Page 10

TEN

Ella

TODAY’S GOING to be a good day. I know it. I didn’t snooze my alarm, the coffee I’m drinking is phenomenal, and my pants fit despite the copious amount of calories I’ve consumed in the past month. They’re definitely tighter, but they still fit. Blake’s in a great mood considering he’s going into the Chinese Grand Prix with another pole position. He even offers to give me a tour and show me his car before the race. All Blake will tell me is that his car’s name starts with a “T” and it’s not a human name. So far I’ve ruled out T-Rex, Tarantula, Titty Twister, Tupperware, Tuba, Tsunami, Toothpaste, Tornado, and Tums.

We spend some time walking around the motorhome, with Blake giving me an exclusive look into his suite. I don’t mention that I had to charge my phone in here during the last race, so I’ve technically already seen it. Just going to pretend like it’s my first time ever being inside of his special, private room. It’s sparse, to say the least. There aren’t many “personal” items besides a TheraGun, his laptop, and a photo of him with his niece and nephew. Oh, and food—if you can even call it that.

Blake’s snack choices are appalling. He has every nut in existence (and none of them are salted), whole-grain lentil chips, rice cakes, crackers made with organic oat flour, and a variety of protein bars with flavors ranging from rhubarb custard to ginger carrot.

“Are you, like, on a weird diet or something?” I’m trying not to look completely turned off, but it’s kind of hard.

He shakes his head before tossing me a protein bar and tells me to look at the ingredients. It’s all healthy nuts and fruits. This further proves my point. Where is the junk food? The candy? The “I just had a bad day and need to eat my feelings” snacks? All I’m seeing is bland, blander, and blandest.

There’s a minifridge under the desk in the room and I make my way over to it. All that’s in there is Greek yogurt (spelled “yoghurt”), hard-boiled eggs, and celery juice. Not apple juice or cranberry juice. Celery juice. The most flavorless of all the vegetables.

His pantry in Monaco had been stacked —a Costco-level abundance of snacks and food—but now I realize that may’ve been because he wasn’t sure what I liked to eat. The thought of it sends a flutter deep into the pit of my stomach.

“Here I was thinking I was writing about an athlete.” I close the fridge and stand back up. “Turns out, I’m actually writing about a sociopath.”

His chuckle is throaty.

“These are survival foods, Blake, not snacks.” I sigh. He looks adorably confused. “If you were on a stranded island, then yes, I would totally understand wanting hard-boiled eggs and nuts. But you’re not. Snacks are meant to be enjoyed.”

“I do enjoy them!”

There’s no use attempting to hide the absolutely horrified look on my face. Blake enjoys cardboard. Good to know. What chapter in his book should I file that under? Remember how Blake celebrated a Grand Prix win by snacking on some dry rice cakes and then washing them down with some freshly squeezed celery?

I list off a variety of snacks to see how brainwashed he is by his healthy-eating ways. He’s never had white cheddar popcorn or a Pop Tart. He’s also never bothered trying a Double Stuf Oreo because “how can it be that different from the regular ones?” He doesn’t even know what a Ho-Ho is and thinks I’m kidding when I ask him. It’s not that I only eat junk food, but at least I don’t just eat rabbit food. Sam needs to loosen the reins on his diet.

“Do you need a bit of fresh air, love?” Blake laughs at me. “I can crack a window if you’d like.”

My body drops onto the small couch in his room. I check my forehead to see if I have a fever. The dramatics may be unnecessary, but imagine having gone through that many years of your life without knowing the true joy of a Girl Scout cookie. I know that’s quintessentially American, but it’s not doing much to help his case right now. My reaction seems to have entirely overwhelmed Blake.

“If my snacks are so horrible, which ones do you consider good?”

I can’t help but laugh. “We’ll need about five to seven business days to get through that list.”

The conversation on our way to the garage revolves entirely around Blake’s eating habits. I’m intrigued. It turns out he prefers chocolate milk to regular milk and not just out of a glass, in his cereal, too.

“Blakey and Goldy!” Theo greets us as we enter the pit. “Here to hang out with me?”

His eyes look extra blue this morning. Is being attractive a prerequisite for being a Formula 1 driver? The fucking accents alone are enough to send me over the edge.

“Blake’s showing me around,” I explain.

He quickly picks up on the warning look I give him. His lips are sealed; he won’t tell Blake he’s already done this tour with me.

“You’re fine with him calling you Goldy?” Blake frowns. “Because I hate when he calls me Blakey.”

I don’t think he cares about the nickname. I think he cares that Theo and I have gotten to know each other well enough to even have nicknames.

“It beats sweetheart or babe.”

Theo ruffles my hair playfully. “I thought ‘muffin’ was a cute nickname.”

After about two weeks of him calling me a variety of pet names, we had a little chat. Unless my parents legally change my name to “babycakes,” he isn’t allowed to call me that. When he started with “Goldy,” I accepted it. The only cutesy names Theo hasn’t called me are “princess” and “angel.” Those seem to be specifically reserved for Josie.

I stick my tongue out. “Call me ‘muffin’ again and I’ll shove one where the sun doesn’t shine, sweet cheeks .”

It’s hard not to smile when Blake laughs. It’s deep and makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. The butterflies in my stomach come out of hibernation. I take a baggie of trail mix out and pop some in my mouth. All the snack talk from earlier has my stomach grumbling.

“See, Blake?” I shake the bag in front of him. “This is how nuts should be eaten. Surrounded by chocolate, raisins, and cereal.”

“Are there even nuts in there?” He squints his eyes and peers into the baggie. “Do you even know what a nut looks like?”

There are very obvious peanuts and cashews in my trail mix. The ratio is just not in their favor.

“Trust me, I definitely know what nuts look like.” Welp, that sounds obscenely sexual. “Want to try some?”

“Of your nuts?” Blake shakes his head. “No, thanks, love.”

“Why not? Are you scared of my nuts, Blake?” I tilt my head, leaning into the mess I’ve made by turning my trail mix into a sexual innuendo. “Scared they’re bigger and better than yours?”

He grunts in amusement. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re impossibly exhausting?”

I give him a dazed look of bewilderment, exaggerated confusion clouding my eyes.

“Exhibit nine hundred,” he says.

“You looking at me like a murderer when I said your snacks looked like you were preparing for an apocalypse is exhibit nine hundred of why you need a higher education in the world of sweet and savory.”

“A murderer? Who says that instead of I don’t know—any other word? Do you have a criminal record or something?”

I rub my hands together and laugh like I’m Dr. Evil.

Blake mutters under his breath. “You’re insane.”

“Insanely smart, insanely amazing, or, your third option, insanely impressive?”

Theo’s head is bouncing back and forth like he’s watching an intense tennis match. “I’m glad Blake’s finally talking to you, but you guys fight like an old married couple.”

Blake shoots me a roguishly handsome grin. “Probably because just like an old married couple … we’re not fucking either.”

Not this again. I thought we left this behind us.

“When are you going to let it go? I’m not going to apologize for not sleeping with you. I’m a professional, not a porn star, Blakey.” I know my use of Theo’s nickname for him is going to grind his gears.

“Says the girl who just asked if I wanted to eat her nuts,” he shoots back.

The snort that comes out of me is anything but cute.

“Uh, I think I missed a season or two,” Theo cuts in with a devilish smile. If there were popcorn in front of him, he’d be shoveling it into his mouth by the handful. Interesting that Blake hasn’t told his bestie that he propositioned me for sex. Okay, well, it wasn’t propositioning, but it was close to it.

Blake shrugs. “Ella doesn’t like sex.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, bud,” I say in a consoling voice.

Theo throws Blake a puzzled look, trying to read his friend, but Blake is giving him absolutely nothing to work with. He’s too focused on surveying me. I don’t think he’s ever been turned down in his life.

“Now, if we’re done here, Blake was about to show me his cock—cockpit. The inside of his cockpit. His car’s cockpit. Inside of his car … that he drives.”

Talk about a Freudian slip. Blake shoots me a smug look as if he can read my innermost thoughts. The most annoying part of how good-looking he is, is that he knows how good-looking he is. I don’t think he knows what the word humble means.

As the late and great Formula 1 commentator Murray Walker once said, “I should imagine that the conditions in the cockpit are totally unimaginable.” I couldn’t have said it better myself. Blake’s cockpit is going to stay very unimaginable and very inside his pants.