CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN CLARKE
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Clarke
As they walked down a cobblestoned street headed in the direction of her hotel, Clarke marveled at the fact that he was enjoying himself.
I don’t want to take her back. I don’t want this date to end.
He looked at the sky ahead and wondered how long before the sun would rise.
He thought back to their dancing. At first, she’d been tentative and unsure of herself, but soon she’d mastered it.
He marveled at how natural it was for her, and how easy it was for him to follow her.
But it wasn’t just the ease with which he followed her that surprised him, it was the thrill he got from doing so.
It surged through his body like an electric current that flooded his blood. He even heard it crackling in his ears.
He liked the feel of her body next to his, sinking into his. He wanted to feel it beneath his.
They were in a residential district, walking along a street with a few dim streetlights, each emitting only the pale flicker of a single flame.
He glanced up at the windows. Most of them dark.
All was quiet. The only sound—their footsteps on the stone.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something ever since Austin,” she said. “But every date since then has …”
“Led to grievous bodily harm?”
She grinned. “No.”
“Been hazardous to my health?”
“Stop!”
He chuckled. “Okay sorry. Go ahead. What is it you want to ask me?”
“Why did you think coming to my father’s house was doing something nice for me? When I asked you to come the night before, did I say something to suggest that it would be?”
Glancing at her, he hesitated. “No.” His heart began to beat in an erratic way that made him uncomfortable. “It was … how you asked—the way you looked and sounded when you did.”
He stared at her eyes. They looked silver in this light. Stop there, he thought at the same moment his lips parted to speak.
“You seemed … I don’t know … almost … vulnerable. I’d never seen you like that before.”
He blinked. It looked like a shadow passed through her eyes.
Not possible. You’re seeing things.
Turning away, he waved his hand dismissively. “I mean, I might have said no. I could have said no. I just thought maybe it wasn’t easy for you to ask.” He paused. “I don’t think I could do it.”
“Couldn’t do what?”
He didn’t answer and kept his gaze straight ahead, determined he would only give her his profile to look at.
“Do you mean you couldn’t ask me for help?”
No, he thought, I don’t think I could. But he didn’t want to tell her that.
“You couldn’t for instance”—she paused—“ask me to come to the Grouse Gathering?”
He stopped. His head swiveled to meet her gaze. “How do you know—?”
“I overheard you talking about it on the phone yesterday.”
The call from Athos.
“You overheard?”
“I was on the sofa in the sitting room.”
Crossing his arms, he peered at her. “I guess I should have gone into the bathroom to get some privacy when I took the call. Then again, when it comes to you, there’s no guarantee I would get it there either.”
She sighed. “I wasn’t looking to eavesdrop. I was sort of stuck there. You were already talking when you entered the room. Besides, I didn’t overhear something scandalous—something you’d have a good reason for keeping private.”
He resumed walking and she did likewise.
She shrugged. “You can ask, you know.”
“Ask what?”
“Ask me to come. I know it’s this upcoming weekend and we don’t have a race until the following weekend. I can swing it.”
He swallowed. Once introduced to his brothers, she would figure out he was the Man in the Iron Mask. Would it be so bad if she did? Was it a big deal? Not really, except that now that he’d kept it a secret this long, he’d made it into a big deal, or at the very least something embarrassing.
Besides, she was Ceci Rivers—team principal for Blue Jet Lightning. The woman his father and his brothers blamed along with Anker for that crash at Silverstone.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” she demanded, her voice level rising.
“Not so loud. And what should I be saying?”
She glared at him. “I’m not speaking any louder than you.”
A woman shouted something in Spanish from a window above.
Clarke apologized, telling her in Spanish they would be quiet and on their way.
“What did you say to her?”
“I told her you suffer from a mental condition and are only let out of the institution once a month. I said I was just on the way now to return you.”
“What?!” she screamed.
He was just about to tell her he’d been kidding when someone else began shouting down at them. Clarke looked up to see a man standing beside the woman.
What he’d said was less than complimentary about Ceci.
She responded with a rude gesture and then yelled, “Tu cono huele a queso podrido!”
The woman gasped.
Clarke was horrified. “Do you know what you just said?”
“I told her that her cunt smelled like rotten cheese. I wanted to say Limburger. But I don’t know how to say Limburger in Spanish.”
“It’s the same in Spanish as it is in German—Limburger.”
“Oh.”
His heart was pounding. His fists clenched. “Why are you so loud?! Why must you always be so loud?!”
She stared back at him. Her lips didn’t move. But those eyes, those gray, stormy eyes were screaming at him.
“Because if I’m not,” she cried, “I don’t exist!
I’m invisible. But maybe, just maybe, if I’m loud enough, someone somewhere will see me and someone somewhere will know that I’m here.
They’ll know Ceci Rivers is here!” She turned a circle in the street.
“Do you hear that, Barcelona? Ceci Rivers is here!”
She glared back at him. Those eyes were glistening.
I see you, Ceci Rivers. I see you whether you’re with me or not. I see you day and night. I see you in my dreams. I can’t not see you.
She thrust her finger in his face, close enough that if she moved it an inch, it would have poked his eyeball. “And you, Sir Stick Up His Ass, will not silence me!”
His heart was beating so fast and furious, he felt like it might break through his rib cage.
He grabbed her by the shoulders and thrust his mouth on hers.
She stiffened. He waited for her to pull away, but she didn’t.
Her lips parted. He slid his hands up her neck, cupped her cheeks and pulled her in deeper.
His tongue entered her mouth. She tasted like the wine they’d drunk, the anise brandy and the crema catalana they’d had for dessert—that custard and burnt caramel.
Only better. And something else. Something so subtle he couldn’t decide whether it was sweet or savory. Could it be both? At the same time?
That’s her.
He felt a sudden and hungry desire to find out what she tasted like between her legs.
He put one arm around her waist and pulled her in even deeper. How was it possible she wasn’t close enough when he could feel her beating heart against his own?
And she can feel every inch of you. Every growing inch.
The throbbing between his legs was making his breath ragged.
Was he surprised her kiss would make him feel like this? Give him a raging hard-on and make him feel like the earth below him quaked when it was him who was unsteady? No. He’d kissed her before. But something else surprised him.
The way she let him hold her, the way she became warm and silky in his arms, the way she melted in his embrace … it was as if she knew she could lean on him, depend on him, because that’s what she was doing … now.
But she doesn’t know that. You don’t either.
He pulled away and gazed at her. She opened her eyes and blinked. And then her eyes tilted skyward.
“Watch out!” she screamed.
Clarke looked up. And not even a fraction of a second passed after he’d pushed her out of the way when the flood of water hit him smack in the face.
@motorsportmax13
Sir Leo Clarke dodging champagne on the podium only to take a bucket of water to the face in the Barcelona streets … poetic cinema
#BarcelonaKnights
@poshladsunited
He wins the Spanish GP and gets absolutely drenched on his fake date night … someone get Sir Clarke a towel and a therapist
#PoorLeo
@fastlanequeen
When your fake girlfriend has real beef with half of Barcelona and you still take the hit like a knight in shining armor … Sir Clarke is HIM.
#CeciVsBarcelona
@itsnotthatdeepf1
She warned him! Ceci legit yelled “look out!” before he dove like a Marvel stunt double right into that waterfall. The man is in too deep and I’m HERE for it.
#SheWarnedHim
@fauxmancefan
Ceci yells. Clarke apologizes. He gets hit. Again. That’s what happens when she’s chaos and you Sir Clarke are customer service.
#SirClarkeDeservedBetter
@SophieAshcroft (Sports Journalist)
Watching Sir Clarke go from GP podium to public soaking while trying to keep Ceci Rivers from declaring war on a Barcelona neighborhood is the most unhinged and romantic thing I’ve seen this season.
#BarcelonaDateGate
F1 Gossip Wire
?? Ceci Rivers Flips Off an Abuela, Sir Clarke Baptized in the Street
There’s video. There’s yelling. There’s a soaked British knight. Romance is officially dead, people.
#BarcelonaBaptism
BARCELONA, SPAIN
?? BARCELONA KNIGHTS—FANFIC PLAYLIST
Vibe: Slow-burn chaos. Fake-but-feels. Last tango in Barcelona.
Tagline: Fake dating never looked this real, or this wet.
1. “Te Amo” – Rihanna
Ceci energy. Seductive, confusing, chaotic, unapologetic.
2. “Sway” – Michael Bublé
The tango scene in that moonlit Barcelona courtyard. It’s hot. It’s charged. It’s fake and very real.
3. “Love on the Brain” – Rihanna
When Ceci realizes she might actually care and it pisses her off.
4. “Take Me to Church” – Hozier
Clarke post-tango, standing in the shower, still thinking about the feel of her heartbeat on his chest, and wondering when he became this guy.
5. “Control” – Halsey
Ceci during the shouting match in Barcelona. Loud, raw, dramatic, and so done with being told to be quiet.
6. “Make Me Feel” – Janelle Monáe
Says it all.
7. “The Archer” – Taylor Swift
Sir Clarke alone at night, quietly unraveling because he doesn’t know how to deal with someone like Ceci. She shoots to kill, and he’s already wounded.
8. “Wicked Game” – Chris Isaak
“No, I don’t want to fall in love …” They’re lying to themselves. We know it. They know it. Barcelona knows it.
9. “Cough Syrup” – Young the Giant
For the walk back to the hotel, the argument, the yelling, and Clarke still taking the bucket of water for her.
10. “Young and Beautiful” – Lana Del Rey
That bitter question: When the fake falls away, will anything real remain?