Page 6 of Hot Lap
"Maybe you will someday." I reach for the check that Dini leaves on the table.
But Reece is faster. "I invited you to dinner, remember?"
Normally, I’d argue — I hate the assumption that men should always pay — but something in his expression stops me. It's not arrogance or expectation, more like he wants to do something nice.
Still, I pull out my wallet. "Fine, but I'm leaving the tip."
Outside, the night has turned chilly. Neon signs cast us in alternating shades of pink and blue as we stroll back toward the Strip.
I don't want the evening to end. I like having company, and Reece is low-key and easy to be with. No pressure. No expectations. He’s as refreshing for me as I guess my F1ignorance is for him. "Where are you staying?" I pause at the end of the block.
"My brother’s name is Wyn, so guess."
He means he’s got a room at the Wynn. I laugh and ask, “The Encore?”
Reece chuckles. “Pretty sure the asshole gets comped a room.” He side-eyes me. “Do you live nearby?”
“Nah. My apartment's about twenty minutes from here, in Henderson."
Reece checks his watch — some fancy European thing that’s probably worth more than my car — and I brace for the brush-off. It's late, after all, and he's probably got racing shit to do tomorrow.
Instead, he surprises me. "Can I walk you to your car?"
“Sure, if you don’t mind going back to the Oyster.”
“That’s quite alright.” He offers his arm again, and I take it, then he frees me of my garment bag. “Let me carry that for you.”
“Are you always this gentlemanly, Reece Pritchard?”
He chuckles. “Not on track.”
I laugh. We stroll and talk, and I think he’s gotta be one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. We reach the parking lot behind the Oyster.
"That's my ride." I point to my ancient, reliable silver Honda Civic. "Not exactly a Ferrari."
"Gets you where you need to go though, doesn't it?" He walks me to the driver's side, and I'm struck again by how he carries himself — confident but not cocky, his movements fluid and controlled.
Reece Pritchard isbeautiful.
I unlock the door and face him, suddenly unsure. This is usually the awkward part — the will-he-won't-he moment, the calculation of whether a goodnight kiss is on the cards. Or even should be.
Reece solves the dilemma by taking my hand and bringing it to his lips. The gesture is unexpectedly old-fashioned, and it makes my stomach go all ahh-wooo-gah.
"I enjoyed dinner, Maiken, and your company."
"I should be thanking you for the rescue and the meal."
He smiles, still holding my hand. "Listen, I'd like to see you again. Properly." He meets my gaze directly, no games. “I’ll be back in the States in late December.”
"Okay. I’ll be around." I pull out my phone. "Gimme your number."
As he recites it, I type it into my contacts, then send him a quick text so he has mine. His phone buzzes in his pocket.
"Goodnight, Reece." I take my costume from him and open my car door.
"Goodnight, Maiken."
I put the garment bag in the back, then slide into the driver's seat, but pause before closing the door. "That was you, right? The big tip after my performance? You’re RP11."
