Fast & Wet (The Fast 2)

God, I love this woman.

We both watch Olivier slink away and get lost amongst all the people piling into the motorhome.

“What are these plans? My flight leaves in a few hours,” she takes a sip of the coffee still in her hand.

“Not anymore, your flight leaves tomorrow morning now.”

Her eyebrows raise, and she looks at me for clarification, skepticism whipping around her, but I can see the curiosity burning equally as bright.

“You need paprika and dinner at Belvarosi Disznotoros, first.” I’m sure I butcher the pronunciation, but she gets it.

“From Parts Unknown,” her eyes widen.

I nod and grin at her, see the excitement on her face.

“Cole…” she puts her coffee down and drops her head, and I know she’s overthought things again.

More likely, she’s doing the smart thing and staying the hell away from me, but I can’t do it anymore.

I need her.

“We can bring Dante or Liam, Mila, anyone you want, if you’re not comfortable,” I tell her. I really don’t want any of them around, but if that’s what it takes, then so be it.

She looks around the room, and her wheels turn for a second while the pit in my stomach expands and wraps itself up into a knot.

“No, that’s okay. We can go.”

That quick, my gut unravels, and I stand a few inches taller. “I need to shower and change and then we can go. Is your luggage here, or do you need to go back to the hotel first?” I ask and scan her black Imperium polo and tight little green shorts.

“I need to change?” She looks down at herself.

“I can bring security if you’d rather not.”

“Oh,” she shakes her head, “I forgot that you’re a famous person,” she says, and I notice a faint trace of redness creep up her neck. “My suitcase is here, I can change.”

I don’t remember the last time anyone said anything like that to me.

It’s been years since I was just a guy talking to a gorgeous woman and not Cole Ballentine, the Formula 1 driver. It would feel like going home if home was a concept I ever knew.

I let her know that Mila will take her luggage back to her hotel room, which has been extended for one more night, and I’ll meet her in twenty minutes.

I am taking my girl out on a date for the first time in six years.

“You want to take a scooter?” I ask again when she points at one of the little Vespas in the parking lot instead of the Ferrari I’ve been using this weekend.

“It’s so European.”

She’s officially the first woman I’ve ever met who is not impressed with a Ferrari and wants to take a beat to hell Vespa scooter on a date instead.

The marshals drive these things around the track, and the one she’s pointing at is scuffed, dinged, and looks like it’s been run over by a garbage truck. They leave the keys in them because no one would even bother to steal one.

And it’s pink.

“Oooookay,” I shake my head. “I need to grab you a helmet then.”

“Why, are you going to let me get hurt?” She hops on the back of the tiny scooter and sasses me. I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to that question than meets the eye, too.

“No,” I will absolutely not let her get hurt.