Page 50 of Drive Me Wild
“Uh, hi?”
Her voice is hoarse and a pitch lower than I’ve ever heard it. Probably because I avoid people like the plague when they’re sick. I wouldn’t talk to Lucas for an entire week after he inadvertently gave me the flu. Then there was the time Russell was drinking tea instead of coffee for a sore throat—which was due to allergies—but I aggressively bullied him to go to the medical tent to get a strep test.
I grin at her, although she can’t see it behind the medical mask I’m wearing. “‘Ello, gorgeous.”
Despite the faded gray pajama set, bright red nose featuring some sniffling, and paler than usual skin, she’s still stunningly beautiful. “I thought you weren’t coming over.”
When she called me this morning to reschedule our plans, citing congestion and a cough, I told her to rest up and feel better. I was planning on just ordering soup to her apartment as a “get well soon,” but then realized if I didn’t see her tonight, it’d be another few days before I could. The past five days have been long enough, so here I am.
“I changed my mind,” I inform her. “I’ll be fine.”
“I have a common cold, and you’re dressed like I’m radiating toxic waste.” She gives my outfit another once over and laughs, the sound raspy. My hands are encased in bright yellow dishwashing gloves, and disinfectant and cleaning supplies are tucked into the large pockets of the bib apron tied around my waist. I’m a sexy version of Mr. Clean.
“Okay, well, once I sanitize and disinfect your flat, I’ll be fine.”
Her jaw drops. “You’re not cleaning my flat just to… Theo… that’s absurd.”
“Absurdly chivalrous. Now, are you going to be a polite host and let me in or am I going to have to barge past you? I’d prefer option one, as I think the contents of the bags will spill if there’s any sort of collision.”
She takes the brown paper bags from my hands and peeks inside. “You brought soup?”
“Lots of soup,” I confirm. “And crackers.”
I’d ordered every type of soup UberEats had available: chicken noodle, minestrone, tomato basil, creamy potato, carrot ginger, lentil, curried cauliflower.
“You don’t like soup,” Josie points out, opening the door so I can come in. “You think it’s a fake food with questionable motives.”
“That’s because it is.”
Soup is not my thing—never has been, never will be. It’s confusing and makes no sense. It’s a liquid that we eat. And the little pieces of soluble food? Hard pass.
“Well, I have some whole wheat pasta in the pantry if you want to make that,” Josie offers. “Otherwise, I have a frozen veggie pizza in the freezer.”
“Sounds good. Now, go back to whatever you were doing while I get to business.”
She stares at me momentarily before walking back to the couch. I’m aware that this is a bizarre situation, and she’s aware I’m stubborn enough to see it through. Curling up on her couch under a chunky knit blanket, she warily watches me take out my supplies. When she’s satisfied I’m actually going to clean and not just move all of her shit around, she resumes writing in the same notebook she carries around every race weekend.
I spray down her counter with something that smells lemony and promises to kill ninety-nine-point nine percent of viruses and bacteria. “I thought you took the day off?”
“I did.” Josie simultaneously yawns and shrugs. “I’m just jotting some ideas I have for Gemini.”
An unwarranted pang of jealousy hits me like a bullet to the chest. It was nice that Lucas thought of Josie for the freelance opportunity—Kelsey’s a solid guy; I’ve met him a few times when I’ve boxed with Lucas, and Jos can easily bring his bar to life—but I don’t like that my friend has spent more time with her this week than I have.
I walk over to the couch, leaving the spray to soak on the counter. Josie doesn’t stop me when I politely grab her notebook. I’m not sure if she just doesn’t care or if she knows I’ll talk my way into seeing it anyway, and she’s just saving her energy.
I flip through the pages—which is hard in rubber gloves—but don’t even make it to her Gemini ideas. My hands immediately stop moving when I see “McAllister marketing brainstorm” in her cursive handwriting. There’s a long list of ingenious ideas and campaigns—well, I’m sure they’re brilliant. There are a lot of technical terms and phrases way out of my wheelhouse: lifecycle engagement, SMART objectives, resource segmentation, reporting and targeting.
I turn the notebook so she can see what I’m looking at and then “ooh” and “ahh” as I make my way through the list. The fact that McAllisterhasn’timplemented these ideas is a crime against the sport.
“Word to the wise,” I say with a frown, noting the last thing on the list. “I would remove social media takeover.”
“Maybe not with Blake,” Josie says with a cute pout. “But you’d be great at it. You don’t want to?”
Oh, the irony.
“My new contract has a clause in it prohibiting me from posting about McAllister on my own account without prior approval,” I admit, handing her back the notebook. “So I don’t think they’re going to like the idea of me taking over the actual McAllister account.”
Josie’s lips part. “Excuse me?”
