Page 86 of Double Apex

Oh fuck almighty—please kiss me good night.

The venue door behind us opens and closes, and as it does, a ripple of laughter leaks out, and I remember the blonde who was ogling Cosmin earlier. I sidestep away from him. A darksedan turns into the drive and coasts around the curve—I’m pretty sure it’s my ride.

“Okey dokey,” I tell Cosmin, planting a hand on his chest and giving him a hearty pat. “See you at the paddock.”

He tucks a loose tendril of hair behind my ear. “It’s a pleasure to have you back.”

We stare at each other for too long, and the car glides up and stops at the curb. I deliver another pat, just as an excuse to touch him—I’ll admit it.

“Have a good rest of your evening. There’s a busty blonde in there clamoring to talk with you. A roomfullof women, really. You’ve got your pick.”

He shakes his head and places both hands on my cheeks, and holy shit he’s going to kiss me, and I might be even more excited than the first time it happened in Santorini.

But nope. He tilts my head down and grazes his lips against my forehead.Ugh, a pity kiss.Is anything worse?

He says with a melancholy smile, “When you’re not in the room, it may as well be empty, draga mea.” He looks down at my left hand, holding the green pocket square, and closes my fingers around it. “Keep that, please.”

In the dark of the car on the way back to the hotel, very discreetly, I reach under my dress and tuck the handkerchief into my panties, and a shiver tears through me.

26

USA

EARLY NOVEMBER

COSMIN

When I was a child, the American TV programs I saw were mostly old family sitcoms and dramas that were cheap to broadcast in Europe. Because of this, the mid-century American aesthetic has always appealed to me: the huge cars, white picket fences, fathers with briefcases and mothers in heels and pearls, diners and ice cream parlors.

And the food. I’ve eaten in the finest restaurants in the world and sampled nearly every cuisine, but something like a checkered-blanket picnic circa 1962 holds a special glamour.

In July, Phaedra and I talked about the US Grand Prix in Texas, and we planned to enjoy a day trip driving around early in the race week. Sitting in my hotel room last night after arriving here in Austin, staring out at the city lights, I felt quite sorry for myself.

The six races since my P2 in Hungary have been a mixed bag, with podium finishes at Monza, Sochi, and Suzuka, and various disappointments elsewhere. There was Valle’s disaster at Spa. A gearbox failure in Singapore. Botched pit stop in Mexico.

I’ve three races left to get my win, and the focus on that—strategy meetings, brutally intense training sessions, DiL simulations—has mercifully kept me from thinking about Phaedra every waking moment. But this race week in her home country is especially difficult for me.

Which is why, when I awoke this morning, I decided to risk clearing my day to reclaim some semblance of the outing I’d once so eagerly anticipated. I canceled the endurance run scheduled with Guillaume, made a few phone calls to arrange details, and put on the shirt Phaedra has mentioned is especially flattering.

In the elevator on the way down to the dining room, a young woman with an elfish face, rose-gold hair, and brown eyes steps in from the floor reserved by Team Easton, two levels below Emerald’s. We’re alone, and she drapes herself coyly into the corner after I greet her. She blows a bit of stray fringe off her forehead, lips in a sensual pout, and eyes me.

“You’re Owen’s friend, right? Cosmo?”

Her voice is low and a touch raspy, something to which I’ve always been partial. She’s in a sleeveless shirt and spandex shorts, standing in her stocking feet with a pair of trainers dangling by the laces from one hand—on her way to the hotel’s gym, I presume.

“Cosmin.” I extend my hand to shake.

“I’m Peach—Brooklyn’s friend.” She nods at the ceiling. “Staying with ’em this week.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Ah! The infamous Peach. From Los Angeles, yes? Your reputation precedes you.”

“In the flesh, babyboy,” she singsongs, opening her arms. Her gaze prowls me in assessment. “You should come to our party tonight.”

“A party?” I reply, warming to her game. “I’ve not heard about this. Who is coming?”

“You and everyone else, if we do it right.” The elevator chimes, stopping at the dining room level. As the doors glide open, she adds in a whisper, “It’ll just be the four of us.”

Her eyes move from my face to something behind me, and her smile falters. I turn to find Phaedra standing with one hand in the pocket of her favorite jeans, the other holding a half-eaten croissant. She chews, leisurely, her expression sardonic. As the door begins to close, she stops it with an elbow.

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