Page 52 of Hot Lap
No. Not over text.
She deserves a real conversation. Face to face. Sober and honest. He locks his phone, shoving it back into his pocket, and lengthens his stride. He’s not going to let Graham Pritchard be the one to define this marriage. Not for her. Not for him.
Not ever.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I wake slowly Thursday morning.Thick blackout curtains mute the daylight and leave my room shadowed. I lay there listening to the low sound of room service carts, the distant thuds of doors in the hallway, and muffled conversation as Nitro’s people head out for their day.
Qatar. Race week.
I slip my left hand free of the covers and lift it overhead. The ring remains on my finger, winking in the low light like a saucy little bitch.
Yup. Still married.
Soweird.
I stretch, every muscle aching with the soft fatigue of the night before. It wasn’t a stage performance, but it might as well’ve been. Smiling for hours without looking desperate, maintaining perfect posture without looking like someone rammed a stick up my ass, tracking every fucking little invisible social cue. Last night sucked the life outa me.
Still, I smile as I sit up and order breakfast.
Twenty minutes later, there's a soft knock at the door. "Room service," calls a polite voice.
I pull on a hotel robe and cross to the door, opening it to find a young man with a cart.
"Good morning, Mrs. Pritchard. Your breakfast."
Mrs. Pritchard.
The name still feels like someone else's clothing I've borrowed.
"Thank you." I step aside to let him wheel the cart in.
He arranges everything with practiced efficiency, then pauses at the door. "Is there anything else you require?"
"No, this is perfect." I reach for my purse, but he shakes his head. "It's all taken care of, ma'am." He smiles politely. "Enjoy your day."
When he's gone, I consider the ridiculous spread — silver domes, pressed white linens, fresh flowers tucked into the napkin fold. It's something from a movie, and it feels too posh.
This breakfast is for a woman accustomed to room service and caviar, champagne and pearls and dove gray cashmere. It’s not for a girl raised in a one-bedroom apartment on food stamps and church donations and whatever leftovers Gran brought home from D’s All-Nighter, her other-other part-time job. It’s not for a girl who’s been pretending to be special since she was old enough to twirl. The one who’s still pretending, still faking it ’til she makes it.
“Pretty sure you don’t have to fake anything, Mai.”That’s what Reece said last night, and I wonder how he can be so sure.
I hesitate, guilt gnawing at me. I was told it was okay, that my husband can afford it. Still, the little voice in my head — the one grateful for free lunch programs — whispers that this is a luxury I'm not supposed to touch. Back home, we never went out for breakfast. You got what you could with food stamps and charity or you didn't eat.Thisfeels like cheating.
Still, I’m not stupid. I’m not gonna let this food or this room or any of this opportunity go to waste. So I sit.But just asI'm lifting the silver dome, there's a knock at the door. Another delivery.
When I open it, I'm hit with the heady scent of roses — not just a dozen, but dozens and dozens and dozens of perfect crimson blooms, arranged in a massive, overflowing bouquet. The concierge wheels it in with a smile and a quiet, "Compliments of Mr. Pritchard." He shifts the first night’s flowers to the low coffee table, then places this extravagant display by the window and leaves.
I stare at the sea of flawless red blossoms, overwhelmed in a way that has nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with my heart cracking wide open.
Then I remember the performance of a lifetime I gave last night and shake off hesitation. Sitting down, I pour a cup of coffee and lift the lid on a perfect plate of fruit, eggs, and a lovely croissant.
“Damn it, Maiken, you deserve this.”
As I eat, I ponder last night’s dinner. There’d been polished silver and bone china, caviar canapés passed around like candy, and Veuve Clicquot flowing freely. The sheer effortless luxury of it all had overwhelmed me, though I'd hidden it behind smiles and laughter. It wasn't just the display of wealth. It was the expectation of always having that much wealth, of taking it for granted. It was a whole other universe. And somehow, I was expected to walk in like I belonged there.
Fuck. Me.
