up for me,” she murmurs, the words muffled by the fabric of my polo.
I could stand like this forever, holding her, being a soft, safe place for her to land. She deserves soft. She deserves easy. She deserves to have her basic needs met and more.
With a breath in, relishing her scent, I drag one hand up her spine.
“Go relax.” Reluctantly, I release her, resisting the urge to kiss the top of her head. “Food will be ready in forty-five minutes.”
I step back to give her space and instantly miss her warmth and softness.