Page 45 of Until You Say Stay
Me:Sure. When?
Jack:20 mins?
I look around my apartment with fresh horror. Half-empty coffee cups on every available surface forming a timeline of my caffeine addiction, and clothes scattered everywhere, including the bra hanging off the back of a chair from when I’d flung it off last night after getting home from work.
Me:See you then!
I spend the next fifteen minutes frantically shoving things into closets and drawers in what I call my “oh shit someone’s coming over” dance—a frenzied ritual of grabbing armfuls of random stuff and shoving them anywhere they might possibly fit. Why couldn’t I be one of those naturally tidy people who never have to panic clean?
I kick a pile of sheet music under the couch, toss three days’ worth of empty coffee cups into the sink with a clatter, and nearly dislocate my shoulder trying to force my closet door shut against the avalanche of clothes and random junk threatening to spill out like a dam breaking. The hinges make an ominous creaking sound, like they’re plotting revenge.
I then make a desperate dash to the bathroom mirror, where I’m confronted with the harsh reality of what happens when you wash your hair before bed, sleep on it wet, throw it in a bun all day, and then release it from captivity right before an attractive man shows up at your door. It’s a disturbing cross between 80s hair band volume and “just stuck my finger in an electrical socket” texture. I attempt to tame it with wet fingers, which only makes certain sections go flat while others reach new ambitious heights of rebellion.
“Traitor,” I mutter at my reflection, digging frantically through bathroom drawers for a hair tie, lip balm, anything that might make me look less like I’ve been living in a cave for the past week.
I’m debating whether to change out of my ratty old University of Washington sweatshirt when I hear his motorcycle pull up outside. Through the window, I watch him take off his helmet, and it’s completely unfair how good he looks. Some people are just the universe’s favorites, blessed with genetic coding that makes them look like they stepped out of a magazine spread even after a motorcycle ride. He’s carrying something—a bottle of wine, it looks like.
My stomach does that flutter thing again. Harder this time.Shit.I definitely should have changed into a cuter outfit.
I open the door before he can knock. “Hey,” I say, aiming for casual but it comes out sounding vaguely creepy and weirdly deep like I’m auditioning for a horror movie.
He hesitates slightly, his smile faltering for just a second before returning. “Hey,” he says, holding up the wine bottle. “Figured we should plan this Miami thing out properly instead of winging it. And planning requires wine. It’s just science.”
“Oh, well if it’s science,” I say, stepping aside to let him in. His dimples are making me feel dangerously light-headed in a way that cannot possibly lead anywhere good. Jack Midnight has a reputation for a reason, and men like him don’t suddenly change their entire approach to relationships.
I can’t let myself do what I desperately want to do. No, absolutely not. Keep it together, Reyes.
“Were you working on something?” he asks, noticing my guitar and the makeshift recording setup immediately. His eyes linger on the notebook I’ve hastily closed, curiosity evident in the slight tilt of his head. “I can come back tomorrow if this is a bad time?—”
“No, it’s fine,” I say quickly. “I was just messing around. Nothing important.”
“Your music’snotnothing important,” he says in a matter-of-fact way that makes my cheeks flush.
“Well, uh, Miami planning,” I say, changing the subject before I say something embarrassing. “That’s why you’re here, right?”
“Right,” he says. “Miami.”
I get wine glasses from the cabinet while he opens the bottle. He brought a nice Oregon Pinot Noir, and we settle on my couch with his phone pulled up to the weekend schedule.
“Friday there’s a big sponsor event. Miami does this motorsports festival every year. GT racing, demos, the whole thing. It’s not Formula One, but all the teams send people for sponsor obligations and PR. Some of my old teammates will be there, plus drivers from other teams. Pretty major event for corporate networking. Press will be everywhere. Plenty of opportunities for photos.”
“Sounds good,” I say as I take a sip of wine. “What else?”
“Friday night there’s also a big gala event hosted by a real estate developer named Bernard Montgomery. Black tie, lots of press, sponsors, team executives.” He scrolls through his phone. “Saturday’s more casual, a bunch of press interviews and sponsor obligations throughout the morning. You don’t have to come to those if you don’t want to. Could just be me doing the boring corporate stuff.”
“No, I want to come,” I say immediately. “This stuff is pretty interesting to me. Seeing how all of it works behind the scenes.”
And it is fascinating. Jack is so passionate about racing that it’s infectious. I’ve even been watching a few of his old races on YouTube and they’re thrilling. Though I’d convinced myself that was just research, part of being a convincing fake girlfriend. Nothing more.
He looks up from his phone, something warm in his expression. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Plus more photo ops, right? That’s kind of the whole point.” I take another sip of wine. “And honestly, watching you do press interviews sounds entertaining. I want to see your media-trained face in action.”
“Oh, you’ll love it. I have this whole repertoire,” he says, his expression shifting through different variations of the same polite smile. “Confident but humble. Grateful for the opportunity. Excited about the future. I can do all of them while saying absolutely nothing of substance.”
I’m laughing now, and Jack’s watching me with an intensity that makes my skin warm all over. “What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, but his smile softens. “You just… you have a great laugh.”
