2

Marianna

And the car doors open.

For a split second, I pray to a God I haven't spoken to since middle school that it’s just some random billionaire. A stranger who got lost on his way to a yacht. Anyone else. The heavy, expensive click of the car door unlatching sounds unnaturally loud, cutting right through the drumming rain.

A dark, waterproof boot hits the wet pavement.

Do you follow motorsports? Do you follow Formula 1? If you do, you're sure to recognize these names: Lewis Hamilton, Max Verstappen, and this man who's about to make his debut. If you're an F1 fan, you're probably already screaming, right?

He unfolds from the car like some kind of predatory cat—all controlled grace and barely contained danger—and my stupid, treacherous body reacts the way it always does.

Duane Richter steps into the rain like it's not even there, like weather is something that happens to other people. He's wearing all black—of course he is, because God forbid he make this easier on me by looking even slightly less devastating—jeans and a t-shirt that fits him in a way that should be criminal. His dark hair is already wet, plastered to his head, and somehow he makes even that look intentional. Artful.

The fucker.

He's beautiful in that way that makes you angry. Makes you want to punch him in his perfect face just to prove he's real and not some computer-generated ideal of masculine perfection that your brain conjured up to torture you.

Twenty-six years old. Three-time Formula 1 World Champion. The fastest driver to ever achieve the Triple Crown. Orphaned at eight when his parents died in a car crash—and yes, the irony of him becoming a race car driver is not lost on anyone. Emotionally unavailable. Professionally untouchable. Personally... unknowable.

And he's here.

At the airport.

To pick me up, apparently.

Because my life isn't complicated enough.

He walks toward the entrance, moving with that fluid confidence that comes from years of people getting out of his way. The automatic doors slide open. He stops just inside, water dripping off him onto the already-wet floor, and scans the terminal.

His eyes find me immediately.

Dark eyes. So dark they're almost black. The kind of eyes that look right through you, that see everything you're trying to hide and find it mildly amusing.

I want to die.

I am now standing here in my wet white dress with my visible bra, clutching my dead phone like it's a security blanket, looking exactly like the disaster I am.

His gaze travels down my body—slowly, deliberately, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer—and then back up to my face. One eyebrow lifts.

"Planning to audition for a wet t-shirt contest?" His voice is exactly as I remember it. Low. Rough. With that faint accent—something European, hard to place—that shouldn't be sexy but absolutely is. "Or are you just hoping to get photographed by the paparazzi?"

There it is. The trademark Duane Richter charm: absolutely fucking none.

"I—" My voice comes out like a squeak. I clear my throat. Try again. "My phone died. And my luggage is missing. And—"

"And you thought standing in the middle of the airport looking like you just lost a fight with a fire hydrant was the solution?" He's not even smiling. Doesn't smile, actually. Ever. I'm not sure his face has the necessary muscles. "Brilliant strategy."

"I didn't plan this." I'm defensive now, which is a bad look on me. Makes me sound about twelve. "I was waiting for my brother."

"Your brother," Duane says, very slowly, like he's explaining something to a child, "is in Monte Carlo. Has been for the past week. Will be for another three days."

The bottom drops out of my stomach.

"What?"

"Monte Carlo. You know, that place in Europe? Where rich people go to pretend they're cultured while gambling away their inheritances?" He tilts his head. "He didn't tell you?"

No. No, he did not tell me. Because I didn't actually tell him I was coming today. Because I'm an idiot who thought she could just show up and he'd magically be there and everything would be fine.

"Oh." It's all I can manage. Just: "Oh."

Duane stares at me for a long moment. Then he sighs—this deep, put-upon sound that makes it very clear he'd rather be literally anywhere else—and jerks his head toward the exit.

"Come on."

"Come on where?"

"My car." Like it's obvious. Like there's no other option. "Unless you'd prefer to sleep here. I hear the benches are very comfortable. Excellent back support."

I don't move. Can't move. My brain is trying to process what's happening, but it's like all my neurons have gone on strike.

"I'll just... call a cab. Or an Uber. Or—"

"With what phone?" He's already turning, heading back toward the exit. "And even if you could call one, where exactly would you tell them to go? Your brother's apartment that you clearly don't know the address to?"

He's right. I hate that he's right. Hate that he's here, seeing me like this, seeing me at my absolute—

No. Not absolute lowest. I've been lower in front of Duane Richter. I've been fourteen and stupid and holding a love letter my brother had already found, watching Duane read it with that same expressionless face he's wearing now, waiting for him to say something, anything, and getting: Tell your sister she should focus on passing algebra before she focuses on romance.

I thought I died that day. Turns out I just became a ghost who keeps haunting the same terrible decisions.

"I can't impose—" I start, but he's already pushing through the doors.

I watch him walk back to his car. Watch him open the passenger door. Stand there waiting, one hand on the door, rain soaking through his shirt.

He's not even looking at me. Just waiting. Like he knows I'll follow.

Like he knows I have no other choice.

Fuck.

I follow.