Page 152 of Knot So Fast
We settle on the blanket, and I don't hesitate to feed her different combinations, watching her face as she discovers new flavors. A grape here, a piece of cheese there, my fingers lingering against her lips longer than necessary.
"This is perfect," she says, leaning back on her elbows to take in the view. "But I have to ask—why today? Why this?"
I consider my words carefully, a habit from years of commentary where every syllable matters. "Can I be honest with you?"
"Always."
"I love what I do," I start, looking out at the sea because it's easier than meeting her eyes. "Commentary, I mean. Being able to analyze races, break down strategies, share the sport with millions of people. But it's also made me too calculated. I see life like a race—always thinking three moves ahead, always analyzing the optimal strategy."
"That doesn't sound like a bad thing," she offers.
"It's not, usually. But sometimes it makes me take forever to make moves that should be simple. Actions that should be instinctive become these complex calculations of risk versus reward."
She shifts closer, giving me her full attention in that way she has that makes you feel like you're the only thing that matters. "Can you elaborate?"
I reach out, brushing a curl from her face and tucking it behind her ear. The gesture is simple, intimate, and I let my fingers linger against her cheek.
"Before you lost your memories," I admit, the words coming easier than expected, "I was taking things so slow with you. Glacially slow. Maybe because I didn't think I was worthy of having a love that was so fluid. So easy."
She doesn't interrupt, just watches me with those impossible eyes that shift from purple to blue depending on the light.
"With you, I didn't need to think. I could shut my mind off and just enjoy life for a few hours. No commentary, no analysis, just... being. But that scared me. Made me afraid to make moves, to show you how I really felt. I'm not sure I ever properly conveyed how much I loved you until you couldn't remember us anymore."
The regret in my voice is palpable, years of 'what-ifs' compressed into a single confession.
"So now," I continue, meeting her eyes properly, "I don't want to make the same mistake. That's why I wanted today—not just the cars or the picnic, but the chance to make sure you know that I really care for you. That you're not just part of a package deal with the pack, but someone I specifically, desperately want."
Her eyes have gone glassy with unshed tears, and when she blinks, one escapes down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb, the touch sparking something electric between us.
"Can I kiss you?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended. "Like I really mean to? Like I should have been kissing you all along?"
"You can do whatever you want," she whispers, and the permission in her voice nearly undoes me.
I don't hesitate this time. No calculations, no three-move planning, just instinct as I pull her close and claim her mouth with mine. The kiss is deep, desperate, full of all the words I never said the first time around. She tastes like strawberries and champagne from our picnic, but underneath is something uniquely her that makes my head spin.
She kisses back with equal fervor, her hands tangling in my hair, pulling me closer like she's trying to climb inside my skin. When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard, and her lips are swollen in a way that makes me want to dive back in immediately.
"That was..." she starts, then stops, touching her lips with wonder.
"Overdue," I finish, which makes her laugh.
We spend the next hour in easy conversation, trading kisses between bites of food, her camera capturing moments when I'm not prepared—me laughing at something she said, looking at her with what's probably naked adoration, the two of us together with the sea as our backdrop.
The sun climbs higher, warming the air despite the altitude. She creates a pillow from the extra blanket and settles with her head in my lap, completely relaxed in a way I rarely see her at the track or during training. Her dress has ridden up slightly, revealing more of those legs that have been driving me to distraction all morning, but there's something innocent about this moment that makes lust take a backseat to something deeper.
"Tell me about commentary," she says, her eyes closed against the sun. "What's it really like, being the voice that millions of people hear?"
So I tell her. About the preparation that goes into each race, studying every driver's history and tendencies. About the challenge of making split-second decisions about what to highlight when twenty things are happening simultaneously. About the weight of knowing that for many viewers, my words shape their understanding of the sport.
"Sometimes I miss being in the strategy seat," I admit, my hand combing through her hair absently. "Being part of the action instead of just describing it. But commentary lets me share my love for racing with people who might never get to experience it otherwise."
"Do you ever think about going back? To active racing, I mean?"
"Sometimes. Especially now, watching you and Lachlan out there. It awakens something competitive in me that commentary can't quite satisfy."
She opens her eyes, looking up at me with curiosity. "What stopped you from racing in the first place?"
The question hits a nerve I thought had healed. "Bad crash in my third year. Nothing like yours—I walked away with just a concussion and some broken ribs. But it made me realize I was better at seeing the whole picture than being part of it. My talent was always more mental than physical."
