Page 32 of Formula Chance

“Oooph,” he says, rubbing a free hand over his head. “That’s a long story.”

I hold up my glass. “We’ve got wine and beer. We can order Thai takeaway if you want.”

He considers the offer, which means not just food and drink, but a bit deeper discussion than either of us had probably anticipated we’d get into after we called our truce.

Nash smiles and inclines his head. “All right… let’s order some food and we’ll catch up.”

CHAPTER 11

Nash

While we waitfor the Thai food to arrive, we share another drink and talk about my stint in the OWC. When she finishes her wine, Bex excuses herself to her room to change out of her robe, something I inappropriately wish she wouldn’t do. It molded to her curves and was distracting to say the least, but I could have suffered if she wanted to keep it on.

Tonight, she’s so relaxed and it’s something that doesn’t come easy to someone as driven as she is. In fact, the first thing I noticed when I walked into Bex’s flat is how perfectly it suits her. It’s small but neat, functional, with an unspoken order that screams “Bexley.” Her desk by the window is already covered in charts, notes and photos from races, the pinboard above it cluttered with plans. If I were to guess, that was probably the first thing she set up before she even unpacked her clothes.

A memory comes unbidden and causes me to chuckle. Bex notices as she appears, wearing a pair of sweatpants and an old Bauer Performance T-shirt. Her feet are bare, toenails painted a sparkling deep blue.

“What’s so funny?” she asks, plopping back down on the couch and grabbing her wine.

I nod toward her desk at all the charts and graphs. “Bet that was the first thing you set up.”

“You’d bet right.” She laughs.

“You’ve always been like that—straight to business, no time for distractions.”

“Like you’re any different,” she retorts.

I shake my head, cocking an eyebrow at her. “You used to sleep with your race data under your pillow. You were sure that the mojo would seep into you at night.”

Bex blushes but lifts her chin. “Yeah, well, it worked, didn’t it?”

“Not going to argue that.” Bex’s star always shone because she was fucking great at what she did. I wasn’t about to discount superstitious routines because we all have them.

I take in her easygoing smile as she sits on the opposite end of the couch, and for a moment, it feels like old times. Comfortable. Like we haven’t spent the last three years avoiding each other.

There’s a knock at the door and we both stand up. “I’ll get the food,” I offer.

“I’ll top off drinks,” she says and holds out her hand for my nearly empty bottle. I drain it and hand it over, feeling the tiny bit of spin the beers have induced. Bex takes two steps, seems to walk a bit sideways and then rights herself. Maybe we should have gone a little slower on the alcohol while we’ve been talking but the food will help.

I spread the containers out on the coffee table as I hear Bex grabbing plates. She returns to the living room, sets them down and heads back into the kitchen. I load up for both of us with pad Thai, green curry and spring rolls.

When Bex returns, I’m surprised to see a bottle of Stroh rum, a delicious spiced Austrian sipping liquor that was also a favorite of ours. “Thought this was appropriate,” she says with a sheepish smile and produces two small glasses.

“We’re totally walking down memory lane,” I muse, and then nod at the food. “Might as well eat on the floor like we used to.”

“Spot-on,” she exclaims in her proper British accent and moves around the table. She settles onto the rug, the couch to her back, and I follow suit, sitting very close to her but leaving a few inches of room so we don’t touch.

Bex is generous with her pour and I lift my glass. “Cheers and thanks for having me over.”

She taps her glass against mine. “Cheers. And you invited yourself over. I just let you in the door.”

“Well, thanks for that.” We grin at each other over the rims of our glasses as we take that first sip of nostalgia, and it goes down a little too smoothly. “Mmm. I forgot how good that was.”

“Right?” she asks, licking at her lower lip. Her expression turns a little serious. “Is this weird? Us… getting along.”

I pick up my fork and twirl my noodles because I hate using chopsticks. So freaking inefficient. “Yeah… it’s fucking weird.” I lift my fork but pause, looking at her. “But it doesn’t feel wrong.”

“No, it doesn’t, does it?” she asks, her eyebrows drawn inward. Then she beams. “Must be the alcohol.”

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