I mindlessly sweep the coffee shop’s floor.
What am I supposed to wear this weekend?
What am I supposed to say?
But, wait, how am I supposed to live in the same hotel room with Santiago for days and keep things between us solely platonic?
“Chloe, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
I jump at the sound of Matteo’s voice. The broom slips from my hands and clatters against the floor. “God. You scared me!”
He chuckles. “I’m sorry. I called your name a few times, but you didn’t hear me.”
Oh. Stop daydreaming on the job.
I turn toward him. He gestures for us to have a seat at one of the empty tables.
Is he going to fire me? He’s never this formal, and after our dinner from hell, things between us have been a bit tense. I try not to hold it against him, but I’m still slightly bitter.
“What’s up?” I keep my tone casual despite the loud thoughts battering my head like a marching band.
“Well, I feel like things haven’t been right between us.”
Wow. This man really is my father. How else could he sense my annoyance?
He continues. “You have been pretty quiet and not like your usual self ever since our dinner the other day.”
Someone give this man an award. He understands women and seeks them out to make things right. This town truly is magical after all.
“Yeah. About that…”
He lifts his hand. “My son and I… We were embarrassing. I realize that now.”
My mouth pops open. Whoa. All right. I can get behind this kind of self-awareness.
“No, you both were just excited.”
“We were both rude, and don’t try to cover it up as something else. Save me my dignity here.”
A laugh slips out of me. “Well…”
“We’ve never been around someone famous, and we acted like fools. You must be used to Santiago since he’s your boyfriend, but for us—it was like meeting our idol for the first time. Santiago Alatorre is one of the greatest, along with his brother-in-law. Your boyfriend is right up there with Michael Schumacher.”
Michael Schumach-who?
“Right.” Well, that sounded a lot safer than asking more questions about the boyfriend I should know everything about.
“You invited us there to spend time with you outside of work, and we hogged it by pestering Santiago. Please forgive us for acting like bumbling fools in front of you both. I’m embarrassed I reacted that way.”
If I had a glass of water, I would choke on it right about now. His apology is sincere, and I can’t help forgiving him. It’s not like I can hold it against him. If someone told me I was about to have dinner with Michelle Obama, I’d be freaking the fuck out too.
Wait, could Santiago help me score a dinner with the Obamas? Now that piques my interest about his fame.
I assure Matteo that everything is fine between us, and we get back to work. I’m not the kind to harbor grudges because life’s too short to spend it angry at people who genuinely care. Matteo could’ve not apologized and left things how they were. But his bravery and honesty has me appreciating him in a whole new light.
“Will you pass me the screwdriver, please.” Santiago rolls out from underneath the car, hitting me with his brown eyes.
He stands out against the gray cement flooring of the garage. Is there such a thing as being too pretty? Asking for the male staring up at me with a grin that should be illegal in whatever country I reside in.
I grab the tool and pass it to him. Thank God he taught me the names of all his thing-a-ma-jiggers because I would’ve been screwed after he mentioned the auto jig and dent puller.
I look around his garage. It’s something straight out of a Fast and Furious movie, with tons of cars from various generations. I’m tempted to pull off a grand theft auto and snag the red convertible when he’s sleeping.
Tempted being the key word.
“What’s that look about?” He points up at me with the screwdriver.
“Thinking about what it would take to steal one of your cars.”
“I knew you were a criminal.”
“Criminals get caught.” I shoot him a mischievous smile.
He rolls back underneath the car. “Are you ready for this weekend?”
“About as ready as one can be for the apocalypse.”
His laugh carries over the clicking noises of his tools. “It’s not that bad.”
“Oh, really. Then it’s a true wonder how you stayed away from it all for this long.” I imagine him rolling his eyes at me.
“You know why.”
“Fine. What did you do during all your time away from the land of the lavish?”
The noises underneath the car pause. “Why are you asking?”
“Oh, I’m just curious to know more about you.”
He snorts.
I grin. “You do understand I need to know more about my fake boyfriend than the fact that he likes cars, he used to race, and he enjoys short walks where no one bothers him, right?”
“Emphasis on the no-one-bothers-me part, please.”
I laugh up to the ceiling. “Come on. What’s something no one knows about you?”
“Why would I share something like that with you, only so you could tell a reporter?”
My, my, someone is grumpy today. “I’m not going to tell anyone. But I do want to have an idea of who you are as a person. You know, for when I need to make up stories that require some consistency.”
“I used to play the guitar every night before I went to bed.”
“Stop. No way!” I lean over and peek under the car, only to be met with the top of his head. So much for getting a read on him.
He grumbles something I can’t understand.
I somehow lift my jaw back up off the floor. “You seriously play the guitar?”
There he goes pausing his work again. “Acoustic.”
“Oh my God! You need to play for me.”
“No.”
“Come on,” I whine.
“Still no.”
“You’re such a spoilsport.”
“I never claimed otherwise.”
I roll my eyes. “Back when you raced, did you used to bring your guitar with you?”
The screwdriver clatters against the ground.
Ugh. Wrong question.
“Never min—”
“Yeah. I always traveled with my guitar during the racing season. It made the bad days bearable and the good days memorable.”
I lean against the hood of the car to stop me from falling over. Swooning can do that to a girl. “Do you still play?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because music is food for the soul, and mine feels like it’s missing.”
Whoa. His heart calls out to mine, begging me to help him. He might look beautiful on the outside, but he’s nothing but broken on the inside. It has me absolutely enraptured.
I have a feeling Santiago loves too hard. Whether it’s his family, or racing, or even the music he plays, he loves unapologetically and with everything in him. And how does someone move past the level of heartbreak he experienced when he lost his leg and gave up racing?
“I hope you play again one day.” I mean every word.
“Me too, Chloe. Me too.”
