11 Barcelona

11

BARCELONA

MID-MAY

COSMIN

I nearly managed third place at the Spanish GP. It would have felt like a podium if the twelve points I won had earned a smile from Phaedra, but her brief thaw at Baku was just that.

In the two weeks since, she’s avoided me aside from work. I tell myself this is for the best. When Jakob and Inge invite a small group to spend an afternoon on the fifty-foot yacht he bought Inge for their first anniversary (the lovestruck fool spent half his year’s salary on it), I accept only because I know Phaedra will decline.

To my surprise, when I board the shuttle bus taking us to the marina, Phaedra is sitting at the back, her freckled nose buried in a hardbound copy of the newest Julian Barnes novel. She’s wearing a man’s blue oxford shirt, unbuttoned with sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a white bikini top beneath. I wonder if it’s tied with a simple bow, and what it would be like to pull the string and free her breasts and hold their warmth in my hands.

The time we were caught in the rain on Santorini, her thin shirt clung to her and I noticed she has a large tattoo on one shoulder blade. I hope to see it in detail today if she removes the shirt to sunbathe.

Her unadorned green eyes meet mine for a moment, then refocus on the page. As I make my way up the aisle, I greet Reece and her wife, then Jakob’s race engineer, Alfie, and his wife—a woman I’ve never met, who is introduced to me as Georgie. Based on the woman’s volume, and the way she grips me when we shake hands, I suspect she had cocktails with breakfast.

I sit sideways in the seat in front of Phaedra’s, resting my arm along the back. “An unexpected pleasure, drag?. Typically you avoid such gatherings.”

She touches her tongue with one fingertip and turns a page. “As long as no one gives me shit about reading all day, I might as well get some fresh air. Plus Klaus wants to talk.”

I tap the edge of the novel. “Which of Barnes’s books is your favorite?”

Her glare is suspicious. She tucks the cover flap into her page and closes the book. “You’ve read his stuff?”

“I’m fond of postmodern writing. I’ve not read that one yet—perhaps you’d lend it to me when you’re finished.”

“Stop doing that.” She sits back, squinting.

“Doing what?”

“Liking what I like. It’s creepy.”

I laugh. “It’s a coincidence. We simply enjoy many of the same things.”

“Yeah, I’m not buying it.”

The van starts up, and Jakob and Inge climb aboard, merry and chatty and looking very young and in love. The door closes and Phaedra’s attention snaps to the window.

“No,” she breathes.

I follow her eyes. Klaus is still outside, staring at his phone, and the van is moving. Phaedra puts both hands against the window like a child realizing she’s being taken to the dentist. The strains of Elvis’s “Big Boss Man” jangle from her phone, which she fumbles from a straw beach bag.

“Klaus, why aren’t you on the bus? Should I ask the—”

I can hear the rumble of his voice leaking from the phone. She’s taut as a bowstring and after a long moment of listening, wilts dramatically.

“Okay, fine. Sure, bye.”

I raise questioning eyebrows. She stuffs the phone back into her bag.

“He claims,” she says crisply, “to have ‘an urgent matter requiring attention.’”

“Klaus has many responsibilities.”

Phaedra emits an unladylike snort. “He faked me out, pretending he wanted to talk. He was getting rid of me. I suspect his ‘urgent matter’ is a certain lying blue-eyed brunette journalist with a compelling pair of 36C tits.”

The bitterness in her delivery surprises me.

“Have you and Miss Evans quarreled?”

She ignores my question and plows on. “But I can imagine—given your penchant for predawn tumbles with random-ass hotel maids—you think some tawdry hookup is a perfectly good excuse to flake last minute on plans, right?” She whips her book open again and the cover flap cuts her finger. She yelps and the book tumbles, hitting the floor in a flutter of pages.

I thrust one hand into my messenger bag as I grasp her wrist with the other to prevent her from putting the wounded finger into her mouth.

“Don’t,” I instruct softly, withdrawing a canteen of water. I take a clean handkerchief out and moisten it before passing it to her.

“Thanks,” she mutters, dabbing the fingertip.

I duck to retrieve the book, then move to join her. As I set the book on her legs, I’m surprised to see she’s wearing a short skirt. One of my fingers ruffles the fringed hem and she smacks my hand with a little growl.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Formula Fuckboy.”

“You’re wearing white,” I can’t help pointing out.

“It’s the only color in my size they had in the hotel’s boutique.” She checks whether the cut is still bleeding, then stuffs the handkerchief into her beach bag. “I’ll wash it and give it back later.”

“That’s not necessary.” I hold out a hand.

“Yeah, no. I’m not giving you a handkerchief with my blood.”

“Afraid I’ll cast a spell on you?” I tease. “If I haven’t already…”

“Your confidence would be impressive if it weren’t so annoying.” She puts the book into her bag and folds her arms. “What kind of anachronistic freak carries handkerchiefs anyway?”

“‘Anachronistic,’” I repeat. “You think I’m old-fashioned?”

“I’m pretty sure cotton hankies went out with Jell-O salads and Benny Goodman.”

“And yet—as you saw—they’re useful on occasion.” I give her a wink.

“Okay, the wink made it gross. Now I’m assuming you mean something sexual, and no , please don’t elaborate if that’s the case.” She rummages through her bag, pulls out a pair of oversize sunglasses, and puts them on before leaning back. “Now leave me alone, please.”

Under the guise of watching the scenery, I examine her face for a minute. There’s a slight tremble to her lower lip.

“I’m correct, yes, about you and Miss Evans?” I venture. “I’ve not seen you in each other’s company for—”

“Think you’re pretty clever, figuring that out?” she snaps. Her brows crumple above the sunglasses. “Zero points for reading the room, dude.”

“I apologize.”

“It’s none of your damned business.” Her throat dips as she swallows hard and turns toward the window, jaw clenched. “Just because I lost Nat and might lose my dad too doesn’t mean I need a new friend. You can fuck right off.”

This is the moment I realize Ed Morgan must be dying.

I wish the fact that Jakob is a nondrinker meant the bar on the boat would not be fully stocked, but he and Inge are consummate hosts and cocktails flow freely.

Georgie has finished her second espresso martini before noon and insists upon sitting next to me even after I manufacture a pretense to move. Phaedra is on a lounge chair nearby, reading.

“How many languages do you speak?” Georgie purrs, her bottle-tanned face propped on one palm. I’ve removed her hand from my thigh more than once. Her fake lashes are applied imperfectly, and I try not to focus on the crooked left one.

“Five, but only three well—Romanian, French, and English.”

“Debatable on English!” Phaedra pipes up. Despite the insult, I find myself gratified that she’s listening.

“You know,” Georgie says, dropping her voice, “I looked up one little sentence in Romanian.” She trails a fingertip down my arm and delivers a clumsily rendered line: I want to go to bed with you.

This is of course the moment her husband returns, handing her a third drink. “What’s that, my love?” he asks.

“She said,” I tell him smoothly, “that she is sleepy.”

“Ah! My clever girl.” He leans to kiss her cheek.

Inge appears in the doorway leading to the deck. “The picnic is ready!” she announces in her musical voice. “Can some of you transport things to the tender so we can go to the beach?”

“Of course, liebling,” Jakob replies, pushing to his feet from a deck chair.

Alfie and I follow. As I’m toting a basket and emerge from the narrow stairs, I catch up with Reece.

“I’d like you to make my excuses to remain behind,” I say discreetly. “Headache, perhaps?”

“Has all my scolding about optics finally got through to you?” she teases. “Good call. We don’t want anyone thinking you’re encouraging that woman’s behavior.” She takes the basket from me. “Back downstairs with you until we’re gone.”

I loiter in the kitchen, waiting for the group to depart. The tender roars off, headed for the beach.

Minutes later, I hear the unmistakable sound of crying.