“I need to do this alone,” I tell her, doing my best to keep mytone light. “Auntie Min isn’t even going to be here. She has choir practice.”
There’s a pause that feels very deliberate, and when I look up from my keyboard, Sherri is smirking at me.
“Well well well,” she stage whispers. “I don’t suppose you arranged for this summit to happen when the house is empty… on purpose? A little privacy for a ‘happy reunion’?”
“No.I didn’t have any control over the timing. The race was Sunday, then Mondays are always crammed with team meetings and such, and on Thursday he’s back in the game with press meetings for the next GP. He doesn’t have a huge window.”
Sherri grins. “Does he have a hugeanything else?”
I feign shock for a second, then grab the plush squeaky hedgehog sitting on my desk and chuck it at her. I point at her laptop. “Quit teasing me and get to work.”
“That’s what she said!” she crows, dissolving into giggles. She return lobs the hedgehog and it bounces off the side of my head.
I pick it up, growling to mask my amusement. “Good lord—you’re relentless. Are you going to keep this up all night?”
She clamps a hand briefly over her mouth, stifling her laughter. “Okay, I don’t even have to say it withthatone. You’re pretty much gift-wrapping these for me.”
23
KENTUCKY
THE NEXT DAY
NATALIA
I’m typing at lightning speed, trying to get to a good stopping place, when I hear a motorcycle coming up the road. My hands freeze and my eyes go wide.
I jump up and peek around the window’s edge. Into the driveway swoops a black BMW motorcycle, its rider unmistakable.
“Oh,of courseyou did,” I murmur under my breath. I wish the sight of those long, black-denim-clad legs as he dismounts didn’t set my heart racing, but… yeah.Dammit.
He removes a silver helmet and combs his hands through his hair. Setting the helmet on the bike seat, he glances up at the sky as if to check for the threat of rain, then unzips the leather jacket he’s wearing. It’s that vintage “café racer” style—form-fitting, standing collar, red stripes down the arms—and my knees practically go weak. He shrugs it off and drapes it beside the helmet, then unbuttons androlls up the sleeves of his white dress shirt as he strides up the walkway. I duck, afraid to be caught gawking.
I assess my outfit as I scurry into the hallway, second-guessing my decision not to dress up. I’m in gray yoga pants and one of Auntie Min’s handmade granny-square sweaters. My hair is a careless bun, and I have only a nod to makeup—just enough to look alert for the Zoom call I did earlier with a therapist specializing in post-incarceration patients, with whom I’m consulting on a chapter of the book.
The doorbell chimes, and when I open the door, Klaus is so picturesquely framed by the low, late-afternoon sun that it’s like a magical aura.Annoying.How is he always effortlessly delicious? My body strains to fly into his embrace like scrap metal hurtling toward an electromagnet in a junkyard.
I plant one hand on my hip and the other against the door frame in a pose of alleged ease, but it’s really to hide how I’m shaking. “Hey. Thanks for coming over.”
I’m trying for a cool, unruffled vibe, but I don’t know if it’s working. As wildly as my pulse beats in my throat, I wonder if he can hear it as a flutter in my voice.
He opens his arms. “May I?”
Oh God…
“Um. Okay, yep.” Next thing I know, I’m pressed against the wall of his chest.
He smells like heaven, and I can hear through his sternum that his pulse is as fast as mine. I squeeze my eyes shut. My hands open from their reluctant-fist position to lie flat against his lower back, and the simple warmth of him almost destroys me.
“Hi,” I manage in a breathy voice.
“Hello.” He lightly kisses the top of my head.
Pulling away, I step back and twist my hands together like a shy child. I finally remember myself and wave him in, darting past to close the door, then leading him to the living room.
He looks around before sitting on the sofa, and I perceive the house through his eyes. It’s clean and cozy, but very much a time warp from the eighties: knickknacks, crocheted doilies and blankets, wall art that suddenly looks to me like budget motel décor, when an hour ago it was just the familiar framed landscapes I’ve seen since childhood. I stifle the stupid urge to apologize for everything.
“Do you want anything?” I ask. Instantly I blush, thinking of a dozen cheeky answers, and quickly add, “Like water? Coffee or tea?”
