65

Marianna.

I don't see Duane until 6 PM.

I'm crossing the hotel lobby toward the elevator, carrying my assessment notes and the patisserie box I've kept for reasons I'm not examining, when I hear him before I see him.

Not his voice. His footsteps.

He's coming from the direction of the conference rooms—still in team kit, a Veloce Racing jacket, which means he's gone directly from some post-race debrief to— here. To this lobby.

He sees me.

I see him.

For a moment we just exist in the lobby—marble floors, the low murmur of other guests, the soft hotel lighting—and neither of us speaks.

Then he crosses the lobby.

Stops in front of me.

Close enough that I could reach out and touch him. Far enough that we're just two people having a conversation.

"How was the assessment?" he asks.

"Good. Everyone's in reasonable shape." I look up at him. "Luca's hip flexor is tight."

"What else did he say?"

"Asked if you were my client."

Something cold moves through his eyes. Brief and focused.

"What did you say?"

"Confidential." I pause. "He said 'the variables.'"

Duane's jaw tightens fractionally. "I see."

"I pressed his psoas harder than necessary."

The almost-smile comes. Stays slightly longer than usual.

"Professional of you," he says.

"I thought so."

A beat. The lobby moves around us—a family checking in, a bellhop with a luggage cart, the indifferent machinery of a hotel doing its thing.

"Your room," he says quietly.

I blink. "What about it?"

"Is it acceptable? The upgrade—"

"Duane." I look at him steadily. "You sent me croissants and a paper airplane."

He says nothing.

"The room is extraordinary," I say. "The view is— yes. It's fine. Thank you."

He nods once. Like a receipt acknowledged.

"There's a team dinner tonight," he says. "Eight o'clock. Private room." A pause. "Marco will be there."

"I know." Marco texted me an hour ago: team dinner 8pm, you're coming, non-negotiable, wear something nice, also I can't believe you're in Montreal and didn't tell me you were coming, we need to talk about your communication habits.

I had texted back: Dr. Lindholm sent me. Work trip. Communication habits are fine.

Marco had sent three question marks and then a restaurant address.

"He doesn't know," Duane says. Not a question.

"He knows I'm here for work." I meet his eyes. "He doesn't know about the croissants."

Something in Duane's expression does the thing—the micro-shift, the almost-imperceptible warming.

"Keep it that way," he says. "For now."

For now. The same two words from Wynwood. The same borrowed time, the same deferred reckoning. Both of us choosing it anyway.

"For now," I agree.

He steps back. Creates the appropriate professional distance between two people who have a working relationship and nothing more.

"I'll see you at dinner," he says.

"I'll be the one eating all the bread," I say.

Almost-smile. Gone before anyone else could catch it.

He walks away.

I look out at the St. Lawrence. The early evening light is doing something gold and specific to the water.

The team dinner is forty people in a private room in the Old Port, stone walls and candlelight and the warm acoustic chaos of a group that has reason to celebrate.

Marco finds me immediately—he always does, some older-sibling radar that's been calibrated over twenty-three years—and pulls me into a hug that communicates both I'm so proud of you and we need to talk about your communication habitssimultaneously.

"Work trip," he says, pulling back and looking at me.

"Work trip," I confirm.

"Dr. Lindholm sent you."

"Dr. Lindholm sent me."

He does the scanning thing. Face, posture, the general temperature of me. Three millimeters.

"You look good," he says finally. Like this is data he's filing away.

"I ate croissants," I say. "Patisserie ones. Very good for morale."

Marco's eyes move past me for exactly half a second—to somewhere across the room, then back. So brief I almost miss it.

"Sit with me," he says. "I want to hear about the job."

We sit together through the appetizers and most of the main course and Marco asks me about Dr. Lindholm and Oliver Hale and what it's actually like to work with F1 drivers up close, and I tell him—truthfully, enthusiastically, feeling the genuine warmth of having something that's mine to talk about.

Duane is across the table. Four seats down. Talking to Patrick the race engineer about something that requires a napkin diagram.

He doesn't look at me more than he looks at anyone else.

I don't look at him more than I look at anyone else.

We are two people at a dinner table who have a professional relationship and nothing more.

Marco talks. I listen. Duane's foot finds mine under the table somewhere around the entrée.

Stays there.

I eat duck confit and talk about hip flexor protocols and feel the steady warm pressure of his foot against mine and think about welcome back and the two words meaning exactly what they say and also something larger that neither of us has said out loud yet.

Three millimeters.

We're going to have to figure this out eventually.

But not tonight.

Later—much later, after the toasts and the dessert and Marco's enthusiastic retelling of the race to the team PR director who was literally there—I'm back in my boutique hotel room.

My phone buzzes.

Duane: 412.

I look at the message.

Look at the door.

Look at the message again.

Me: Marco is in this hotel.

Duane: 308.

Me: You know his room number.

Duane: I know everyone's room number. Habit.

Me: That's not a normal habit.

Duane: Come anyway.

I sit on the edge of the bed. Hold my phone. Look at the paper airplane on the windowsill—the unfolded one, welcome back visible even from here in the dim light.

Me: This is a terrible idea.

Duane: I know.

I grab my key card.

Put it in my pocket.

Stand at the door for exactly three seconds.

Then I open it.