CHAPTER 3
Willow
It doesn’t matter that I’m wearing an outfit that costs more than a month’s rent; I feel wildly underdressed in this crowd.
I know I look amazing in this baby-blue silk gown and four-inch heels – even if I am tempting fate and my ankles by wearing them – but I still feel out of place. If there’s anywhere in the world that could make me feel like I don’t belong, it’s a swanky party in Monaco.
Monaco.Just thinking the name has me nearly shaking my head in disbelief. Because, honestly, who expects to be offered a last-minute invitation to visit a place synonymous with wealth and fast cars? Certainly not me and my barely used passport.
After flying into Nice this afternoon, I was picked up at the airport by a driver Oakley sent to fetch me. I kept my face glued to the luxury car’s window as we made our way down the coast and across the border to Monaco, admiring the beautiful blue waters, lush greenery and the stunning cliffs.
Even if my brother hadn’t mentioned the race this weekend, I would have known by the sheer number of closed roads and million-dollar yachts crammed into the harbour. It was controlled chaos. Excitement for the weekend was practically palpable in the warm spring air.
I video-called Grace and Chantal to show them the sights as we slowly drove past them, but I nearly lost my ability to speak when we pulled up to the hotel.
I’m not a stranger to luxury. My parents have done well for themselves, and Mom’s taste for expensive things is well known, but I’d never seen extravagance like this. The building had old-world charm in the columns and aged facade, with purple and yellow flowers climbing in perfect patterns up both and hanging over the portico. The lobby, with its sweeping ceilings and eighteenth-century art, might as well have been a backdrop straight off a movie set.
I nearly giggled when a porter wearing a maroon uniform and a little hat asked me in accented English if he could take my bags. It was perfect.
The suite Oakley reserved for me was just as incredible – beautiful views of the water, a soaker tub, and a bed big enough to fit ten people. Clearly, he went all out for this graduation-slash-birthday present. Either that, or his company has sweeter benefits than I realized.
But I still haven’t gotten a chance to thank him, because my brother has been MIA all day. He texted to tell me he’d be busy up until the start of the party, but that he’d meet me in the hotel’s ballroom for tonight’s event.
I spent the past few hours getting ready. I soaked, buffed and moisturized my body into submission before slipping into the gown Grace had encouraged me to buy, even though I nearly had a heart attack seeing the price tag. But it is stunning, and I felt like a million bucks . . . until now.
I’ve always been a tiny bit self-conscious about my looks, and one glance around has me shrinking in on myself. Every person drifting by me is somehow more gorgeous than the last. And here I am – short as hell, baby-faced and the CEO of the Itty-Bitty Titty Committee. It’s a trifecta that often leaves me being asked where my parents are when I’m out on my own.
I’m envious of women like Chantal, with her long legs and curves. Unlike her, I’m convinced I could be replaced by a square piece of cardboard with a picture of my face slapped on it, and no one would know the difference.
But each time I start to feel like that, I remind myself of the attributes I do like. I love the bronze glow of my skin no matter what the season. I love my curls (even though tonight I’ve straightened them to within an inch of their life). And yeah, most days I love that I can get away with not wearing a bra under almost anything.
With those reminders, I push my shoulders back a little and lift my head, thankful for the boost from my heels. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to see a single thing in this well-dressed crowd.
I take a few seconds to scan the ballroom, from its high ceilings with intricate moulding and gilded trim to the shining wood floors. There’s a Formula 1 car sculpted out of ice – complete with a shot luge – positioned on one side of the room, and a fire-breathing act is taking place on the other. Clearly no expense was spared, but I shouldn’t be surprised. This is a sport that’s always been about money, money, money.
‘Wills!’
I start at the sound of my brother’s voice and turn in the direction it came from, spotting him waving at me from beside the sleek bar. Blowing out a small breath of relief, I weave my way over. Ever the life of the party, he’s surrounded by a crowd of people, but he’s quick to excuse himself and meet me halfway.
He spreads his arms wide and I lean into them, squeezing him tightly for a few seconds. Standing back, he grips my shoulders as he looks me over. ‘Did you get shorter?’
I wrinkle my nose and knock his hands away. The moment of sibling love is decidedly over. ‘Did you forget I’m the perfect height to destroy your kneecaps? Don’t try me.’
‘Yeah, I guess I shouldn’t, especially with those shoes.’ He grimaces at my stilettos. ‘Should you be wearing those? I swear, if you dislocate anything, I’m not popping it back in for you.’
I roll my eyes, but his concern isn’t exactly misplaced considering my joints don’t always like to stay where they’re supposed to. Long ago, I learned that heels, no matter how stunning, weren’t the best shoes for me, though that never deterred my love for them. Sometimes you’ve got to live life on the edge. Oakley has fast cars – I have high heels.
Still, I spend at least an hour every day either in the gym or on a yoga mat, working on strength exercises to encourage my body to keep everything where it belongs. With the help of physical therapy and a couple of surgeries, I’m not too worried about major injuries these days. But I’ll always remain cautious. It’s why I had to sit back while Oakley got to run reckless and follow his dreams of being an athlete.
I try not to be bitter about it, try not to let myself wish I was the sibling without chronic pain and weak connective tissue, but sometimes I taste it in the back of my throat.
‘Relax, I haven’t popped anything out of place in a while.’ I wave off his comment. ‘But it’s nice to know you wouldn’t help if I did. You’re awful.’
He shrugs, unaffected by the insult. ‘We both knew that already.’ That settled, he gently grasps my elbow and turns me in the direction of the bar. ‘Let’s get drinks and go find Dev. He’s gotta be around here somewhere.’
I nearly face-plant when my heel catches on air. If it weren’t for Oakley’s grip on me, I would have gone down – and hard – all at the mention of a name.
‘Dev?’ I repeat, wincing at the way my voice pitches high. I clear my throat, then clarify. ‘Dev Anderson? He’s here?’
If Oakley were actually paying attention to me instead of eyeing a pretty blonde, there’s no way he wouldn’t have picked up on my panic.
It’s been seven months since I’ve seen my brother’s best friend – and the last time I did? Let’s say things didn’t exactly go the way I thought they would, and I’m still mortified.
‘Yeah, of course he’s here,’ Oakley says as we elbow our way up to the bar. ‘SecDark is a sponsor of his team.’
‘Right.’ I knew that. I just . . . forgot. And by forgot, I mean I genuinely had no idea. ‘But I – I thought you sponsored a different team.’ There’s no way I’m that oblivious. I may not follow F1 as closely as I do other sports, but it’s on my radar. And so are too many things related to Dev, the boy I had a massive crush on for most of my childhood.
Oakley grunts as he lifts a hand to signal the bartender over, which I take as confirmation. ‘We started out with Deschamp, but Argonaut won the owners over with their all-American, all the time bullshit. So yeah, we switched last year. Though Argonaut has yet to place on the podium this season, so it stands to be seen whether it’s a better partnership.’
I nod, trying to take all of that information in, but my mind is set to anxiety mode. Of their own volition, my eyes dart around the massive space in search of Dev in the crowd. I knew there was a small chance I might run into him at the race this weekend, and I prepared myself for that possibility, but this feels like an ambush.
Oakley is still rambling on about racing statistics, but I’ve mostly tuned him out. I’ve heard it all before anyway. The guy could talk about these things for ever. Usually, I dutifully listen, since I’m an amazing sister . . . and also because I find that stuff interesting, as much as I hate to admit it to him.
This time, though, I only pretend to pay attention, vaguely murmuring when it seems appropriate. But when my eyes land on a familiar form in the crowd, I can’t keep up the ruse any more.
Dev’s trademark grin – the one he’s never afraid to let loose – lights up the room. I swear his face was made for smiling and smiling alone, and the dark scruff on his sharp jaw only accentuates how bright it is. I’ve seen videos on my ‘for you’ pages that constantly gift him the title of best smile in the paddock, and I can’t disagree. No one on that grid – past, present and probably even future – has humour more infectious than Dev’s. None of them even come close.
As kids, it was rare to see him without a full-out grin on his face, and it hasn’t changed a bit. Worries seem to roll off his back. It’s not that he doesn’t take anything seriously – he wouldn’t have made it this far in his career if he didn’t – but Dev just has the uncanny ability to always see the bright side, no matter how dark things may seem.
Without his positivity, I don’t think I would have made it through the roughest points of my teenage years, a time when I hated my body for holding me back from the things I wanted more than anything. It’s a lot to credit someone with, but Dev and his smile and his little words of encouragement made all the difference.
My heart races like it always does when I see him, but tonight, it’s accompanied by anxious nausea. He looks . . . good. Really good. Better than I remembered, even with a mind that always paints him in the best light.
From where I’m standing, I have the perfect view of his profile. His jet-black hair is shorter on the sides and longer on the top. The strands curl and brush his forehead in that tousled way that looks intentionally styled, though it’s more likely caused by the way he constantly runs his fingers through it. And that tuxedo . . . No man should look that good in a penguin suit, but I know a lot of people – myself included – would rather see him and his broad shoulders out of it.
Although, from what I hear, women aren’t lining up to have that privilege these days, and I shouldn’t be thinking that way either. Not because the rumour going around the internet is that he’s being treated for an STD, but because he’s beyond off-limits to me. Our kiss is a secret I plan to take to the grave.
‘Oh, there he is.’ Oakley’s voice cuts through my borderline impure thoughts and brings my focus back to him. In my periphery, he’s looking in the same direction I am. ‘Let’s go say hi.’
‘Huh?’ The surprised syllable tumbles from my lips.
‘You weren’t even listening to me, were you?’ He passes me a glass of champagne that magically appeared – along with an Old Fashioned he’s already sipping – while I was ogling his best friend. ‘I spotted Dev. I wanna talk to him before my bosses descend on my ass.’
Oakley grips my shoulder and nudges me into walking before I even know what’s happening.
But if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that I’m absolutely not ready to see Dev Anderson again.