“Wait.” Mac pops his head around the hood of the SUV. “You’re gonna race this weekend?”
I stare, like I’m waiting for the punchline. “Uh… yuh?”
“Even after Bobby beat you stupid, and your mom told you not to?”
I nod. “I’m a good driver, Mac. I’m smart, I’m skilled.”
“It’s dangerous!”
“Lots of other families would say the same about fighting,” I counter. “Lots of families would forbid their kids from fighting, because it’s dangerous.” I shake my head. “My family learned with Bean not to try to force us into a certain lane. She wants to dance. Smalls wants to fight. I wanna drive.”
I slide into my car and slam the door. Rolling the window down, I catch his eyes. “I expect you not to announce that shit at the dinner table, though. Hurt my mom, and you and I will have beef.”
Mac lifts his hands in surrender. “I’m not about hurting Kit.” He flattens his lips. “Unlike you.”
I flip him off without another word, switch my engine on, and back away from the garage that has been here since before I was born. Since before my dad was born, too.
It’s funny how times change, the world evolves, but we all circle back anyway. The first Bryan Kincaid raced the same tracks I do. And when he was working, he was in that garage. He was fixing cars alongside his racing buddy – Mac’s grandpa – and he was doing it all as a way to scrape enough money together to pay the rent.
I’ve circled back around. History is rhyming on itself.
But now I get to rewrite history. I get to live the life the first Bryan deserved. And I’m confident that, if he was still around, he’d be okay with my choices to visit Piper’s Lane on the weekends.
Pulling away from the garage, I turn toward Main and amble along the quiet street. It’s the middle of the day at the start of the work week. Everyone is busy; moms wander the sidewalk with strollers, they head into the bakery, or into the ice cream parlor that Lyss will probably own shares in before she’s grown.
She eats there seven days a week – one with her father, the other six with me, or my mom, my dad, my cousins. She has the entire Kincaid family wrapped around her finger, and thankfully, Iowa trusts us to do right by her.
I pass the street that, if I turn right on, I could follow it and head out to see my grandma. I don’t turn, but I make a plan to head that way soon. Instead, when I pass the local supermarket and catch sight of the Monaco Auto sign plastered along the wall – another endorsement deal, I suppose – I take a sharp turn and head back the way I came.
With a new mission, I pick up speed, and draw Mac’s and Tuck’s eyes when I roar past the garage again. In the complete opposite direction of the gym.
I turn my music up, sit back and let my legs open, and relax. Ten minutes after passing Jonah’s Store, I pull into the massive parking lot that houses all of Monaco’s staff’s cars.
Well, not all of them, since Monaco has two or three other manufacturing plants situated across the country. Yes, I Googled them. But this is the head office. The headquarters, and where the owners, the creators, began more than a hundred years ago.
I pull into a parking slot and yank my keys from the ignition, then, sliding out and slamming the door, I look down at my body and wonder if jeans are “corporate office appropriate”. I follow the signs that lead me toward the front office, and when I step into the cooled space, I smile for the young girl behind the tall reception desk.
“Hello. How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Madilyn’s office, please.”
“Oh sure, is she expecting you?”
“Mmhmm. Monaco and my family are now in a partnership in regards to sponsorship. I had a few follow-up questions for her, but I’d prefer to speak face-to-face rather than via email.” I grin and pray the rumors are true: Bryan Kincaid can smile his way into any woman’s heart. “She knows who I am.”
“Okay.”
Instead of picking up the phone and announcing my visit, this woman merely stands from her desk and comes around to where I am. When I turn, she walks through the door and stops in the warmth outside.
She points to another building about a hundred yards from us. “She’s in that one. Go up the stairs, through the third door on the right, and you’ll find the marketing department. She has an assistant at the door, so tell her you’re here to see Maddi, and she’ll send you straight through.”
“Wonderful.” I look directly into this woman’s light green eyes and smile. “Thanks for your help. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome.” She wrings her hands, and lets her eyes periodically drop to my chest. “Uh… be sure to come by here on your way out. You’re now considered a visitor on premises, and safety code means you need to make us aware when you leave again. Uh…” She clears her throat. “Headcounts, in case there’s an emergency.”
“Sure. I’ll swing on by on my way out.” I wink – because I’m a douche – then I set off across the gravel road and step around a cute garden filled with… fuck knows. Purple flowers. There’s a little white in there. And some pink. My mother wouldn’t be able to help me name them, but my grandma might.
Another reason to head by her place soon.
I cross the soggy, lush, green grass, and step onto a concrete pathway. Then I head up a wooden set of stairs, and count doors as I pass. One. Two. I stop at the third, broaden my shoulders, paste on my smile, and prepare to charm my way past another gatekeeper.
The less notice Madilyn has of my visit, the better.
Madilyn
Aw, Shit
“I need you to put in an order for more banners. Maybe twelve feet by four feet. Get our Monaco brand splashed all over that tournament, then talk to Anthony and get him working on a twenty-second sample for Evie to include in their announcement blast. We’re paying a fortune for this ad space, so we’re going to soak it up as much as we can.”
“Okay.” My assistant types up her email to Anthony even while she speaks. “I’ll grab a slot in his schedule. How many banners?”
“Uh…” I close one eye to think. Like that’ll help. “Maybe two, since they’re so big. Spectators will riot if we take up too much space and they can’t see the fights. Put more emphasis on the trailer, since that’ll go out to millions of new eyes. After you do that, can you come to my office, and—”
The front door opens, giving me a second to prepare my friendly PR smile – that’s why they pay me the big bucks – but then my spine snaps straight. My eyes widen. And damn me for noticing how my assistant sits taller and gasps when six-and-a-half feet of muscle and sex walks through her door.
He was smiling… but then our eyes meet, and those lips flatten. “Madilyn.”
“Bryan? What the f– I mean…” I clear my throat. “Uh… Welcome to Monaco’s. Can we help you?”
My assistant’s gaze snaps between me and our visitor. Back and forth, like she can’t consolidate the two. “Umm…”