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“Are you talking about Formula One racing?” I question, heading out of my bathroom. “I guess it makes sense you’re into that stuff considering your hobbies. So you dragged yourself out of bed at an ungodly hour to watch some dudes racing cars?”
He makes a short disgruntled noise.
“Excuse you, it’s not just some dudes racing cars. F1 is a competitive sport—do you have any idea how grueling training for a Grand Prix is?”
“Well, sorry, I don’t care about stuff like that,” I mutter. “The only thing I know about F1 is that there’s a couple of hot drivers. Like Lewis Hamilton.”
Graham groans softly. “I’m so disappointed in you right now.”
I laugh. I’m about to ask him exactly why he called when he starts to speaks again.
“I refuse to be associated with someone who doesn’t understand the nuances of Formula One racing. Where are you?” he asks.
“In my bedroom, where else?”
“Is there a TV in there?”
“Sure,” I reply, sitting down on my bed, which faces a huge flatscreen.
“Good. Turn it on and switch to ESPN. The race has started and you’re watching it with me,” Graham announces.
I scoff. “No way. I don’t know anything about it, as you kindly pointed out. It’s Sunday morning and I have better things to do.”
“Like what?”
“Like church, Graham. Not all of us lounge around on the Lord’s day.”
He’s not deterred. “Isn’t it too early to be going to church? The race will only take two hours.”
“Two hours?” I balk. “You think I’m going to sit here and watch some guys racing for two hours?”
He heaves a heavy sigh of disappointment and I roll my eyes. “Like I said, Sunshine, it’s so much more than that. I’ll tell you everything you need to know over the phone. Come on, watch with me.”
There he goes again, talking to me with that inflection in his voice that short-circuits my brain. I’m not a nice person, and I’m usually not easily swayed. But Graham barely even has to work to get me to do things I would never do. He can never know how much power he has over me.
“Graham, I have to wake the twins so we can go to church,” I complain unconvincingly.
I already know he’s a bull and won’t give up no matter what I say.
“What time does mass start?” he questions knowingly.
“Around ten-thirty,” I mumble, knowing I’ve already lost this argument.
Graham chuckles lightly, “Wonderful. Which means you’ve got two hours to spare and more. We’re watching. Sit tight, Sunshine. And turn on your TV.”
I mutter a few choice words under my breath as I do as he asked, switching the channel to ESPN where a race is currently ongoing. One of the players is being interviewed and my lips turn up as I take in his good looks. He’s really hot.
“Who am I looking at right now?” I ask, unable to keep the smile from my voice.
“That, sweetheart, is Charles Leclerc. Quit lusting over him. I didn’t ask you to watch so you’d check out the drivers.”
“I have to at least get something from this,” I protest, listening to the commentary. “So, who’s your favorite player? Who do you support?”
“You don’t typically support one driver, Sunshine. There are teams. Each team has two drivers. There’s Mercedes, Ferrari, McLaren, Red Bull Racing, and more. I support Ferrari,” he explains.
“And who plays for Ferrari?” I ask curiously.
He sighs. “Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz. You’re welcome to root for them because they’re pretty fucking great, not because you like how Charles Leclerc looks.”
