31

Marianna.

"So," Jill says, with the tone of someone about to begin an interrogation. "Now that you're safely on American soil and can't escape this conversation. Oliver Hale."

"What about him?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Marianna. I've been waiting eleven hours for this."

I take a long sip of water. Stalling. "There's nothing to tell. He's a client. He was happy about his race result. He kissed my forehead. End of story."

"Mm-hmm." Jill is unconvinced. "And the part where he specifically requested you for his Monaco sessions? Where he invited you to the team celebration? Where he called you his good luck charm?"

"That's just... how he is. He's friendly. With everyone."

"Does he kiss everyone on the forehead?"

"I don't know! Maybe! British people are weird about physical affection!"

Jill snorts. "Nice try. I've dated British guys. They're emotionally constipated, not physically affectionate." She leans closer to the camera. "Okay, real talk. Forget the kissing. Forget the romance speculation. I need to know something important."

"What?"

"You're a physical therapist."

"Sports Performance Specialist—"

"Whatever. You touched him. Professionally. You put your hands on Oliver Hale's actual physical body." Her eyes are gleaming with an intensity that should probably concern me. "What's he working with?"

"Jill."

"I'm asking for scientific purposes."

"What scientific purposes could possibly—"

"The science of me needing to know if F1 drivers are as hot under the racing suits as they look on TV." She gestures impatiently. "Come on. Details. Specifics. Muscle groups."

I groan, rubbing my face with my free hand. "You're impossible."

"I'm curious. There's a difference."

"Fine." I give up. Resistance is futile when Jill wants information. "He's... in good shape. Obviously. He's a professional athlete."

"Scale of one to ten."

"I'm not rating my client's body on a numerical scale."

"Then describe it. Use your words. You're good at words."

I sigh, leaning back on the barstool. Might as well get this over with.

"His back is..." I search for clinical terminology. Fail. "Really nice, actually. Good lat development. Strong erector spinae—that's the muscles along the spine. He's got that V-taper thing going on, you know, where the shoulders are broader than the waist?"

"I know exactly what V-taper means. Continue."

"His core is solid. Like, really solid. You have to have insane core strength to handle the G-forces in an F1 car—we're talking 4 to 6 Gs in some corners—so his obliques and transverse abdominis are—"

"English, Marianna."

"His abs are great." I feel my face heating up. "Happy?"

"Getting there. What else?"

"His shoulders are well-developed. Neck too—F1 drivers have these crazy strong necks because of the G-forces on their heads. And his arms are..." I pause, remembering. "Actually surprisingly toned? Like, you don't think of driving as an upper body workout, but the steering forces—"

"And below the waist?"

"JILL."

"I'm just asking about his quads! His glutes! Legitimate muscle groups that you, as a professional, would have assessed!"

"His hip flexors were tight," I say flatly. "His glutes were unremarkable. His quads are normal."

"'Unremarkable.' You're killing me."

"What do you want me to say? That he has the ass of a Greek god?"

"Does he?"

"I wasn't looking at his ass, Jill! I was doing my job!"

"Your job that involves touching athletic men in their physical prime—"

"I was focused on his psoas, not his—"

"What's a psoas?"

"It's a hip flexor muscle that runs from the lumbar spine through the pelvis and—"

"You're blushing."

"I'm not!"

"You're literally the color of a tomato right now."

"It's hot in here—"

"You're in an apartment with central air—"

"Well, his body is... look, professionally speaking, he has exceptional musculature, okay? "

I stop.

Because there's a sound behind me.

A footstep.

On marble.

And then a voice—low and cold and horribly, terribly familiar—says:

"Please, don't stop on my account."

No.

No no no no no—

I spin around on the barstool so fast I nearly fall off.

Duane is standing at the entrance to the hallway. Leaning against the wall, actually, arms crossed over his chest, dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt, watching me with an expression that could freeze lava.

He's supposed to be in Europe. He's supposed to be celebrating his Monaco victory or preparing for Canada or doing whatever three-time world champions do after winning one of the most prestigious races in the sport.

He's not supposed to be here.

He's definitely not supposed to have heard me describing his body as "like a Greek statue" to my best friend.

"I—" My voice comes out strangled. "How long have you—"

"Long enough."

Oh god.

Oh god oh god oh god—

On the phone screen, Jill has gone completely silent, her face frozen in an expression of horrified glee. I can practically see her mentally composing the text messages she's going to send me the moment this call ends.

"I thought you were in Europe," I manage.

"Clearly." His eyes flick to the phone. To Jill's face on the screen. Back to me. "Don't let me interrupt your... professional analysis."

I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole. I want a meteor to crash through the ceiling. I want literally anything to happen that isn't this—standing in Duane Richter's kitchen, caught red-handed describing both him and another driver to my best friend like we're rating cuts of meat at a butcher shop.

"That was clinical," I say weakly. "A clinical assessment. For work purposes."

"Mm." That sound. That non-word.

"I have to go," Jill's voice chirps from the phone. "This seems like a private conversation. Bye, Mari! Good luck! Love you!"

The screen goes black.

Traitor. Absolute traitor.

I'm alone now. Alone with Duane and the wreckage of my dignity and the echo of my own voice saying like a Greek statue hanging in the air between us.

"I was just talking to my friend. It wasn't—it didn't mean anything—"

"Didn't it?" He stops at the kitchen island, directly across from me. Close enough that I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers grip the marble countertop."Tell me something, Marianna." He says my name like it's an accusation. "Is this a hobby for you? Collecting drivers?"