Page 46 of Not So Fast
Write a love letter to yourself.
Jesus, Mia. That’s how you start your mental health journal? Couldn’t you give me something light and fun like, “What kind of tree are you?” Regardless, the gesture of giving me this journal was quite sweet. And I know you’re serious about me writing in it. Quite serious. But here’s the thing: I’m not sure I see the advantage of writing down my feelings. They are what they are, and I prefer to keep them contained. Plus, you’re here and that makes me happy. Why waste my time writing?
“You’re actually using your journal?” Donning one of Xander’s T-shirts, Mia stepped out of the bathroom, then scrambled over to him like an adorable, excited puppy. “How’s it going?”
Xander, stretched out in his reading chair with his feet up on the ottoman, and wearing only his boxers, closed up the journal and tucked it behind his back. “Still getting my sea legs.”
Mia managed a thin smile. “Oh. Of course. But did it help? Please tell me it helped.”
Merely having her here helped. There was something about her that made his troubles melt away or at the very least, fade into the distance. Partly, it was that she cared to understand his struggles. Nearly everyone around him was in one of two distinct camps—those who felt nothing but pity for him and those who blamed him. In the middle, there was Mia, coming from a place of generosity and kindness while also having a deep understanding of his occupation. Funnily enough, that had been their biggest bone of contention when they’d first met—that she was sure she knew more than he thought she did. And she’d been absolutely right.
“It’ll take me some time to get the hang of it.” He stretched out a bit and patted his lap. Every nerve ending in his body felt more alive in her presence, making him crave her touch on a molecular level. “Come here.”
She stood a little straighter, as though she was steeling herself for an argument. “I don’t want to be a bad guest, but I’ve been here for a pretty long time and you haven’t fed me. I’m starving.”
“Bugger.” Come to think of it, he was quite hungry, too. He’d simply been so preoccupied by sex with Mia that the idea of food hadn’t even entered his brain. He hopped out of the chair. If his father knew he’d been such a poor host and hadn’t fed his guest, he’d be appalled. “Let’s take care of that right away.”
He led Mia downstairs and into the kitchen, a room he could admit he didn’t use nearly enough. It had all the mod cons—stainless industrial fridge and eight-burner stove, but he’d never been much of a cook. Plus, there were many culinary sacrifices he made in order to stay lean for driving. Too much indulgence and he’d be in big trouble with the team and his trainer. Which was why he’d been so focused on staying upstairs with Mia—that was an indulgence that only burned calories.
“What can I make for you?”
“What do you usually eat for breakfast?”
“Honestly? A protein shake. A handful of almonds. But I did shop for your arrival, so I have much more to offer than that.” He gave a quick tour of the options—a variety of fruit, sausages, eggs, good sourdough, store-bought scones and clotted cream…
“Wow,” she answered. “How about avocado toast? Do you have lemon and extra-virgin olive oil?”
“Both, but I’m not sure if the olive oil has had sex before.”
Mia swatted his arm. “Very funny. Show me?”
He pulled the bottle out of the cabinet near the stove and handed it over. Mia carefully examined the label. “Pretty nice. Sicilian. Cold-pressed.” She opened the bottle and gave it a sniff, then poured a drop onto her fingertip and popped it into her mouth. “Mmm. This will work.”
Xander thought he might pass out from the vision of Mia with her finger in her mouth… “Let me guess. Culinary school?”
She grinned and rolled her eyes. “I thought about it, but no. Just entirely too much Food Network. Now, show me where everything is and I’ll make our breakfast.”
“As your host, I feel as though I should cook for you.”
“After taking a look at the burners on your stove, it’s pretty clear that Mr. Protein Shake doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. There’s no way you’ve used that thing.”
“Guilty as charged. How about I make us some tea? Not sure I can trust an American with that job, anyway.”
“That sounds like a safe undertaking.”
Xander filled up the kettle and plopped two bags of his favorite Yorkshire tea into a pair of mugs. “Mia, how many careers have you had, exactly?”
Mia expertly cut open the avocado with a knife while he leaned against the counter and watched, gently running his knuckles along the channel of her spine. “Too many to count. Several jobs in academia. Student teaching. Admissions. A few writing jobs when I was trying to use my journalism degree. Many, many false starts.”
This was fascinating to him. He’d only ever had one occupation—that of race-car driver—and he’d known from a very young age it was all he wanted to do. Which made the idea of his dream ending much more difficult to face.
“Do you have a hard time deciding on one thing? Are you one of those people who endlessly mulls over the menu at a restaurant?”
“I am one of those people, yes. But that has nothing to do with my aimlessness with career choices.” She scooted the toaster away from the wall, pulled two slices of bread from the loaf and dropped them into the slots. “It’s more curiosity, I guess. I’ve always been interested in a lot of different things.”
“Curiosity is a hallmark of intelligence.”
She glanced at him then returned to her task of mashing and seasoning the avocado. “It also killed the cat.”
