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“How about I let you help me drive it instead?” A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he thinks about my compromise. “You can’t reach the pedals on your own yet.”
“I guess…but I get to do the wheel?”
“Sure…” With my assistance. I could get into trouble with my insurance and the team if I let a four-year-old bash us around the sand dunes. Another debacle I don’t need in my life.
We’re walking past the bistro close to the pub when Brooks tugs his hand out of mine and runs ahead of me, yelling, “Hey, Rosie!”
His call echoes ahead of him, making her turn in time to catch him as he leaps at her. “Hey, kiddo. Where’s your mom?”
“Home,” he shrugs, pointing back at me as I approach.
The instant her stare flickers up to find me, I can’t stop the grin that pulls at my lips when she gives me one of her narrow-eyed looks. The way we keep bumping into each other is making me think that there’s something in the stars pushing us together. Something that makes me snicker when she chuckles, “Oh, it’s you…again.”
“Yes. Me again.”
A scoff hitches her chest in just the right way so that the top of her tits pushes past the lace trim of her black, silk tank. In the golden glow of the streetlights, the freckles sprinkling the milky skin of her shoulders and chest appear darker.
“Are you stalking me?” Rosie asks, a hint of a smile husking her voice even as she cocks a brow at me.
“No,” Brooks replies before I get a chance. “We’re having man time.”
“You heard the dude…just a case of the right place, right time.”
“Lucky for you,” she hums, pressing her lips into a twisted pout to stop herself from grinning back at me while she nods down at Brooks, “I trust this guy.”
“Lucky me.” The retort is a quiet murmur as I breathe in the fine wisp of a breeze that carries her soft, floral scent my way.
Before I know it, we’re walking side by side, toward Main Street, with Brooks skipping a few feet ahead of us. She’s quiet and close enough that I take the opportunity to appreciate her presence. Rosie’s wearing the same black tank and jeans from earlier, but her long hair is loose around her shoulders. The long strands fall to her waist in messy, rusty waves that have my fingers itching to touch it.
“You know,” she lets out a long breath, side-glancing up at me with quirked brows that tell me my appreciation hasn’t gone unnoticed. “I got enough going on without adding a stalker to the mix. I can’t deal with it.”
“I’m not stalking you, but if I were, I’m pretty certain you could deal with it.” Chuckling at the dramatic roll of her eyes, I add, “I mean…you scared Louise away pretty fast.”
“Who’s Louise?”
“She’s my physio and sort of my assistant, although she likes to call herself my sitter.” A light scoff transitions to a chuckle at the grimace I make at my final point. “But you chased her away in one meeting, and now she’s back on the jet, heading back home to her husband and kids in the French Alps.”
“I didn’t chase her away,” Rosie levels me with a mock-glare.
“You kinda did, but it’s nice that you cared enough to. I must say, jealousy looks cute on you.”
“I am not jealous!” Punctuating her retort with an elbow to my side, she catches herself a moment too late. But even the slight contact is enough to get my heart racing away with itself. The sound of her laugh is addictive enough that I never want the echo of it in my ears to stop. The heat of her closeness is too good to ignore or to think beyond. As closed off as she makes herself, her warmth still comes through, and it’s impossible to overlook or dismiss. Nonetheless, it keeps pulling me in deeper and deeper.
“I’m not jealous,” Rosie repeats in a slightly more assured tone that fools neither of us.
“Not much,” I laugh, pausing as we wait for the lights at the crossing to turn.
Pushing between us, Brooks takes my hand while she asks, “Why do you keep going to the pub? You’ve never ordered a beer or any other alcoholic drink, and the only thing you eat there is the salad—”
“I had chicken with it, and I had the steak when I had dinner with Maggie.”
“Yeah, you barely ate any of it. The chef is getting a complex about his cooking.”
Not willing to risk her shutting down our conversation, I ignore the fact she’s clearly been watching me as much as I’ve been admiring her. Instead, I continue, “I keep a strict diet throughout the season, but I like the scenery and the staff is sort of all right.”
“A strict diet?” Taking a step back, she glances at me from head to toe and back up with a confused scrunch of her dainty nose.
“The cars are tight to stop us from getting jostled around and breaking momentum. The seats are basically tailored to our bodies pre-season, so if you fill out during season, it becomes real uncomfortable.”
