Page 27

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A soft knock breaks the early-evening quiet.

I blink-blink-blink, then look up from the containers of sequins set out on the table in front of me.

This project keeps growing, and I’ve completely lost track of time.

I put my sewing down, stretch my arms, neck, and shoulders, then stand and pad to the inner connecting door and press my ear against it.

Another knock follows.

I crack the door.

Reece stands there in jeans and a dark green team T-shirt, looking painfully good but more than a little worn around the edges. Clearly, he had a long day.

"Hey, honeybee." His voice is warm, a little rough around the edges.

I’m suddenly aware of the sheer robe still clinging to my body. I shrug and lean casually against the doorframe, letting the open door be an invitation without surrendering the whole room.

"Hey."

Instead of gawking at me, he scans the room, pausing on the sewing supplies spread across the desk, the giant bouquet of red roses still commanding the corner, the makeup on the vanity.

"You've been busy."

"Trying to be." I tip my head, studying him. "How was media day?"

He drops his head back and groans, and I laugh.

"A lot of smiling and answering the same five bloody questions a hundred different ways. Cutting off the nonsense when the entertainment media decided to shove their noses into business I'm not interested in sharing with them. Absolute rubbish, the lot of it."

“You mean business about your stripper wife?”

Reece hits me with a solid gaze. “I mean about my beautiful, talented wife.”

Ohh. M. G.

He steps closer, his voice softening. "How about you? You okay?"

I nod. "Yeah. I slept in and had a ridiculously fancy breakfast.” I wave toward the bouquets. “Some dude keeps sending me all these flowers.”

He glances toward them. "What an absolute wanker." Then his gaze swings back to me. "What else have you been up to, then?"

“I did some sewing, then staged some mild social media chaos."

His mouth curves. "I saw."

“You did?” That’s a surprise. "You follow my performer account?"

He shrugs, not even pretending to be sheepish. "Petra sent me the link. Had to see what kinda trouble Mrs. Pritchard was up to."

I roll my eyes but can't help smiling. “The good kind, Mr. Pritchard.”

Reece's face grows more serious, his voice dropping low. "You look happy."

"I… am. But… I’m still unsure." I bite my lip. “Sorry.”

He nods. "Quite alright."

For a moment, neither of us says anything. The air hums between us the same way it did in Vegas. It’s a jittery, giddy energy that makes me want to touch Reece Pritchard, shove my hands under his dark green shirt, feel his skin, and taste his mouth.

I don’t only because I don’t trust that kind of kinetic heat. It’s burned me before.

His green eyes narrow. “You hungry? I thought maybe we could grab something easy. No sponsors, no cameras. Just us."

My heart does a little skippity-doo-dah. "Yeah. Okay."

He smiles that lazy, boyish grin that first wrecked me back in Vegas. "Good. Get dressed, honeybee. I'll wait."

“Thirty minutes?”

“Sure.”

He steps back and I close the door. Cripes. Dinner with RP11 shouldn’t make my heart act like an idiot, but here I am, smiling.

Ugh.

I’m making it way too easy for him to wound me.

I spend twenty of those thirty minutes pulling clothes from my closet.

Branca's "F1 Qatar appropriate" selections all scream elegant but whisper dull.

Nothing feels like me until I pull out a flowing midnight blue caftan with delicate gold embroidery around the neckline and cuffs.

It's conservative enough for local customs but has a boho vibe I can work with.

I twist my hair into a sleek center-parted style worthy of Cher circa 1972, add dramatic winged eyeliner that extends just a touch too far to be modern, and finish with a nude lip.

The gold bangles I brought from Vegas complete the look, turning Qatar-appropriate into Mai-appropriate with just a few strategic touches.

Not my usual style, but when in Rome... or Doha. Still, the vintage-inspired makeup makes me feel like myself, even in borrowed clothes.

When Reece knocks on the hallway door exactly thirty minutes later (the man is punctual to the second), I take one final look in the mirror. Not bad for impromptu hotel fashion, and at least I don't look like some fuckin’ trophy wife.

I open the door to find him leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. His eyes widen slightly as he takes in my appearance.

"You look incredible." His green gaze lingers on my dramatic eyeliner before locking on. "I like what you've done with the..." He gestures vaguely toward my whole look.

I snort. "Branca didn't exactly order vintage treasures." I step into the hall and strike a pose, hand to jaw, elbow out, hip popped, bright smile. "Had to improvise."

He laughs and offers his arm. "I love that you've kept your style even with all this madness." I slip my hand over his elbow and as we walk toward the elevator, he adds, "Peony was so cookie-cutter. Like she was afraid to stand out."

I side-eye him. "You know I was warned not to overshadow you during race weekends."

His answering laughter echoes in the hallway. "Whoever told you that didn’t know who they were dealing with. Never going to happen and I never want to see you try. That would be a tragedy, Mai."

Something warm rolls down my spine at his words. It's one thing to appreciate someone's style, it's another entirely to encourage their uniqueness.

We find a quiet spot tucked into the corner of a casual bistro inside the hotel. No cameras, no team handlers. Just low light, soft music, and the clink of silverware on plates.

I get pasta. He has grilled fish, brown rice, veggies. We chat about nothing important at first. The food. His travel schedule. What Branca bought for me to wear.

I sip wine, while Reece has tea.

Slowly our edges soften.

He stirs milk into his second cup. "You said once you had an ex who hurt you. You don't have to tell me, but if you want to, I'm listening."

I toy with my wineglass for a second. "Yeah. Lear Valjean. He was older. Rich. Flashy. The kind of guy who turns heads everywhere he goes. He made me feel special for a little while."

Reece watches and listens. He’s a good listener.

"Except I wasn't. Not really. I was just something shiny and new, a rebellion against his tidy life. So when I stopped being convenient, I became disposable." I take a breath. "It took me a long time to realize that being used isn’t the same thing as being loved."

He reaches across the table and covers my hand. "You deserved better."

I squeeze his fingers back. His palm is warm and slightly calloused, his touch strong but surprisingly gentle. Reece has racer's hands, and it's been so long since someone touched me like I'm valuable, not just fuckable, that I have to look away ’cause I don’t wanna get all weepy in front of him.

Redirect, Maiken. Redirect!

"What about you? Were you with Peony for a long time?”

"You remember our conversation from Vegas?"

He strokes his thumb over the back of my hand, and oh my god, if he keeps that up I’m in serious trouble because his touch is doing unmentionable shit to my unmentionables and he’s not even touching them .

"I remember some of Vegas." Does he know he’s wrecking me?

He lifts my hand and turns it so the diamonds of the engagement ring wink under the light hanging over our table. "This ring was meant for her. I told you I caught her cheating. Walked in and..." He exhales roughly. “That broke something in me."

My stomach twists and I abandon thoughts of getting laid for thoughts of how deeply that must’ve wounded him. "I'm sorry." I mean, I’m sorry I don’t remember that conversation and that she treated him like someone who didn’t matter.

He shrugs, but it's not careless. It's self-protective. "She loved the driver and the lifestyle, but she didn’t love me. I think I knew that for a while. Just didn't fancy admitting it to myself."

We sit like that for a while, fingers twined, silence thick but not heavy.

After dinner, the walk back to the elevators is quiet and comfortable. There's a kind of easy warmth between us now, stitched together from shared stories and unspoken understanding, and a gentle touch that could so easily become more.

In the elevator, Reece leans casually against the wall, watching me with a small, private smile that loosens something inside me.

When we reach our floor, he strolls down the hall, hands tucked in his pockets, like he’s not in a hurry for the night to end either. There are no cameras or observers here, just the low hum that's been slowly, stubbornly vibrating between us all evening.

At my room, we stop.

He considers me, then smiles. "Sleep well, Mai."

“You too, Reece.” I unlock my door and slip inside, letting it click closed behind me.

For a moment, I just stand there, hand still on the handle, pulse thudding in my ears.

Then I hear the muted sound of his room door closing, followed by a soft knock at the inner connecting door.

I cross the room, heart hammering, and open it. He’s barefoot, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans again, hair a little mussed.

I don't invite him in, but I lean against the doorframe, the same way I did earlier. The invitation is there, open and waiting.

He smiles. "Just wanted to say thank you."

"For what?"

"For giving us a shot."

I look down and nod. "You make it easy."

He chuckles under his breath. "Pretty sure that's not true, but I'll take the compliment."

We just look at each other. We’ve reached a tipping point, and each of us is waiting for the other to do something to nudge the scale.

He lifts his hand and brushes a knuckle along my cheekbone. The touch is so light it barely registers, yet it sears right through me.

His smile makes my knees weak. Oooh god, I want to reach for him, pull him in and let him inside my body, because the truth is he’s already inside my mind and my heart.