It was quick—a traitorous flush that raced up her neck and kissed her cheeks before she executed it with ruthless willpower.
But it happened. And we both knew it.
"Fine," she said, clipped and professional, utterly betrayed by the fading pink still staining her skin. "One game."
"That's all I need."
"So," Maria said, pulling on her gloves with the cold precision of a surgeon about to carve open destiny itself, "how does this work?"
"You drive. You try to beat me."
"Try?"
"I'm being generous with the wording."
She looked at me. Then at the kart. Then back at me.
And there it was—the competitive fire she'd probably buried since medical school suddenly igniting behind her eyes, bright, vicious, and gloriously alive.
"I should warn you," she said, sliding into the kart with a grace that had no business existing inside something built for speed and violence. "I don't lose."
"Neither do I."
"One of us is lying."
"It's you."
