Page 11

MONTRéAL

ONE MONTH LATER

NATALIA

The Parc del Laberint d’Horta was one of the most romantic moments of my life, and since then, my brain has been warning my heart to be cautious.

I mostly listen… but not so assiduously that Klaus and I haven’t been sneaking off on little dates during stolen moments of freedom from our respective career demands.

In Monaco, we went for a midnight picnic in a retro-looking speedboat Klaus owns, a Riva Aquarama.

We sipped champagne and had “picnic” items that were insanely luxurious.

Around the boat were blue glass jars filled with tangles of fairy lights.

We curled up together under a silvery faux-fur blanket and watched the stars.

At one point that night, noticing I was wearing the emerald necklace, Klaus traced a fingertip from the hollow of my throat down my cleavage, then followed with his lips in a scorching path to the heart-shaped stone.

He moved it aside with his tongue and kissed me beneath it.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been that turned on from such a simple act.

I held back from anything more intimate, as much as it tormented us both, alone out on the water, the warm Mediterranean breeze caressing the hints of skin we exposed in the few minutes of heated petting we couldn’t help falling into.

But I won’t forget what my aunt said. I need to be able to trust Klaus fully, and for him to trust me . I can’t let myself blunder into the same kind of unthinking, lust-fueled, immature relationship my reckless parents had, by all reports.

A few weeks later, in Montréal now for the Canadian Grand Prix… I’ve decided I’m going to bed with him. It’s been six months since our “one-hour fling” in Abu Dhabi, and I can’t take much more of this slow-burn, months-long foreplay.

He’s been tense this week, distracted even when we’re together, interrupted by endless messages when we’re on late-night calls.

I’ve assumed it’s all work-related, but since we avoid those topics, I can only guess the specifics.

I suspect it has to do with Edward Morgan’s continued absence, but I can’t ask Klaus and won’t ask Phaedra.

She and I are still on the outs. After I ignored her “Let’s sweep this argument under the rug as usual” texts, she went radio silent, clearly punishing me for not having backed down. I’ve violated our unspoken rule by sticking up for myself, I guess.

I can’t help wondering if she’s formed a secret amorous alliance with Cosmin Ardelean. She loathed him when they first met, but after they were sent on a “bonding” trip together, things shifted somehow. It was obvious to me that she was attracted to him, even when she wouldn’t admit it.

If they’ve cooked up a sneaky romance, I really have been replaced; Phaedra has never required more than one friend. She developed social competence because it’s useful in business. But she still doesn’t have a high need for companionship.

After the press conference on Thursday of race week—always a hectic day for everyone—I send Klaus a text:

Me: Do you still want to hang out tonight?

Charcoal Suit: Please come up. It will be the highlight of my day. Is ten o’clock too late?

Not for what I have in mind, nope…

I put on a strappy orange dress I know he loves and take the elevator up to his suite. My heart is doing a wild jazz drum solo in anticipation of what’s to come, and my hands are shaking.

When he opens the door, he’s on a call with someone who has a French accent (Emerald’s chief aerodynamicist?) and quickly taps the phone to switch from speaker to private.

I don’t know why, but it bugs me. What the heck does he think I’m going to do, dash off a stealthy article about Emerald’s latest wind tunnel tests?

For that matter, part of me is annoyed that after I’ve spent all day building up this big event in my head, I didn’t even get an appreciative once-over for the dress before Klaus wandered away.

I know it’s vain, but… I’d hoped he’d maybe have the same sense I do that tonight is a turning point to the next stage.

A big development. Instead, I feel like I’ve blundered into a meeting room at the paddock.

Would a smile have killed him? A moment of eye contact?

I walk stiffly to the living room and lower myself into a chair, feeling embarrassed and trying to shake off the indignation. Making a show of how thoroughly I’m not paying attention to his stupid call, I swipe open the email I’ve neglected all day and scan it.

Whoa. A message from Phaedra.

I glance up at Klaus—who’s leaning diagonally in the bedroom doorway with his back to me, immersed in his phone call—then open the email, which was sent this morning, fifteen hours ago.

You win the bet, Nat. I fucked Cosmin before Silverstone. I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. There’s no excuse. I miss my best friend. I promise I’m not saying this to be manipulative, but my dad is sick, and I’m scared. Please call me. I want to apologize in person.

My stomach drops.

Mo is sick?

Having it confirmed feels very different from suspecting it in an abstract sense. I recall Phae telling me in December, six months ago, that her father was having weird headaches. My wide, burning eyes drop again to her words on my phone screen: I’m scared.

She never admits to being scared. It hits me hard, knowing what it must have cost her emotionally to say that. What was the breaking point? How bad is this?

Worry for Mo spreads through me like a dark oil spill, and also genuine shock that Phaedra is apologizing. She’s acknowledged that she hurt my feelings.

I have to go to her!

I turn my phone sideways to type, then freeze. A realization smacks into me, following close and treading painfully on the heels of my reflexive compassion:

Phaedra only apologizes when she wants something from me.

I’ve always assumed she does that not because she’s selfish and calculating, but because it feels safer. Like, she wants to apologize but needs to sneak it in attached to something else, like a rider on a bill in legislation.

Is Mo actually that sick? Or is this some demented Hail Mary play by Phaedra?

Maybe that’s why Klaus hasn’t mentioned it?

How much does he know about Mo’s health problem? If it’s serious, maybe that’s why he’s seemed “off” this week. But… with all we’ve shared as we’ve opened our hearts, he couldn’t have confided in me about such a huge struggle?

The feeling of being shut out overwhelms me.

I’m so confused and torn.

I shoot another glance at him and note with a fresh wave of insult that he’s switched to speaking French , which I mentioned to him in Monaco that I don’t understand beyond tourist phrases and cognates.

A storm rises, fast and savage, inside of me. It’s a kneecap-kicking, knife-in-the-teeth brawl between parts of myself. There’s the compassionate person who wants to run to Phaedra and take care of her if Mo is sick. But there’s also a skeptic, sitting back and watching, judging .

And in the very, very darkest corner of me? There’s a vengeful, wounded monster who wants to make her wait… even if it’s true that she’s scared.

Let her deal with her own problem, like all the times I’ve had to when she’s been too clueless and selfish to be a supportive friend…

And Klaus. How am I to interpret his saying nothing? We’ve talked a lot about trust and opening up. He’s admitted to the scars left by his widowerhood. He’s made me feel special, burrowing straight to the heart of my people-pleasing self, assuring me he hasn’t felt this close to anyone in years.

Has it all been bullshit? Did he track my craving for approval and deliver the right lines in hopes of luring me back into bed? Was he saying what I wanted to hear, that day at the Emerald factory when he claimed that rather than craving “a win,” he wants connection?

I wonder if he could do his job so well if winning weren’t integral to his nature.

I look down at the dress I’ve worn with the specific aim of seduction tonight and feel like a fool. An insecure woman who’s perpetually searching for—and forgiving—the sad little boy in every man. A rejected girl who’s always, always put everyone’s feelings before her own, just hoping to belong.

Across the room, Klaus hangs up his call, taking off his damned sexy-librarian reading glasses as he wanders into the living room. He sets his phone and glasses on the bar.

The words escape before I can hold back. “Edward Morgan is sick?”

His steps freeze. “How do you know such a thing?” he asks, his smooth baritone carrying unexpected coldness. “Is there a press leak?” He continues to the sofa, sitting and resting one ankle on the opposite knee, the picture of ease.

I hold up my phone. “No. I got an email from Phae. No specifics—just that Mo is sick. Is this why you’ve been moody all week?”

Klaus shakes his head, opening his hands. “I really can’t discuss that.”

A coal of sorrow ignites in my chest. “Why won’t you talk with me about it? Obviously not as a journalist, but… just as your friend? You told me in Monaco, that night on the boat, that you feel like you can tell me anything. Like you’ve been ‘let out of a cage,’ you claimed.”

“Certainly we’re friends,” he replies evenly.

“I care for you greatly. But you’re also press.

I must be cautious about what I share.” His expression is shuttered, controlled, and it hurts to see it.

“I’d appreciate your discretion on this matter,” he goes on.

“It’s a private issue for family. Leaking it would serve only to alarm Emerald’s sponsors. ”

A chill runs across my skin. The distance between us suddenly feels like it’s stretching into light-years.

How could I have been so na?ve?

Why do I never listen to my gut instinct about men? It isn’t that I fail to see the warning signs. I see them, then pirouette onto the minefield anyway…