Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71396 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71396 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
“You sound… impressed.”
“I am. She’s got fight. She won’t sit back and play second to Nash, and that’s going to rattle him. It will make him better too.”
I watch the flicker of something cross Reid’s face—excitement, maybe challenge. “Does this change anything for you?” I ask.
“For me?” he says, settling back into his chair. “Not directly. But it changes the shape of the season. The press will be intently focused on this, as they should be. Suzuka just got a lot more interesting.”
“And for the sport?”
He smiles. “It needed this. It was time.”
I study his face. “She’s going to face hell for it, isn’t she?”
“Every race. Every lap.”
We finish our wine and step back into the night. Zurich is quiet, dignified, timeless. I loop my arm through Reid’s as we walk slowly through the streets, passing shuttered bookstores and soft-lit cafés. We come upon a corner shop tucked between two narrow buildings. It has wood-paneled windows, an old brass door handle, and a golden glow inside.
“Come on,” he says, tugging me in. “You haven’t had real Swiss chocolate until you’ve had it from a place like this.”
Inside, the air smells like heaven—melted sugar, roasted hazelnuts and warm cream. I inhale deeply and Reid laughs at me. The walls are lined with shelves of delicate boxes and hand-wrapped bars in shades of gold, cream and crimson. There are tins filled with truffles, rows of candied orange peels dipped in dark chocolate, and a glass counter showing off jewel-like pralines nestled in paper cups.
I turn in a slow circle, overwhelmed in the best way. “How do you even choose?”
Reid walks confidently toward the back wall and picks up a rectangular gold-foiled bar, the label printed in looping script. “This one. Trust me.”
I raise a brow. “You’ve been here before?”
“Every race season. Same shop. Same bar.”
He pays in cash—crisp Swiss francs—and thanks the clerk in German. I’ve learned since leaving Torquay that Reid can utter common phrases in multiple languages.
We step outside, where the street is quiet and the air cool. A wrought iron bench waits beneath a flickering gas lamp, and we sit side by side, knees touching.
Reid unwraps the bar carefully and breaks off a piece, handing it to me like it’s sacred.
One bite and I groan softly. “Okay, I get it.”
“Told you.”
We eat slowly, quietly, sharing piece after piece, the world around us hushed and magical.
“I love it here,” I murmur eventually, watching a tram rattle past in the distance. “This city has a soul.”
He looks over at me. “Could you live here?”
I glance around—the cobbled streets, the tidy balconies, the rows of pale stone buildings with their shuttered windows and sloped, red-tile roofs against the sky darkening over the distant hills. “Yeah… I could.”
He’s quiet for a moment as his eyes roam around. “I could too. It’s honestly more my speed than Monaco.”
I look at him, surprised. “But you’d give up the tax benefits?”
He chuckles. “I make twenty million a year. I think I can afford to pay taxes.”
My jaw drops slightly, but I don’t say anything. He shrugs, like it’s not a big deal.
“I just want somewhere that feels like a life. Not a performance. We could make a nice home here.”
I lean my head on his shoulder, breathing him in, reveling in the chocolate and the city night, more grounded than I’ve felt in a long time.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “We really could.”
We return to the apartment just after ten, hands cold but fingers still entwined as we enter. Reid kicks off his shoes by the door and disappears into the kitchen. I hear the clink of mugs and when I round the corner, he’s already pulling out my favorite tea. “Sound good?” he asks, shaking the box.
“Sounds divine. Want me to do it?”
“Nope, I’ve got it.”
We chat as Reid gets the water boiling and we take steaming mugs into the living room where we sink down into an olive-colored couch. I wrap my hands around the cup gratefully, letting the steam warm my face as I settle. The soft throw draped across the back smells like him and I tug it over my legs. Reid sits beside me, close but not crowding, his own mug perched on one thigh.
For a while, we don’t talk. Just enjoy the comfortable silence of being with one another.
He glances at me. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For coming with me. For this.” He gestures vaguely at the apartment, the tea, the space between us. “I know it’s a lot. All of it. But you being here… it makes it something as opposed to just another stop between races.”
I press my shoulder against his. “I don’t know exactly where I fit in your world yet,” I admit. “But this part? This I like.”
His hand finds mine beneath the blanket and he laces our fingers together.
“Good,” he says quietly. “Because I want you in all of it. Even the messy parts.”