LILY

I haven't been this close to Max in years. Seven and a half, to be exact. Oh, sure, I've made polite small talk with him at parties, charity events, and races, but one of us has always slipped away from the conversations, reluctant to be in each other's presence. At least I'd always been hesitant. Max probably was repelled or bored.

Couldn't be bothered with an ex-lover.

Now, there's no way to avoid each other. Not in this moment and not for the next several races.

He's standing next to me, with only a flimsy plastic chair between us. I grip the back to steady myself, because Max's unyielding ice-blue eyes are laser-focused on my face. It's as if he's scrutinizing every feature and pore. Dammit, I hadn't put on makeup, and that somehow makes me feel naked and vulnerable. I'm still in my glasses, the black-rimmed ones that make me look like an owl.

I never could read Max, and not knowing what he's thinking is somehow even more unnerving now that we're older. Max's face is angular, but not severe — more model-like than harsh. His hair is a little longer now, still messy and wet, probably from his post-race shower.

"Oh. Hey, Max." My voice is soft.

We stand there, awkwardly, sizing each other up. Most people would extend a hug in this situation, but not Max. He knows better and shoves his hands into his jeans and blinks.

"Lily." The sound of my name on his lips sends an electric charge running through my body. It ignites every nerve ending and sets my skin on fire. It's a physical reaction that I can't control, and it used to happen every time he said my name when we were together.

Back then I loved it. Now? It's more than a bit uncomfortable. I've really got to get a handle on myself.

"Hey," I repeat, in a dumb, breathy voice.

His tanned face is tense, probably because he's worried about Dad, and a muscle in his jaw pulses, betraying the gravity of the situation. A black t-shirt clings to his shoulders, chest, and stomach, showing off his hard-earned physique. Unlike most Formula World drivers, he's on the taller side, a fact that the press loves to discuss.

Another member of the team, a Chilean guy whose name I can't recall but I've known for years, approaches. His arms are open wide, and I step back. Dammit, I need to tell Jack to informally let everyone on the team know that I don't want to be touched or hugged. Where is Jack, anyway? He seems to have evaporated into thin air.

Max, who knows my hatred of hugs, blocks the guy by physically moving closer to me and shooting him a steely glance.

"Ooh, sorry to interrupt. We'll catch up later, Lily," the man says. I give a weak wave as he wanders off.

I press my hand to my forehead. "Thanks for that," I mutter to Max.

"I saw the look in your eyes. Like a cornered cat."

We're entirely too close now, but I can't go anywhere because I'm wedged between a wall, a chair, and Max — and it doesn't look like he's moving. Maybe he thinks he's trying to shield me from further unwanted hugs. I guess this is a plus.

"I'm sorry about your father." His voice is quiet and has taken on a low tenor, one that drifts effortlessly into my ears. It's as if he doesn't want anyone to hear us talking. As if everyone in this room knows we used to sleep together, and he's trying to hide the evidence.

Just like old times.

"Thank you," I reply, a little too loud.

Max nods and presses those full lips of his together. His eyes meet mine and for once, he looks like he doesn't know what he wants to say. Truthfully, he seems a bit shaken. I guess it's understandable since he always looked up to my father as a pioneer in the sport.

His bottom lip trembles slightly, and he seems to be having trouble finding the right words. I can see the conflict in his blue eyes, a battle between what he wants to say and what he thinks he should say.

"Where are you...ah, how long will your father be in hospital?"

I exhale the breath I didn't know I was holding. Thankfully he's asking questions any normal person would, so maybe there's hope for a reasonable, boring, adult conversation. "I don't know. He's in surgery now, or should be. The doctor said they'd call once he was out, and that I could see him tomorrow morning. Once he's strong enough, I'd like to get him to New York. I'm sure he'll be in rehab for a while. I don't know how it all works, but I'm hoping to sort it all out by tomorrow, then figure out a plan of attack for this."

I wave my hand around the conference room, and the people in small groups, speaking in hushed tones. The team. My team, for the time being.

"Where are you staying?" His tone is devoid of any context and the question catches me by surprise. Why does he care? Doesn't he know I live in Miami? Seemingly the entire world does, if the doxing after my firing is any indication.

"Ah, my condo. I live here now. In downtown Miami."

A little, rueful smile dances on his lips. "Oh, right. For a minute, I forgot."

"I guess I should gather Dad's stuff from his hotel room, or ask Adam to do it. What's the name of the team hotel? Where are you all staying?" I snap my fingers, trying to remember the local hotel where Dad had told me he was staying. He'd thought about staying with me, but felt it best to be near the team.

So many details to keep track of already.

"The Setai."

"Yes, that's it. I'm sure Dad has a suite." I reach for my water, distracting me from ogling Max's high cheekbones. I'd always loved that part of his face, and recall how I'd trace the sharp planes with my finger.

Max puts his hands on his hips and looks around, as if he's in the garage, assessing which tires his crew should use for a race. "I was planning to go to LA for a night or two to visit Hans."

Hans is his childhood friend from Germany, a guy who's made it big as a late-night TV host here in the U.S. "Okay, well, I guess I'll catch up with you in Austin."

Max shakes his head. "No I'll extend my stay here and skip LA."

He says this right as I take a sip, and I'm so shocked that I nearly spray water all over his chest. Instead I half-swallow, half-cough, and Max leans in. "You okay?"

"Definitely. Yes. Very okay," I stammer between coughs. He's so close that I can smell his cologne now. The scent is exactly the same as when we were together, an airy and crisp smell, like ozone in the air after a lightning strike mixed with freshly cut grass with a hint of masculine musk.

I hold up my hand as I take a half-step back, needing distance from his touch. From him. "You don't have to stay here. You should go to L.A."

He shakes his head. "No. I wouldn't feel right about that. I want to be here for Adrian, when he comes out of surgery. I'm the senior driver on this team and we need to talk about the next few races. You need my impressions of the team, and of the upcoming race. We have a lot to discuss."

Like us? Are we going to finally discuss how we ended? I don't ask this, but the question hangs in the air as we stare into each other's eyes. The air between us is charged with a jumble of emotions, at least on my end. Regret, desire, fear—they're all racing through my veins, causing my heart to thrash wildly in my chest.

And he's probably feeling absolutely nothing.

There's a reason the press calls him the Iceman.

Naturally, Max breaks eye contact first, to check his Rolex. I remember when he first was sponsored by the company, and how excited he'd been when he'd gotten his first free timepiece. He'd slipped it on my wrist and then proceeded to take off my clothes...

I fan my face with my hand. He's still entirely too handsome, with his rumpled, golden curls, that mouth with the perfect cupid's bow upper lip, that straight, aquiline nose.

I can't help but remember the way it felt when his lips brushed against mine, soft and gentle at first, then harder, insistent. The way his mouth tasted unexpectedly of wintergreen. The way his hands felt on my skin, rough and calloused from working on cars, but somehow gentle too.

I can't help but wonder what it would be like to feel those hands on me again.

"Talk?" My face contorts into a grimace. Did I hear him correctly?

"Yes. Talk. We need to talk." His glance is edging into glare territory, and I'm not fully sure why. "Let's say nine at the Setai hotel bar, the one by the pool?"

I lick my lips. It's been seven years since I've been to the Setai bar. It's where Max and I had our first real conversation. We'd spent hours talking in a cabana next to the pool one night before the race. One thing led to another, and after two mojitos, I followed him to his room. Because of that evening, I've always associated mojitos, cabanas and palm trees with heady, unbridled lust.

I simply cannot allow those memories to interfere with the issues at hand. I try to compose myself, but I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. Crap. He probably wants to ask me about the game company scandal. I press my lips together to form a smile.

"That's great. Nine."

He nods once and turns without saying goodbye. A long sigh leaks out of my nose. That leaves me four hours to not only worry about Dad but ruminate over what Max wants to discuss during a private meeting at a swanky South Beach bar.

_____

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