8. Mixed Signals
I sat curled in the corner of my hotel room, the darkness pressing in, the letter clutched in my trembling hands. Its words looped in my head—I'll always be around, through every high and low—each syllable a cold finger tracing my spine. The door was bolted, the windows locked, the curtains drawn tight, but the walls felt paper-thin, like whoever wrote this could see me through them. I'd thought the letters were a prank back in New York, some office jerk's idea of fun, but this? In Argentina? My stomach churned. Someone had followed me here, watched me settle in, and slipped this under my door like a taunt. I couldn't shake the image of that empty hallway, the silence mocking me as I'd lunged to catch them, too late.
My phone buzzed on the table, its screen glowing in the dimness, and I flinched, my breath catching. I crawled over, every creak of the floor amplifying my nerves, and grabbed it. A text—from Arthur Vance. My heart jolted for a different reason.
Hey, Ximara—got those specs and sample designs ready. Free to meet tomorrow? Maybe noon at the track?
I stared at the words, my pulse a wild mix of dread and disbelief. Arthur Vance texting me, casual as anything, while a stalker's note sat inches away.
My fingers hovered over the keys, hesitating. What if this was a trick? What if the stalker had my number too? I shook my head, shoving the paranoia down. This was Arthur—the Arthur—about work. Nothing more.
Sounds good, I typed back, keeping it short. See you then. I hit send, then dropped the phone like it burned, my eyes darting to the letter again. Sleep wasn't happening tonight.
Morning came too fast, the sun slicing through the curtains I'd cracked open at dawn, too restless to stay in the dark. I dragged myself to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face, the bags under my eyes stark in the mirror. The letter sat on the table where I'd left it, a silent threat I couldn't ignore. I shoved it into my bag—evidence, maybe, if it came to that—and dressed in a sharp blazer and jeans, trying to look like I had it together. Coffee from the hotel's machine helped, its bitter heat steadying my shaky hands as I headed to the racetrack.
I found a quiet spot near the pits, spreading my sketchbook and tablet on a crate, diving into the VIP room designs to keep my mind off the letter. Arthur's text had promised specs, and I'd roughed out tweaks—shelving for gear, a full-length mirror, bold red accents. Work was my anchor, the pencil strokes a rhythm I could control.
Footsteps crunched behind me at noon sharp, and I turned, my breath catching as Arthur approached—dark hair tousled, jacket slung over his shoulder, that easy smile lighting his face. "Hey, Ximara," he said, his voice warm, like we'd done this a hundred times.
"Hey, Mr. Vance," I replied, standing, my voice steadier than I felt.
"Arthur's fine," he said, waving off the formality. "Ready to talk shop?"
"Yeah," I said, managing a smile. "I've got some updates based on yesterday." I flipped open my tablet, showing him the revised layouts, walking him through the changes. He leaned in, close enough I caught a hint of his cologne—something woody and clean—his focus sharp as he nodded.
"These are killer," he said, tapping the screen. "The shelving's perfect—keeps the gear handy. And that mirror? Spot on. You've got a real eye for this."
My cheeks warmed, his praise sinking in. "Thanks, Arthur. I aimed for functional but fast—something that fits you."
He grinned, a glint in his eyes. "You nailed it. Let's walk—stretch our legs while we hash this out." He gestured toward the track's backyard, a quieter stretch behind the stands, and I fell into step beside him, my sketchbook tucked under my arm.
The conversation flowed easy at first—design details, color schemes, lighting ideas. Then he shifted gears, his tone softening. "So, Ximara, who's all there in your house?"
I blinked, caught off guard, my heart skipping as I met his gaze. He wanted to know about me? "We're a family of five," I said, admiring the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. "I've got a younger brother and sister—I'm the eldest."
"Oh, an eldest daughter with a lot of responsibilities," he said, his smile widening, teasing but kind.
"You could say that," I replied, returning it, my mind spinning. Was he actually interested in my life?
"Is your family supportive?" he asked, his voice casual but curious.
I stiffened, the question slicing through my daydreams. Color drained from my face, and he noticed, his brow furrowing. "Hey, you okay? You don't have to answer—I shouldn't have pried."
"No, it's fine," I said quickly, forcing a breath. "It's just… they're not that supportive of my goals." I hesitated, torn. I didn't want to unload everything—my parents' disapproval, the marriage they'd tried to force—but I didn't want to lie either. If this—whatever this was—went anywhere, I'd rather he know the truth, or at least pieces of it.
"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, his tone gentle, no judgment. "If I can ask, who do you live with? If they're not behind you, staying with them must be tough."
We reached a small table under a tree, the shade a relief from the sun, and sat. I met his eyes, choosing my words. "No, you've got it wrong—they care about me, in their way, but I don't live with them." It was half a lie. They'd cared enough to try controlling me—pushing me toward a man my father's age—until I'd bolted to Ali's.
"Oh, my mistake," he said, shaking his head with a sheepish grin. "So, who do you stay with? Got a boyfriend?" He raised a brow, his tone light but cautious, like he was testing the waters.
My heart skipped again, a giddy flutter cutting through the morning's dread. Was he fishing? "No boyfriend," I said, a giggle slipping out before I could stop it. "I live with my maternal grandfather—Alister. He's been my rock since my grandma passed. Loves me to bits, supports me every step."
Arthur's smile softened. "I can see how much he means to you—you're glowing just talking about him."
"Yeah, he's the best," I said, dialing it back. "I miss him already—haven't talked to him since yesterday."
"He sounds like a good guy," Arthur said, leaning back. "Okay, your turn—ask me something."
I smirked, seizing the chance. "Well, I'd ask about your family, but the internet's got you covered—parents, younger brother, the works."
He chuckled, a low, easy sound. "The world knows what I let it see. There's plenty they don't."
"Fair enough," I said, resting my chin in my hands. "Tell me about them, then—from your view."
He launched in, his voice animated as he painted his family—his parents' quiet strength, his brother's antics, his mom's warmth. I listened, captivated, my elbows on the table, drinking in every word. The tabloids had the basics, but hearing it from him added layers—his admiration for his mom's grace, her kindness, the way she held their family together. I could see it in his eyes, a love so deep it made me ache for something like it.
"She sounds incredible," I said when he finished. "I'd love to meet her someday."
"If she swings by while you're here, I'll make it happen," he offered, his grin infectious. "Anything else you want to know?"
I hesitated, then went for it—he'd asked me, after all. "Do you have a girlfriend?" I kept it casual, but my pulse ticked up.
He tensed, just for a second, his jaw tightening before he relaxed. "No," he said, meeting my eyes. "No girlfriend."
Relief washed through me, a smile tugging at my lips. "Shall we head back?" he asked, standing.
I nodded, and we walked inside, his stride easy beside mine. But as we parted, his warmth lingered, mingling with confusion. Was he flirting, or just friendly? The way he'd asked about my life, his careful tone—it felt personal. Yet doubt gnawed at me. Maybe I was reading too much into it.
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Later, I met the other racers in a makeshift lounge near the pits—three guys, all lean and loud, their energy a stark contrast to Arthur's quiet charm. "Ximara, right?" one said—Jake, with a buzz cut and a grin. "Heard you're the genius behind our rooms."
"That's me," I said, relaxing into it. "I'm designing your dressing spaces—want to make sure they work for you."
"Sweet," said another—Max, with a scruffy beard. "I need space for my lucky boots—big shelves."
"Got it," I said, jotting it down as we laughed over their quirks—Max's boots, Jake's obsession with green lighting, Leo, the third, wanting a mini fridge for energy drinks. They were a riot, their banter pulling me out of my head. We swapped stories—Jake's worst crash, Leo's pre-race rituals—and by the end, I had pages of notes and a grin I couldn't shake. They were easy to like, and the work felt lighter with them.
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The day drained me dry, the sun dipping low as I trudged back to the hotel, my legs heavy, my mind a mess. Arthur's interest had lit me up, but those mixed signals gnawed at me—was it real, or just his way? I turned a corner near the racers' rooms, and there he was—outside his door, leaning close to a blonde. She was all legs and giggles, her hand on his arm, his grin wide as he murmured something that made her laugh harder, his fingers brushing her shoulder. My stomach twisted, the sight a cold slap. He was like that with her too—casual, charming, humble. Just his default, I guessed, spreading that vibe to everyone. I'd built it up in my head, seen sparks where there were none. I slipped past, unnoticed, my mood sinking.
The walk back prickled my nerves— that familiar feeling of eyes on me, boring into my back from the shadows. I glanced around, the hall dim and empty, but the unease clung, the letter's threat whispering in my ears. By the time I reached my room, I was worn out, the day's highs and lows crashing over me. I kicked off my shoes, sank onto the bed, and let out a long breath, glad to leave the letter's shadow behind, if only for a moment. Work had kept me sane, and Arthur—mixed signals or not—had been a distraction worth having.
My phone buzzed—Lara. Stephan sent a dress for the ball—should hit your room soon. I smiled, grateful for the gesture, my mood lifting a little. Minutes later, a knock came. I opened the door to a staff member with two boxes—sleek, ribboned, not one dress but two. "For Ms. Adler," he said, vanishing before I could ask. I carried them inside, puzzled—Lara's text said a dress.
I texted her, fingers quick on the screen. Hey, Lara—just got two boxes. Was that a mistake?
Her reply came fast. Two? Huh—Stephan ordered one. Let me check with him.
I opened the first—a deep blue gown, elegant and understated, with a note: From Stephan & Lara—wear this if you like. The second was a striking red, bold and vibrant, no note. My phone pinged again—Lara. Stephan says the shop messed up—sent an extra by accident. No clue how, but keep them both. Pick what you want!
The day drained me dry, the sun dipping low as I trudged back to the hotel, my legs heavy, my mind a mess. Arthur's interest had lit me up, but those mixed signals gnawed at me—was it real, or just his way? I turned a corner near the racers' rooms, and there he was—outside his door, leaning close to a blonde. She was all legs and giggles, her hand on his arm, his grin wide as he murmured something that made her laugh harder, his fingers brushing her shoulder. My stomach twisted, the sight a cold slap. He was like that with her too—casual, charming, humble. Just his default, I guessed, spreading that vibe to everyone. I'd built it up in my head, seen sparks where there were none. I slipped past, unnoticed, my mood sinking.
The walk back prickled my nerves— that familiar feeling of eyes on me, boring into my back from the shadows. I glanced around, the hall dim and empty, but the unease clung, the letter's threat whispering in my ears. By the time I reached my room, I was worn out, the day's highs and lows crashing over me. I kicked off my shoes, sank onto the bed, and let out a long breath, glad to leave the letter's shadow behind, if only for a moment. Work had kept me sane, and Arthur—mixed signals or not—had been a distraction worth having.
My phone buzzed—Lara. Stephan sent a dress for the ball—should hit your room soon. I smiled, grateful for the gesture, my mood lifting a little. Minutes later, a knock came. I opened the door to a staff member with two boxes—sleek, ribboned, not one dress but two one had a note that it was from Lara and Stephan.
Then I froze. A faint rustle slipped from the tissue paper, and my stomach dropped. I lifted the gown—and there it was. Another white envelope, unmarked, nestled beneath.
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