Page 64 of Hot Lap
I’m making it way too easy for him to wound me.
I spend twenty of those thirty minutes pulling clothes from my closet. Branca's "F1 Qatar appropriate" selections all scream elegant but whisper dull. Nothing feels like me until I pull out a flowing midnight blue caftan with delicate gold embroidery around the neckline and cuffs. It's conservative enough for local customs but has a boho vibe I can work with.
I twist my hair into a sleek center-parted style worthy of Cher circa 1972, add dramatic winged eyeliner that extends just a touch too far to be modern, and finish with a nude lip. The gold bangles I brought from Vegas complete the look, turning Qatar-appropriate into Mai-appropriate with just a few strategic touches.
Not my usual style, but when in Rome... or Doha. Still, the vintage-inspired makeup makes me feel like myself, even in borrowed clothes.
When Reece knocks on the hallway door exactly thirty minutes later (the man is punctual to the second), I take one final look in the mirror. Not bad for impromptu hotel fashion, and at least I don't look like some fuckin’ trophy wife.
I open the door to find him leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. His eyes widen slightly as he takes in my appearance.
"You look incredible." His green gaze lingers on my dramatic eyeliner before locking on. "I like what you've done with the..." He gestures vaguely toward my whole look.
I snort. "Branca didn't exactly order vintage treasures." I step into the hall and strike a pose, hand to jaw, elbow out, hip popped, bright smile. "Had to improvise."
He laughs and offers his arm. "I love that you've kept your style even with all this madness." I slip my hand over his elbow and as we walk toward the elevator, he adds, "Peony was so cookie-cutter. Like she was afraid to stand out."
I side-eye him. "You know I was warned not to overshadow you during race weekends."
His answering laughter echoes in the hallway. "Whoever told you that didn’t know who they were dealing with. Never going to happen and I never want to see you try. That would be a tragedy, Mai."
Something warm rolls down my spine at his words. It's one thing to appreciate someone's style, it's another entirely to encourage their uniqueness.
We find a quiet spot tucked into the corner of a casual bistro inside the hotel. No cameras, no team handlers. Just low light, soft music, and the clink of silverware on plates.
I get pasta. He has grilled fish, brown rice, veggies. We chat about nothing important at first. The food. His travel schedule. What Branca bought for me to wear.
I sip wine, while Reece has tea.
Slowly our edges soften.
He stirs milk into his second cup. "You said once you had an ex who hurt you. You don't have to tell me, but if you want to, I'm listening."
I toy with my wineglass for a second. "Yeah. Lear Valjean. He was older. Rich. Flashy. The kind of guy who turns heads everywhere he goes. He made me feel special for a little while."
Reece watches and listens. He’s a good listener.
"Except I wasn't. Not really. I was just something shiny and new, a rebellion against his tidy life. So when I stopped being convenient, I became disposable." I take a breath. "It took me a long time to realize that being used isn’t the same thing as being loved."
He reaches across the table and covers my hand. "You deserved better."
I squeeze his fingers back. His palm is warm and slightly calloused, his touch strong but surprisingly gentle. Reece has racer's hands, and it's been so long since someone touched me like I'm valuable, not just fuckable, that I have to look away ’cause I don’t wanna get all weepy in front of him.
Redirect, Maiken. Redirect!
"What about you? Were you with Peony for a long time?”
"You remember our conversation from Vegas?"
He strokes his thumb over the back of my hand, and oh my god, if he keeps that up I’m in serious trouble because his touch is doing unmentionable shit to my unmentionables and he’s not even touchingthem.
"I remembersomeof Vegas." Does he know he’s wrecking me?
He lifts my hand and turns it so the diamonds of the engagement ring wink under the light hanging over our table. "This ring was meant for her. I told you I caught her cheating. Walked in and..." He exhales roughly. “That broke something in me."
My stomach twists and I abandon thoughts of getting laid for thoughts of how deeply that must’ve wounded him. "I'm sorry." I mean, I’m sorry I don’t remember that conversationandthat she treated him like someone who didn’t matter.
He shrugs, but it's not careless. It's self-protective. "She loved the driver and the lifestyle, but she didn’t love me. I think I knew that for a while. Just didn't fancy admitting it to myself."
