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“You did.”

“This is sad news.”

“The saddest.”

“You’re right,” I say.

“About?”

“You did have the fun flavour. Not that all Aeros aren’t great—”

“Because they are,” Mason adds.

“Yes, but tiramisu is next level.”

“Practically a confectionery fantasy.”

I giggle. “Who says ‘confectionery’?”

“What, don’t you think a race car driver can know what ‘confectionery’ means?”

“No, but I’ve never heard a driver use that in a sentence.”

“I had to counter ‘sorcery.’ I didn’t want to drag the conversation down.”

I think I’m going to break the crush-o-meter at this point. If one existed, that is.

“Okay, before we get completely off-track,” I begin, but Mason speaks before I can continue.

“Too late. Also, racing term. I’ll give you a point for that.”

“A point? Are we playing a game?”

“Yes. Word play. You’ve received one for ‘sorcery’ and one for ‘off-track.’ I’ve got one for ‘confectionery.’”

“Wait, what are the rules? How do I know if I’m breaking them?”

Mason’s eyes lock on mine. “I think we’ll make them up as we go along, don’t you think?”

And if he were any other man, I’d swear he was interested.

But Mason hasn’t been interested in anything other than his car ever since I started working at Collings Motors.

And if he were interested in someone, it would definitely not be me.

He casually takes another bite of his lunch, oblivious to the thoughts going on in my head. Or how my pulse has quickened from the way his eyes met mine a moment ago.

“All right, word game in development, got it,” I say smartly.

“Sorry. Go on.”

“Okay, for this feature, I’m thinking you’d let me take a peek in your wardrobe. Whenever you have time. Absolutely no rush.”

“I’m ready to do it.”

“Oh?”

“How about we do it on Tuesday, in Monaco? You can come over to my place, and I’ll show you my wardrobe. Are you in, Catherine?”