Page 87 of Drive Me Wild
The rest of dinner is harmless enough, despite the three-tier birthday cake that comes out and features a multitude of sparklers. I’m very ready for my birthday to be over, but when I arrive back at my flat, a sparkly bag with crumpled tissue paper sticking out greets me. A card with “Angel” scrawled in Theo’s doctor-like handwriting is taped to the front. I pick it up off the floor before taking it inside with me.
Theo’s gotten me a wide range of gifts for my birthday over the years—everything from a Cartier bracelet that cost triple my monthly rent to a waffle-maker. Andrew was not a fan of Theo buying me expensive jewelry, no matter how many timesI explained not to read into it. Theo doesn’t think about money the way average people do. I take the tube when Uber has a surcharge, whereas Theo once took a helicopter across London because he was too impatient to sit in traffic during rush hour. To him, there’s not much different between a David Yurman ring and a plastic one you’d get out of a gumball machine.
The card isn’t sealed because Theo finds licking envelopes “an infestation of bacterial growth” so it’s easy to open. My eyes scan over the note he’s written.
Bloody hell. I’m a sucker for a sweet card. I place it on the kitchen table before taking out the tissue paper covering the gift. Inside, I discover a brown plush bear with floppy arms and an adorably stitched nose. Running my hands over the fluffy paws, I realize it’s the same texture and material as Mademoiselle. Tears spring to my eyes when it hits me. It’s the bear we saw at the toy store in Le Mans.
My heart is so full of love, I worry it may explode. Slipping my phone out of my pocket, I hit Theo’s name on my list of favorite contacts. It rings twice before he picks up.
“‘Ello, birthday girl. You get my gift?”
“Theo… I don’t know what to say,” I choke out. The bear sits tightly in my arms, and I worry about accidentally decapitating it. “How did— When did— What?”
He laughs softly. “You really thought it took me twenty minutes to pick out a princess doll for Rosalie?”
“Yes! You once spent close to an hour deciding which toothpaste to buy.”
“In my defense, the ingredients were in Arabic, and I wanted to be sure it had gum protection.” Theo’s voice gets unusually shy. “You like her, yeah?”
“Best gift ever. And it’s ahim, not aher.” I pause as I consider a name. “Monsieur.”
Theo’s deep laugh brings an uncontrollable smile to my face. “If Mademoiselle and Monsieur weren’t the cutest names for stuffed animals, I’d seriously regret getting you another man to cuddle with.”
Walking over to my bed, I place Monsieur in his new spot next to his fluffy cousin, Mademoiselle. “Thank you, Theo. Seriously. It means the world to me.”
“You mean the world to me,” he says softly. “Happy birthday, Jos.”
THIRTY-THREE
THEO
The afternoon sunshines through the window, heating the otherwise cool room. I hold up my hand to shade my eyes from the bright rays hitting me. It’s a surprisingly warm day in Sochi. I can switch seats—the paddock conference room has more than enough—but I need to spare my energy for this conversation.
Russell and Martin sit across the table from me like this is some sort of high-level, top-secret debrief—which, I guess it sort of is. I ignore their intense gazes and click on my text exchange with Josie. No new messages.
“We need to chat about the latest revisions in the McAllister contract,” Martin says. “You can’t keep avoiding it.”
“Yes, I can,” I argue.Revisions, my ass. They took out a few words that held no meaning. The things I give a shit about—what theyknowI care about—have stayed the same.
Russell rolls his eyes at me. He’s still slightly pissed at me for accidentally saying “shit” in front of Rosalie last week. She’s now incorporating it into almost every sentence. He says I need to watch my language, but I think he should be proud his daughter is such a quick learner.
“Do I need to knock some sense into you, Walker?” Martin huffs.
“I can do it,” Russell volunteers with a grin. He leans back in his chair, the pleather squeaking from the movement.
I make an imperceptible sound under my breath.
“Nothing has changed,” I grunt. “The contract still sucks. Avery still sucks. They still want me to suck.”
Neither disagrees with me. “I’ve pulled out every stop in the book, Theo,” Martin says, sounding defeated. “Worked with lawyers to update the language, tried to find loopholes… McAllister won’t budge.”
Avery won’t budgebecause he holds a grudge. They should teach that rhyme in Rosalie’s school.
“They could be willing to make more changes to the contract once the year is up,” Russell adds. “But you need to decide if you can deal withthiscontract.”
The thought of having to deal with renegotiations like thisagainnext year makes me nauseous, like the time I ate two boxes of Sour Patch Kids in a row. I don’tthinkI’ll throw up, but I wouldn’t hedge any money on it, either.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
