Page 30 of Formula Chance

A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts, and I set the glass down, tying my robe tighter as I head to answer it. I met one of the neighbors today, a lovely widow who seemed very lonely, and I invited her over for tea when she had a chance.

I glance through the peephole, expecting sweet Mrs. Hensley with her iron-gray pin curls and bright red lipstick. Instead, I see Nash standing there in a casual hoodie and jeans. But it’s what he’s holding that leaves me momentarily stunned—a six-pack of our favorite beer from our Vienna days.

I hesitate, wondering what the hell he’s doing here, before unlocking the door and swinging it open. “Hey?”

It comes out as a question.

He smiles sheepishly. “Figured you might need to talk about Jeddah. If you want to—or not. Your call.”

I stare at him, unable to fathom what’s going on. Sure, we made amends, and I feel good that we’ll have a working relationship with no issues going forward, but this… this isn’t business.

“I should have called,” he says, looking past my shoulder. “If you’re busy…”

Waving a hand at my robe, I say, “Just relaxing with some wine. I’ve been unpacking all day.”

Nash laughs. “Should have sent my mom over to do that for you. She’s got me all squared away.”

“Did they go back to the States?” I ask.

“No. They’re going to stay the rest of the week and hang out in London a bit to do some shopping and other shit. They’ll go to Melbourne to watch me race.”

I nod, holding the lapels of my robe closed.

“Are you going to invite me in?” he asks, rattling the six-pack.

“Oh my word, yes. Sorry. Come in.”

I back up, usher him in and shut the door. He immediately walks into the small efficiency kitchen, places the beer in the fridge, and asks, “Want a beer or are you going to stick with the wine?”

I’m flummoxed by his visit and even more so by him bringing the beer that we would often sip while relaxing at our shared home. We’d sit on the couch, propped up on opposite ends with our legs intertwined, and talk for hours. It seems a little too… personal, so I shake my head. “I’ll stick with the wine.”

The scent of his cologne—a mix of something woodsy and fresh—lingers as he moves past me into the living room, setting his beer down on the coffee table.

I follow behind, picking up my wine and settling on the couch. Nash takes the other end and looks around. “Nice place.”

“It’s got a roof and comfortable furniture. All I need.”

He nods and sips his beer. “Remember that couch we had in Vienna, and you kept swearing it moved when you sat on it, and I thought you were crazy?”

Laughing, I give him an admonishing glare. “Itwasmoving. I can’t believe it was a mouse!”

“I didn’t know they could live in the cushions like that.” He chuckles, and says quietly, “You had a really shitty day yesterday and you were always the type to bottle things up. Thought you could use a sounding board.”

“Oh, well… thank you,” I murmur, completely flummoxed by his thoughtfulness. But then again, that’s classic Nash. He was always so intuitive about my feelings and always gave me that safe space to talk.

“So, how bad was it after I left the room?” he asks, leaning back and watching me with those piercing hazel eyes.

I didn’t see Nash after that. He was gone when Luca, Hendrik and I filed out, and while I saw him on the return flight to England, we weren’t sitting near each other and didn’t speak. “Actually, it wasn’t bad at all. Luca had my back—”

Nash holds up his hand. “I mean… how bad was it for Matthieu? I assumed Luca had your back.”

Chuckling, I curl my feet under me and rest my wineglass on my thigh. “Yeah, well… I’m glad you had more faith in me than I did. But let me tell you, Luca lit into Matthieu hard. He could barely say anything when Luca was done.”

“What could he say?” Nash snorts. “You pretty much put both Matthieu and Bernie in their places and they deserved it. You had a winning strategy, and those two dipshits fucked it all up.” He takes another sip of his beer. “You really handled yourself well. I was impressed. You didn’t back down, didn’t let Matthieu or Bernie steamroll you. That’s not easy, especially with egos like theirs.”

His praise surprises me, and I feel a flush creep up my neck. “Thanks. It didn’t feel like I was handling it well in the moment.”

“That’s because you’re in the thick of it,” he says, his voice low and steady. “But trust me, Bex—you’re doing exactly what you need to do.”

---