Page 74 of Hot Lap
I shake myself. “God. Don’t be pathetic, Maiken. He has a job to do. I bet none of the WAGs go to these practice things.”
My phone buzzes and I pull it from my pocket. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to hoping it was Reece, but it’s a message from Maria.
Hola! Find us in the Telco lounge if you get bored. Petra’s already beating everyone and it’s not even qualies.
I read it twice.
She’s in the Telco lounge at the paddock with the other WAGs.
I lean back against the door. “Well, fuck.” There goes that theory.
The other wives and girlfriends are at the track. Dressed. Smiling. Part of it. While I’m alone in a hotel suite with another empty meal tray and a fourth flower bouquet from a man who can’t seem to decide whether he’s trying to protect me or hide me.
Maybe he thinks they’re the same thing.
I don’t text back. I just stand there for a while, letting reality settle in and embracing the ache.
Because I get it.
This isn’t my world. Not really. I’m the stray he brought home from Vegas. I wear the wrong clothes, have the wrong résumé, live on the wrong side of the tracks.
As much as I want to believe last night meant something, the cake and closeness and, hell, the way he looked at me, maybe it wasn’t enough to get me a seat beside my husband today.
Hmm. I pull a face.
The thing is, Lear treated me like that. Like I was his little disposable rebellion to be hidden in Vegas while he went home to his wife. So I know what it feels like to be a dirty little secret, and thisisn’tthat. Which is confusing.
I honestly can’t suss out how Reece feels about me. When we’re together, he’s all attentive and sweet and turning myinsides to goo. He sends me flowers. He pays attention to my work. He pays attention tome.
Then this happens. I get left behind.
“So howshouldI feel?” I pull out my phone and check the time in Vegas. Frankie’s probably at work and the girls are getting ready for their shows. Which means no one to help me unpack that question and this weird-ass situation.
Ugh. This is all sostupid.
I pocket the phone and glance around Reece’s room.
I may as well snoop a little while I’m here. It’s not something I’m prone to, but this is the man I married. How else am I going to get to know him and figure out what makes him tick and why I’m still at the fucking hotel today? I mean, isn’t it my wifely duty to pry into all his deep, dark secrets?
Or at least know what kind of toothpaste he uses?
The answer is Crest. The plain old white paste kind.
The man goes for classics.
This is confirmed by the watches (three of them) I find neatly lined up on his bedside table. All Swiss and I’m sure all absurdly expensive. The one he wore last night is among them. A Bregeut. I pick it up and am surprised by the weight. It feels masculine, but not in an aggressive way. It’s solid, elegant, reliable. Itfeelslike something that should be on Reece Prichard’s wrist. I put it back and continue my investigation. He wears boxer briefs, black only. Sweats and tee shirts with the PNW Nitro mountain logo. Everything is neatly folded and stored with almost military precision. In the closet, I find two suits. One is dark gray linen with impeccable tailoring. The other is a muted mossy green. Both have pale pink linings. I’m impressed with their quality and his commitment to the team colors. The man understands the assignment and he’s devoted to the cause.
Devoted. Interesting.
I close the closet door and return to my room.
The ache in my chest is dull and steady now. I’m not mad, not exactly. More… bruised in that stupid, quiet way you can’t explain without sounding melodramatic.
I tidy the lunch tray, top off my fizzy water from the bottle, and grab the remote. If I’m gonna to be stuck here, I might as well watch him drive and see what Iwasn’tinvited to join.
God, that sounds so middle school I actually roll my eyes at myself.
The screen flares to life with bright colors and glaring lights, a rotating overhead shot of the paddock, and a voiceover from the commentary team.
