Page 12 of When I Had You

So I keep my personal life as private as I can. The usual judgments I hear don’t do me any favors and stresses the peace I’m trying to maintain with my ex-girlfriend. And since Terpidy controls my access to Cullen when I’m traveling, I play nice and keep things light, so nothing posted online upsets her.

Even though it’s only to satiate a curiosity I have about Marina, it’s not my business, so I offer her the same option I’ve given myself.

Noah asks, “What’s your routine the night before a race?”

He’s been great to have my back in the justification tour he had to do when Westcott Racing hired me. He’s also a good guy and easy to get along with. We’ve had an occasional beer together before the season and started to hang out a bit.

Looking down at my plate, where plain chicken and vegetables weren’t nearly enough for my appetite tonight, I grab my glass of water to finish for the third time since sitting down. “No alcohol, though, until after the final race. Lean meats and vegetables. Nothing exciting, but I don’t want anything heavy weighing me down. Sleep. I’ll work out in the morning, probably run. You work out, right? Want to join me?”

“Yeah, text me the time, and I’ll be there. I’m going to need it after that pasta.”

I catch Marina hiding a small yawn behind her hand and turn to her. “I’m not the most exciting guy.”

“Exciting means different things to different people. I love to binge a show or take a long bath. Not exciting.”

There’s no anger or sarcasm in her tone. A thin thread of a white flag waves in the air between us. Maybe we don’t have to fight a battle every time we’re around each other, which might be more this weekend since she’s in town with her family.

The rest of the guests are restless, some shifting to other seats so there’s no yelling across the table. Noah’s gotten up, leaving a vacancy next to his sister, to move down by Harbor.

Her mom holds her attention for a few minutes before her parents start a round of goodbyes. I stand to shake hands and take a hug from Delta because she’s a sweet woman, and she makes me feel like I’m a part of the family every time I see her.

When the end of our table is emptied and the others have shifted closer to the door, I reconnect with Marina, our eyes latching together. She holds up her glass, and then says, “I think this makes you an honorary Westcott.”

I crack a smile and hold up my empty water glass. “I’ve been called worse.”

She laughs. It’s light, but I’ll take it, wanting to hear more of the beautiful sound.

It’s hard to take my eyes off her. Five-six, maybe seven on a good day and in sky-high heels. Brown hair that finds just enough light to shine in the dimly lit restaurant. Eyes bright with mischief. She’s a stunning woman. But it’s that dress . . . that fucking dress hugging her body that has a chokehold on me every time I look below the neck. I’m a cad, so that happens more than I’d care to admit. I’ve never been jealous of a garment before, but I wouldn’t mind trading jobs for a night.

Should I be having these thoughts about the bosses’ sister? Probably not, but I’m only human. I don’t know what’s come over me. I haven’t had anything more than water tonight, but suddenly, mouthy and demanding doesn’t seem like such a negative when thinking about her. I can respect her for not taking anyone’s shit, especially what I dish out, but it’s the side of her that she’s sharing now that has fully captivated me.

She’s being vulnerable under the guise of wine, but I know she’s not drunk, not enough to share her secrets with me of all people.

She says, “My boyfriend isn’t my boyfriend anymore.”

“That’s too bad. For him.”

She smiles wider, and her cheeks heat like they did in the elevator before she tries to distract by tucking her hair behind her ear and taking another sip of wine. I see through the act she put on for her family tonight. I heard “It’s good” or “I’m fine” so many times but never saw the answers reach her eyes.

With me, she dropped that confession like she needed to get it off her chest. I look around the table, hear the chatter, and realize she’s learned to play the game. She doesn’t compete with others. She sits in her space, content to hide the truth from them.

But I see her.

She’s lovely, even if she comes with a big dose of kick-ass snark. I want to hear everything she’s willing to share with me. Taking advantage of the situation, I ask, “How are you really doing?”

“The relationship was dead a long time ago, but the repercussions of not being together will reverberate for the next year or more.”

“Or until another scandal breaks?”

Her unexpectedly loud laughter frees her to let go of whatever she was so staunch about holding on to. I think it’s whatever happened between her and the ex-boyfriend. “Exactly. Got one handy that we can drop to the press?”

“I’ve been there, but I’m currently fresh out of bombshell headlines.”

“Lucky you,” she says, still laughing enough to keep that smile shining on her pretty face. “Mine is about to hit.”

“That’s too bad. Anything I can do to help?”

“Stop the presses?” With her elbow anchored on the table, she rests her chin on her hand. I like how relaxed she is, ease running through her shoulders and bending them forward. Whether I’m responsible or the wine gets the credit doesn’t matter. I’ll take it.

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