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“Don’t be ridiculous. Everybody loves my company.” I bite down on the inside of my cheek to hide my amused chuckle. I can’t let him see that I found that funny. He’d never let it go. “Your mum told me to come and get you. Dinner is ready unless you want to stay up here and pretend you hate me,” he says, completely unbothered by his own words.
“I don’t pretend,Linc, I just hate you.” His eyes grow dark from the way I addressed him. There is nothing he hates more than when I call him “Linc.” I don’t know why he dislikes it, but it’s my secret weapon. He usually leaves once I say it, which is why I’m confused when he steps into my room with a soft expression on his face.
“Why are you taking down your art?” he asks, and I cock an eyebrow.
“That’s none of your business,” I reply before focusing on taking down Roger Federer’s painting.
“Seriously, Nevaeh, you love them. Why would you take them down?” Lincoln is right. I do love them more than any other possession I have, but the reminder of what I’ll never have is too painful to keep looking at.
“Don’t pretend to care,” I spit the words, and he lifts one of the frames I’ve pulled off the wall to inspect it. The thought of ripping it out of his hands occurs to me, but I’d like to think I’m more mature than that when it comes to him.
“I don’t pretend, butterfly, I just care,” he says, using my words from before to confuse me even further. “Haven’t you lost enough from your injury? Don’t let it take more from you.”
This makes my blood boil.
“You, out of all people, have no right to say that to me. Get the fuck out of my room, Lincoln, and leave me alone.”
Anger has overtaken any other emotion I have ever felt toward him as I stand up and hover over the Formula One driver. He raises both of his eyebrows before lowering my artwork and standing up too, making sure to be close enough so I feel his hot breath on my skin. Once upon a time, I’d have shivered from anticipation.
Now, I just want to kick him where it hurts most.
“When will you ever let go of what happened?” he asks, his lips now merely a few centimeters from mine.
“When will you understand that I can’t stand being in the same room as you?” I lift my hair into a ponytail while moving toward my closet.
“Please, Nevs, we both know seeing me is the best part of your day. Gets you all hot and riled up,” he says and gives me one last smirk before leaving my room without speaking again.
Part of me is tempted to grab one of my pillows, follow him down the stairs, and hit him over the head with it. Another part is too busy mourning the loss of my friend to do anything other than stand in my closet, swallowing down the tears of anger.
How could I ever forgive him for what he said to me that night?
Chapter 4
Nevaeh
Somehow,Imanagedtoconvince Mama to let me stay in my room, using the excuse of having to write an article for my new job. She wanted to argue with me, but Papa stepped in, placed a hand on her shoulder, and told me he’d bring me a plate later.
I’ve been sitting in front of my laptop for an hour now, trying to do as I said I would. Write the article.
‘Formula One is an exciting racing sport with ten teams fighting vigorously for the Constructors’ Championship. Twenty drivers make up the starting grid, racing to grasp the Drivers’ Championship Title, the most desired trophy of the sport.’
I stop writing because this is not even close to good enough. My new bosses are expecting my best work, and, clearly, I’m not at the top of my game at the moment. There is so much I could write about, like Gabriel Biancheri winning the championship last season, or this season being the first in Formula One history to have a woman racing for a team. Valentina Romana is an inspiration, but, instead, I’m supposed to write a boring article about how the sport works.
I shut my laptop and groan.
“Blocked?” Papa asks, forcing my brain back to German. He places a plate of food on my nightstand.
“Yes, a little,” I admit while watching him walk over to me and sit down at the foot of my bed. I bite the inside of my cheek, waiting for the right moment to havethatconversation with him.
“What’s going on, Vaeh? Hmm? I can read on your face that something’s wrong. Your mom said you got the job. Aren’t you happy?” he asks, his blue eyes scanning my face as if he could figure out what’s bothering me by reading it.
“I didn’t getthejob, I gotajob,” I explain before lifting my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around my legs.
“Okay,” he says, obviously still unsure what the problem is. “Don’t make me pull it out of your nose, sweetheart. Just tell me,” he complains before grabbing one of my pillows and gently hitting my arm with it.
A small laugh escapes me, making him aim for my head next.
“Okay, okay, fine,” I say and raise my hands in defeat. The smile on my face fades as soon as I think about what to say. “They didn’t have a position available in the tennis department, only in…” I trail off because I’m terrified of his reaction.
