Page 3 of Double Apex

But for my own amusement? I wouldn’t mind Ardelean being taken down a few cocky pegs by tripping over his feet and stumbling into dog shit, preferably after asking out the woman of his dreams and being publicly shot down.

His black-flecked blue-gray eyes hold a smug glimmer as he looks over at me. “You like my time? 1'22.486. How’s that for a push?”

“Congrats on doing your literal job,” I reply, bored. “You guys done here? Let’s talk.”

“Beautiful.”

God, I’m already so sick of how he says that. It’s like he learned English with a Romanian-to-bullshit dictionary. Among the things it taught him: “beautiful” is a synonym for “yes,” and every woman should have a goddamned pet name.

I stalk toward the hallway. I assume he’ll follow, if for no other reason than to stare at my ass, despite the universally unflattering cut of the team blacks.

In the conference room I was just in, a couple of aero techs are talking, gnawing on sponsor-supplied gluten-free granola bars.

“Gents,” I announce, “I need the room.”

They look confused until Cosmin follows me in, at which point their expressions imply they know why I want to be alone with him. Thanks to the heads-up from Lars, I now have to assume everyone thinks I’m carrying a torch for F1 Dracula.

Great.

I close the door behind the exiting men and turn to find Cosmin with the fridge open, taking his sweet time to search for the perfect water bottle. I refuse to let it needle me, staring at the back of his dumb head until he’s done.

He reclines against a table in the exact place I was standing while waiting for the car to come in. It bothers me, his being in precisely the same spot. It’s as if he knows. Like he’s taunting me, touching me.

He cracks the cap and drinks, Adam’s apple dipping, gaze unflinching, a faint smile on his lips.

“Can I help you, draga?” he asks after a breath.

“Yeah, perfect—let’s start with that. What does it mean? Is it Romanian for ‘bitch’ or something?”

His eyebrows draw together. “What the shit? No.”

The accent is not unattractive, I reluctantly concede. His words come out likeWot the sheet?and it’d be cute if he weren’t a total fuckwad.

“It is like, ‘dear’ or ‘darling,’” he goes on to explain. “A simple word.”

“Gotcha. Not appropriate. Unless you’re gonna come up with cutesy-pooh Romanian endearments for everymanon the team, knock it the hell off.”

He nods, looking down as if trying for humility. But I notice he also doesn’t agree.

“Next order of business,” I press on. “Your cheeky sass over the radio? Not cool. I’d like to be able to use the word ‘push’ without you firing back some junior-high sex joke.”

“I only said, ‘I thought you’d never ask.’ If you heard something provocative”—he tilts his mouth—“that might beyou.”

My hands grip the table edge. I notice him notice, and it annoys me enough to hit below the belt.

“Okay, look, you horny cliché. I get that you think you’re ten pounds of brilliant in a five-pound sack because of the job you did last season with the bucket of bolts you drove for Team Greitis. Debut year in F1. Huzzah.”

I lean in and enunciate as if talking to a child.

“You may be a better driver than I am, but I’m smarter than you. Don’t cross me, or I won’t rest until your Transylvanian ass gets busted back down to F2. Or better yet,no onewill give you a seat, and you find yourself hawking protein shakes on late-night infomercials.”

I tap the center of my chest.

“Smarter. Than. You.I was doing calculus and rebuilding engines for fun when you were still wetting the bed.”

For a moment I think I’ve gotten to him. There’s a hardness to those blue eyes.Points, me.

He smiles. “I’ve made a lot of beds wet…” Pushing off the table, he strolls to the door with infuriating leisure. “But not for that reason.”

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