“Why do you race?”
Well, it seems one of us has decided to go right to the tough stuff.
I mimic his pose except that my arms are crossed over my chest. “I told you, I don’t want to talk about my father.”
“I didn’t ask you about your father. I asked you whyyourace.”
It takes a minute for the distinction to fully penetrate my brain. Everyone has always assumed that I race for my father. Hell, I’ve always assumed that.
But not Ben. And now, for the first time, he’s making me ask myself who—or what—motivates me to get behind the wheel and risk life and limb on a daily basis.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “Racing is all I’ve ever known. I started karting at six. And I’m good at it.”
It’s the only thing I’ve ever really been good at. If I wasn’t driving, I don’t know what I’d be doing. It’s not like I have a college degree. Or any other skills to fall back on.
Ben does that penetrating stare thing again and there goes my heart, giving a repeat performance of its flip flop from before. “Don’t you think that’s something you should figure out?”
I shake my head. “No fair. I only got one question.”
“Shelby and Miles.”
“Huh?”
“My cat’s names. And no, they don’t travel with me. I’d take them, but Shelby hates his carrier, and Miles would be miserable without him. My friend takes care of them when I’m gone.” He ticks each sentence off on his fingers. “There. Three answers for the price of one.”
“You named your cats after Carroll Shelby and Lee Miles?” As if he couldn’t get any more awesome. Naming his cats after two racing legends. He hides it under a gruff exterior, but the guy is a total softie.
Reason number 763 I want to fuck him. Or have him fuck me. My last few partners have been less than generous in the sack, more concerned with the novelty of being with a celebrity—or the son of a celebrity—than making sure I was satisfied. I have a feeling Ben would be the polar opposite. Not just because my fame doesn’t faze him, but because he strikes me as the kind of man who would put his partner’s needs before his own.
“Guilty as charged.” He holds up another finger. “Now it’s four. You’re way behind. Quit stalling and answer my question.”
“What question was that again?” I ask as if I don’t know perfectly well.
“Don’t you think you should figure out why you race?”
I let out a long breath. “I never really thought about it before. I guess so.”
A group of party guests passes us on their way to the bow, and we go back to staring at the dark, churning water below us. When they’re out of earshot, I feel Ben’s hand, warm and reassuring, on my shoulder.
“You okay? I’m sorry for going all dark on you.”
Technically, it’s my turn to ask him something. I could call him on that. But I don’t because I have a feeling we’re not playing a game anymore.
“You didn’t go all dark,” I assure him. “Just—deep.”
I didn’t intend the double entendre, but now that it’s out there it’s all I can think of. Me sprawled on the king-size bed in my Fontvieille apartment, his big body on top of me, going so deep inside it feels like my entire body is filled with him. I leave the innuendo hanging there, wondering if his mind has gone to the same dirty place as mine.
Unfortunately, I don’t get an answer because we’re interrupted by a steward coming to tell us it’s time for dinner. There are large tables scattered around the yacht set with elaborate black and white floral centerpieces that I assume are supposed to represent the checkered flag that’s waved when the winner crosses the finish line, and Ben’s assigned seat is nowhere near mine. I guess whoever did the seating chart didn’t get the memo about us needing to advertise our bromance to the world. Instead, I’m stuck discussing tomorrow’s qualifiers with Yanni and arguing with Gabe about whose car is more likely to break down.
I don’t see Ben again until we’re almost back at the dock and getting ready to disembark. He’s at the rail again—on one of the lower decks this time—the moonlight reflecting off his pale skin and the ocean breeze, which has picked up since we first boarded, mussing his hair.
Christ, he’s beautiful. A living, breathing Renaissance sculpture, like the ones I’ve seen in Italy and France. A force of nature, impossible to resist.
It takes me a few seconds, but I work up the nerve to go up to him and tap him on the shoulder. “Hey, about earlier—”
“It’s okay,” he says, cutting me off but not rudely. “I was out of line. Your reasons for racing are no one’s business but your own.”
“No, you weren’t. You’re my racing engineer. Of course it’s your business. It’s just that no one’s ever asked me that before. They’ve always assumed I’m following in my father’s footsteps.”