LILY

It's our third night in Austin, and I can't say with confidence that the week is going well. The only high points have been my daily coffee meetings with Anh, who has tried to catch me up on the gossip. Unfortunately, since we're both busy, that's only taken about an hour out of each day.

Tonight I'm at yet another party, again wearing my boots. Only this time they're paired with a little cream minidress, something billowy and boho that my mother would approve of. I've added a chunky gold bracelet.

I spot Max by himself for the first time tonight. He's leaning on the iron railing of the terrace, his silhouette framed by the city's skyscrapers. The entire outdoor lounge area smells like chlorine from the pool and exhaust fumes coming from the street below, tinged with expensive cologne. It's so hot that the scents hang in the air, heavy and oppressive, kind of like how the team feels after Max's dismal practice today.

I approach and mimic his stance but say nothing. Maybe it's because we're looking over the street, or because there's a pool behind us, or due being smack in the middle of the city, but it's swelteringly hot, even for nine at night. My cotton dress feels sticky against my back.

"I was going to say something about the weather, but it's pointless," he says softly.

His tone tells me everything I need to know: he's despondent about today's practice.

He glances at my hands. "Would you like me to get you another drink?"

"Thanks. But no. I'm thinking about heading to my room. This heat is sapping what's left of my energy."

I'm greeted with silence. There's no point in ignoring the obvious.

"Max, what happened today during practice? It wasn't the car."

He shakes his head while staring at the skyline. The light from the buildings gives enough illumination for me to see the angles of his face, the stern furrow of his brow, and the slight downturn of his lush mouth.

"It was all me."

"I see." But he'd done so well in practice on Tuesday. Yesterday wasn't so great, and neither was today.

"I got about an hour of sleep last night. Today I wasn't at the top of my game. I'm sorry."

That's when it hits me. He'd done so well on Tuesday because he'd gotten great sleep.

Next to me.

"You've overcome the sleep issue before. How did you do it?"

"I worked with a sleep specialist. And was doing so damned well until..."

He looks at the bottle of sparkling water in his hands. The muscles in his jaw bunch and he looks on the verge of regret. He shakes his head staring at the skyline. His face is a silhouette cut from marble, a perfect beauty that would've inspired Michelangelo.

"Until?"

"Until you came back into my life."

"Oh, God," I whisper, my stomach sinking. "Now it's my turn to be sorry."

We stand in silence for a beat, and I can't help but stare at his beautiful profile. I remember the way he felt when he was holding me the other night. And taste of his lips seven years ago, the way it felt to have his hands on me, the way his tongue felt exploring my skin during the nights we spent together.

My mouth tingles with the memory of him, his essence an addiction.

"Lily, it's my fault. My mistake. I invited you into my bed the other night, and we ended up cuddling," the way he says the word cuddle is as if he's uttering it for the first time, mystified by its pronunciation and meaning, "And since then, my sleep has been a mess. I'll work through it, I'll have to. I have an emergency video call with the sleep therapist tomorrow morning before quali."

"Do you think that will help?"

He turns to me. "Honestly, I don't know. So much of this is emotional, Lily. The off days are when I'm supposed to bring it all back into balance. My fitness, my eating, my sleep, my emotions. Two of those are going well. Two aren't."

A thousand questions go through my mind, many of them about the women he's had sex with. Surely he's slept next to them during race weeks. Or perhaps not. Regardless, we must try to replicate Tuesday's incredible practice performance.

I glance around, to check to see if anyone's nearby. What I'm about to propose would scandalize the team, my father, and the sport. "We need to fix this. I want you on that podium Sunday. It's my first race as team owner, or interim team owner, or whatever. I need to show everyone I'm serious. That I'm competent."

He huffs out a little laugh. "I'm in full agreement with that sentiment, but what do you suggest? It's not like I can just take sleeping pills, since they're testing me daily for every substance known to man. You know they're banned, and they leave me groggy." He takes a long sip of his water.

There's no one close to us, so I edge a few inches in Max's direction and lean in, so my shoulder is touching his. "We're going to try something tonight. Sleeping together."

This makes him swallow hard, then cough, and he forms a fist with his free hand and presses it to his mouth. "W-what did you say?"

"I know it sounds strange. But hear me out. Obviously, you got excellent sleep on Monday, and it showed on the track Tuesday. We're going to do that again and see how you do for qualifying. Exactly what we did the other night. Sleep in the same bed, cuddle and spoon. Nothing else." I place firm emphasis on the last two words, as if I'm trying to remind myself of this fact.

I watched as his face twists in disbelief, and then morphs into a slight grin, then back to shock. He looks so conflicted that I'm unsure whether he wants to accept my offer, or just tell me that I'm ridiculous.

"I want you to win, and if sleeping next to you will help, I'm happy to do it. My suite is right next to yours. I'm going to the room now. Feel free to join me. Unless you're more comfortable sleeping in your room. If so, call me. Text me. I'll come over. Think about it."

I nod in his direction, as if I'm a general giving orders during a war. Then I walk away. Tanya's at a high-top table, tapping away at her phone, and I have to pass by her to get to the elevator.

"Everything okay?" she asks, glancing up from her cell for a fraction of a second.

"It's perfect."

"Saw you talking to Max. Hopefully you were somehow inspiring him for tomorrow. He's looked pretty glum since practice. Not sure what's gotten into him. I mean, look at him, all alone over there."

We both look over at Max, who is still standing at the terrace railing, staring at the cityscape.

"I think I might have nudged him in the right direction," I say cryptically.

This gets Tanya's attention, and she raises an eyebrow. "Oh? Care to share?"

I shake my head and shoot her a coy smile. "Max and I go way back. I know what motivates him. So I'm headed to bed. Good night."

She hums a hmmmm as I walk away, and honestly, I don't care what she thinks — which is probably a mistake but I'm operating on sheer adrenaline right now. My heart is beating so fast that I'm almost out of breath by the time I get to my room, then I let out a rueful, silly laugh.

This gives a whole new definition of taking one for the team.

# # #

I'm perfectly calm as I shower and change into a T-shirt and a pair of soft cotton shorts. Whatever happens tonight is out of my control.

I made an offer to Max. An unorthodox, completely bananas offer, now that I think about it. I grab my book and climb into bed, trying to shove back my weird, conflicted feelings.

The book is a romance, and I'm just getting to a sexy scene when I pause and set it down.

Will he think I invited him over for sex? Probably not. I'm well aware that like most drivers, he doesn't have sex the day before qualifying or a race. At least, he never did before, and when we were together, we'd only snuggle so he could get a good night's sleep.

There's a soft rap at the door and I fling the covers off. A look through the peephole reveals Max, biting his lip and looking around nervously.

I fling the door open and stand aside while he comes in. He's wearing a plain white T-shirt and basic blue sweatpants, but with his tousled blonde hair, still looks like he's fresh off a GQ fashion shoot. No shoes, no socks. His phone is in his hand, and he grins, a crooked, wicked expression that makes my heart race.

"I thought about it, and even though it's a little, uh, unusual, it's worth a try."

I nod. He nods. We stare at each other, nodding, like we're firming up a business deal.

"I was just reading in bed so we can, you know." I point to the bedroom. I feel like this is a deleted scene on an episode of some bad reality TV program. Inviting a man that I'd had sex with on numerous occasions in my bed is suddenly more awkward than I could have ever imagined.

"Okay. Yep. We're doing this. I'm actually tired, so..." He runs a hand through his hair.

"Yes! Let's get to it." I clap my hands together, feeling ridiculous.

We troop into the bedroom and both stop, staring at the large bed with the white duvet. Like his room, the entire place is decorated in red, white, and blue. The pillows are of various sizes and are white and blue, and they seem to have multiplied in the last hour. The headboard is a bright red, plush and quilted. My mind goes to dirty places, imagining me on all fours, him behind me, my hand pressing against that headboard.

No, no, no. Bad Lily.

"Which side do you prefer?" I gesture to the bed, my index fingers dancing up and down.

"Umm." He strokes his chin. "Right."

"Cool." I go around the bed and climb in. It's the side near the closet. I stare at him expectantly. "Is the temperature in here okay?"

He looks around, as if that will help him make a decision. His gaze lands on the photo of Willie Nelson, and a slight frown flashes on his face. "It's acceptable."

"That's Willie Nelson," I point out helpfully. "You have one in your room, too."

"Who?" He stares at me like I'm speaking a language he doesn't understand.

"The photo." I point. "You know, Willie Nelson. Country and western. He's from Texas. On the Road Again?" I sing a few bars and he stifles a grin. Yep. Nothing turns a man on like singing some Willie off-key. I know how to reel 'em in.

Good god, what am I doing? My palms are moist and I surreptitiously wipe them on the duvet, feeling out-of-control. "My mom used to sing that to me when I was little."

"Funny, I didn't take your mom to be a country fan."

He sets his phone down on the nightstand and pauses for a moment, probably wondering if he truly wants to go through with this silly idea.

"Can I test the pillows?" he finally asks.

"Oh. Yeah. Sure."

I sit up, and he climbs on the bed and kneels, leaving me dizzy from his proximity. One by one, I hand him each of the six pillows. He inspects them, squeezes and plumps them with his hands, and I watch, wishing he was grabbing my waist and ass in that same way.

"This. This is the one." He holds a pillow in front of him with a small smile.

"Perfect." I swipe one of the discarded pillows and set it at the head of the bed. To me, they're all the same. I toss the rest on the floor.

"I'm turning out the light."

"Okey-dokie, smokey," I say. God, I'm corny.

He turns to flick the light out, bathing the room in darkness and his seductive scent. I lie, frozen, on my back, my arms at my side. I don't dare look at him — not like I could see him in this darkness — and feel him sliding between the covers.

I clear my throat. "Where do you want me?"

The question hangs in the air, filled with innuendo and memories. Just as my face is heating up with embarrassment, he laughs. The air is thick with tension, and the electricity between us almost makes me sweat. Great. Now I'm going to perspire all over him.

"Oh, Lily. Come here." He rolls onto his side, wraps his arm around me, dragging me toward him me so I'm the little spoon.

He buries his nose in my hair, breathes deeply, then holds me close to his body. With his thigh pressed against mine, I am uncomfortably aware of our differences. His long, lean muscles cut into my soft, rounded curves. His arm is like a strong, steel band around me, and I think I could stay like this for the rest of my life — even though I'll never tell him that. As far as he knows, I'm doing this so he'll win, not because I want to revel in his touch just one more time.

It doesn't matter, because this moment is perfect. The steady thump of his heart and the feathery touch of his breath on my neck soothe me, and when he sighs contentedly, I allow myself to relax and enjoy.

I let go.

This is a bliss I haven't felt in so long. And several minutes later his breathing slows. It's the first sound of contentment I've heard from him tonight. But a feeling wells up in me that I try my best to ignore because it's more than a little terrifying.

I am still deeply, madly, in love with Max Becker.

___

Author's note: EEEK. I promise that this is going somewhere.