Page 19

The first notes of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" fill the room, and I start stretching, working through the stiffness in my hips, my shoulders, my back. The movements are automatic, muscle memory honed from years of dance.

Soon stretching turns to movement, small at first — a sway of my hips, a roll of my shoulders — then bigger, fuller. I dance across the hotel room, barefoot and loose, letting the music unwind the knots inside me.

The anxiety and fear, the feeling of being swept up in something too big. I shake it off, one eight-count at a time. I don't think about Graham Pritchard. I don't think about paparazzi. I try not to think about Reece.

Right now, it's just me, the music, and the simple joy of shaking my booty because I want to.

This marriage happened in a whirlwind, fueled by adrenaline and alcohol and chemistry I still can't explain. Now I'm sober, in a foreign country, and wearing a ring that feels both absurd and heavy on my finger.

It’s becoming clear that I need to know Reece much better before deciding if staying married makes sense. How else can I be sure if this thing between us is a fluke or something more?

Petra's words, and threat, still ring in my ears.

Stringing Reece along would be monstrous. Whatever this is, I don't want it to hurt him. Not like he's already been hurt.

If I can't be sure about us and give this an honest shot, then I owe it to both of us to walk away.

Yet if what I felt in Vegas wasn't just a stupid, drunken fantasy, then it deserves more than a hasty retreat.

I stretch one last time, then wipe the sweat from my forehead with the hem of my tee. When I head into the bathroom to splash my face, I discover something unexpected on the counter between the sink basins.

Another massive bouquet.

This time, it’s pink roses, lush and fragrant, mixed with tiny pale-green flowers I don't recognize but love instantly. The green glass vase is the same as before, but the ribbon is different — a buttery yellow that makes the whole arrangement glow under the room’s soft lighting.

A small card nestles among the blooms.

I pull it free.

Still thinking of you. Still sorry. Whenever you're ready. — Reece

I brush my fingers over the petals, breathe in the blooms’ sweet perfume, and a lump forms in my throat. Two bouquets in two days. Not grand gestures of apology, but quiet, consistent reminders of his presence.

Frankie taught me actions speak louder than words, and these flowers say something I'm not quite ready to hear.

Tapping sounds at the adjoining door.

"Mai?"

I wipe my palms on my leggings and cross the room, hesitating a second before answering, "Yeah?"

"Was that music earlier?" His voice is warm and he sounds better than he did this morning, but I can’t quite put my finger on how. "Were you dancing?"

I laugh. "Maybe."

"Ona, my physio, is the best on the grid. She could swing by and help you stretch properly. Might give you some tips for the jet lag too."

The offer is so normal and simple. As if he's trying to take care of me in small, quiet ways.

I rest my forehead against the door. "That's really sweet, but I think I'm alright for now."

"Okay. Just thought I'd offer. She's got a whole arsenal of tricks."

There's a pause, a soft shifting sound like he's leaning on his side of the door. "You don't have to open the door. I just wanted to say I'm here. Whenever you're ready."

Ah, shit. That lump is clogging my throat again.

"Thanks, Reece."

Another beat of silence. Then, with a low chuckle, he adds, "For the record? If you were dancing, I'd pay good money to see it."

I laugh. "Go focus on your race weekend, speed demon."

"Yes, ma'am." He’s quiet long enough that I assume he’s moved away.

I stay beside the door for a moment longer, heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with dancing. I’m still clutching the little card.

Before I can move, he speaks again. "How was your meeting with Coy?"

I smile faintly, knowing exactly what he's really asking: Have you made a decision?

I slide down to sit on the carpet, back against the door. "It was good. He's solid. Straightforward."

"Yeah. That's Coy. He won’t sugar-coat things, but he’s also not cruel."

Another pause. There’s so much tension in the silence between us.

"And?" he finally says, so softly I almost miss it.

I tilt my head back against the door and close my eyes. "I need time, Reece."

His exhale is audible, a soft rush of relief and nerves all mixed together. "Good. Yeah, I mean, that's fair."

"I can't make a decision like this on a few hours of sleep and a hangover. That would be fucking dumb. I need to know you better to figure out if we’d work as a couple, you know?"

"Absolutely. I want you to know me, Maiken. Whatever it takes. However long it takes."

I trace a pattern on the carpet with my finger. "How exactly do we do that when we're living on different continents half the year?"

"We start here." His voice is steady now, more sure. "Let me date you, Maiken."

"Date me?"

"Yes, properly. Take you out. Spend time together. Dinners, events, walks, coffee — whatever you want. We can figure the rest out later."

"You realize we're already married, right?"

"I’d noticed that, yes. Doesn't mean we can't do it backwards, if you follow me?"

Another beat of silence stretches between us, but this time it's different, charged with possibility instead of uncertainty.

"Okay," I whisper. "Date me, Reece." Then louder, so there's no mistaking it: "Okay, then. Woo the shit outa me, Reece Pritchard."

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. "Name the time, honeybee."

Honeybee. I lean my head back against the door again. "What do you have in mind?"

He pauses, clearly thinking. "There's a sponsor dinner tonight. Small and low-key with no media. Nitro and Telco Italia people have been invited to join AetherX. Some reps from FuegoFrío will be there too. It's here at the hotel. Nothing flashy, just cocktail attire. Would you be up for that?"

It’s not exactly a candlelit dinner for two, but it's a start. It’ll give me a glimpse into his world, plus he said there’ll be no reporters.

But.

“Will Graham be there?”

“No. He has no business with either team. His ownership is minor and in WolfBett Racing only.”

"Oh.” I bite my lip, then nod. “Okay. Sponsor dinner it is."

"I can have someone from the hotel's salon come up. Help with your hair, makeup... whatever you want." His voice sounds lighter, and I think maybe he’s relieved that I said yes.

I smile, and shake my head even though he can't see me. I’m pretty sure it’s a genuine offer, not a sign of disapproval. "Thanks, but I'm used to doing my own everything."

"Of course. Just want to make sure you have whatever you need."

“What time should I be ready?”

“Seven. Is that doable?”

“Sure.”

“Good. It’s a date then.”

“I guess it is.”

I haul my ass off the floor and look through the clothes Branca arranged for me. I haven’t forgotten what the WAGs said at lunch, but maybe there’s something here I can make my own.

After a few minutes, I settle on a chiffon A-line pale-apricot dress.

It has long lantern sleeves that hide the bruises on my wrist, a modest V-neck with a narrow upright collar, and falls to mid-calf.

It’s simple, elegant, and flowing, and I can customize the shit out of it.

I grab a rich cranberry-colored pashmina and fold it into a wide, obi-like sash to cinch my waist. It adds a pop of color and a bit of my signature flair, turning the otherwise unremarkable dress into something more me .

Paired with delicate gold sandals and a matching clutch, it feels like me: demure enough but with a little boldness, and still appropriate for a sponsor dinner. I hope.

I pull my hair up into a loose, effortless knot at the nape of my neck, letting a few wisps fall to soften the look.

For makeup, I go light on the foundation, a soft blush, and a nude lip.

My eyes? They’re another story, of course.

A smoky, sultry blend of charcoal and plum that makes my dark blue irises pop.

As I lean closer to the mirror to apply the last swipe of mascara, I catch my own gaze and nod. “Okay, that’s pretty, and no one will be offended.”

Except me because I hate having to consider everything I do and wear through that lens.

It’s as I’m putting away my makeup, that I spot the tube of liquid gold eyeliner. Annnd, fuck it. This girl needs sparkle. I can only take so much demure .

Reece Pritchard didn’t marry a wallflower.

I apply fake eyelashes and trace the gold eyeliner along my upper lid, then add some to the inner corner of each eye. I put down the liner and lean back.

“Oh, yes, that’s more like it.”

Ready or not, Maiken Lange, here we go.