Keep Me In | DR3 | BOOK 1

72 - Takes Two to Tango

"You've gotta get that idea out of your head. That I was the only reason Horner offered you that seat."

"Honestly, Verstappen, I think I used you as an excuse. I don't think I ever wanted to continue after that F2 season - whether I won the championship over George or not.

Will you accept my sincerest apology, Max Verstappen? And trust me when I say, I will fix things between you and Daniel?"

--

"You dropped your purse," Daniels lips cracked a tentative smile. 

"Thank you," I spoke softly, unsure really of what else to say past that. Our eye contact remained, even as I reached out and let him gently place the handle of my handbag back in my palm. It never broke, never faltered. 

The effects of the alcohol entirely subsided, and suddenly I was far too conscious of every single little motion my body was making. My breath squeezing in and out of my nostrils, how badly my eyes craved a long blink. How I couldn't tell if I was still, or if I was swaying back and forth. Maybe that was the room. Maybe it was the contents of my stomach.

The most probable explanation was that it was actually my brain, wondering how best to react. He had the nerve to show his face here? Of all places.

My brain, fighting against itself as it tried to decide whether Daniel being here was a good thing for me, or not. Tossing over all the files it could find in the cabinet, trying to sort through the mess that was our complex relationship, and where we had last left off. How he had left me feeling beforehand, and how it was so suddenly different now, with him standing in front of me.

But of course, I didn't forget. I was wary. There was a considerable army assimilating for that side. It was causing my fist to clench tight under the barstool, my teeth to gnaw on the skin inside my cheek. I racked through my brain, trying to remember what my old trainer Melissa used to say about throwing a punch.

We went through a kickboxing phase once - Melissa was a trained Boxing instructor, though I was never one for hitting things with my delicate hands. I rather valued the use of all ten fingers to hold the wheel with during a race, and I wasn't too proud to admit I was dainty up top, with all my force coming from down below. Surely I could topple him with one blow, even in heels. Even now. Even though the kickboxing phase lasted all of three months, and that was being generous.

On the complete opposing end was the reaction I was dreading to admit was quickly taking over. The one that caused my hand to relax. That wiped any memory of Daniel leaving me to dry in the park. The reaction numbing my legs, turning my brain to mush, like a virus. Slowly consuming me.

I couldn't believe it, I thought Max said him and Daniel weren't talking? How, and why, was he here? Well that's stupid, I knew why. There were only two possible reasons why, and they were both standing within a two foot radius.

Exhaling the breath I had been holding subconsciously, my lungs screaming at me for fresh air and my legs positively twitching to get out of Monte Carlo, I slowly lowered myself back onto the barstool.

My lips pursed, and I ran a hand over my forehead, considering for a moment physically wiping the shocked look from my face. I waited for Max to throw me a bone, to break the silence that Daniel and I were clearly incapable of breaking.