Happily - Ever - Faster

Are we ready to meet Massimo?

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Before we do, a quick word from Lorelai:

From Wreckless

With every step toward him, it feels like a decision I don’t want to name. The conclusion of where this ends that I can’t wrap my mind around yet because we don’t . . . do that.

But here I am. In his room. And he’s on a bed. Waiting for me.

My pulse throbs in my chest and I pull my eyes from his dark jaw, looking anywhere that will stop me from racing down the road toward the unthinkable.

I glance toward the safety of the TV.

My back stiffens, and I whirl toward the door. “Yeah, good night.”

“Lorina,” he says, and it stops me dead in my tracks. It doesn’t stop the cruel hand of fear inching toward my throat.

Of all the things that could be playing on his television set, it’s the crash at Jerez that has threatened to ruin my entire career. The simple memory of which has destroyed every shred of my confidence. Betrayal bites at me, and I can’t stop wondering why it feels like I found another woman in his bed.

“I don’t want to watch this, Massimo. I lived through it, and that was more than enough.”

“Come sit with me,” he says again, softer. “It is easier to watch if I can see you, so I can remember that you are okay.”

His words lock me in place, breaking me in half. He isn’t supposed to say those things to me. He isn’t supposed to sound like he really means them. Like it really does hurt him to watch the crash, and he really does want me next to him, just so he can feel better.

I should go. I shouldn’t even be here in the first place. I can’t be in his hotel room—what would people say if they knew? Mason and his never-stopping mouth would say we were sleeping together, and we’re not.

I don’t care if Massimo is sexy. I don’t care if it would feel good. I’m not doing it.

“Per favore, cara . . .”

Damn it. Not that name. That’s the new one. The secret one. The one I’m afraid to translate online because I want to hear it from him first. Why he’s calling me that. Why now.

I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. I can control my actions, thoughts, and feelings. And I can hang out with a guy without it meaning anything more. I work out with Billy and Mason all the time when we’re home, and I can watch TV with Massimo. It doesn’t have to end in nudity and orgasms and awkward “Where do we go from here?” conversations. We can just spend time together. As friends. While we can.

Keeping my back to the screen, I walk toward the bed and sit next to him. It’s a little weird, trying to find a way to sit where I’m comfortable. But that’s basically impossible with the small amount of space between us strangling me; how easy it would be for it to become less. How cold the air is on my skin and how warm he looks in that hoodie.

Maybe that’s what he had in mind all along.

If it was, he doesn’t act on it. He doesn’t do or say anything, just rewinding the video to restart the sequence of events. My fingers pick distractedly at the down comforter, waiting for the sound of the crash. Massimo’s hand lies on my calf.

I startle at his touch, my eyes flying to his and pleading with him not to go there. I can’t take it right now on top of everything else. He doesn’t move his hand, only slightly arches his eyebrow, and I swallow. He waits.

I wish I’d worn something more modest than shorts and a T-shirt. I wish I’d worn nothing but lacy lingerie under a trench coat, a scarf and set of handcuffs in the pocket.

God, what is wrong with me?

Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter now. Because with just the tiniest bit of pressure that tingles over every other part of my body, he begins gently massaging my leg, and I can’t bring myself to do anything except look at the bedding and let him keep touching me.

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