20. Reed
As soon as the news broke, everything changed.
Wilder’s phone was ringing off the hook with calls from his dad and Laura, his inbox was filling with emails, and I could barely keep up with his social media notifications.
Everyone wanted a piece of him. Gone was the time we had to relax on the yacht, and instead we were all back in work mode.
Matteo ordered the crew to dock the yacht, and we all had less than two hours to pack our things and get sorted.
I reluctantly washed my hair until there were no traces of blue left, and used the nail polish remover Wilder got me to erase the color from my nails too.
By the time we were back on shore I was perfectly back to being Prescott Lamont IV, and everything that happened on the boat was swept under the rug.
Or so I thought.
There was a new necklace that showed up in my bag the morning we flew into Athens.
A delicate silver chain decorated with blue opals, and even though I know it was from him, because it couldn’t have come from anyone else, Wilder hasn’t said a word about it.
Granted, I’ve had it hidden beneath my shirt every day for the last week, and he is focused on the season now more than ever, but I can’t help but wonder what motivated him to give it to me.
What happened between us was casual, wasn’t it?
I mean, of course it was, I can’t imagine Wilder Miles does anything but casual, and I certainly don’t.
So why the hell did he buy me the necklace?
Don’t get me wrong, it’s a beautiful gift, and a thoughtful one too, but it’s not like there was a special occasion.
We’re barely even friends, but that didn’t stop me from hanging it around my neck the second I was alone, and I haven’t taken it off since.
The whole weekend after that was organized chaos, even for those of us who weren’t behind the wheel, and there was absolutely no mention of Wilder and I falling asleep together on that deck.
From a PR perspective it was crazy, Mr. Miles had organized back-to-back media slots, which only served in pissing off his son, and I wrote so many posts that I felt like I was going insane.
And don’t even get me started on all the sponsorship opportunities he received.
Companies are reaching out left, right and center to send him stuff and sign him to deals, but Wilder still remained focused on the race.
After his win in Milan, I thought things couldn’t get any crazier, but then came his bid for EWC.
The Elite World Championships are held once a year, and they invite who they consider to be the top 36 racers in the world right now.
Wilder is the first rookie racer to ever be invited, setting yet another record for both him and his family, making our time in Athens all the more intense.
Wilder came 4th in both races and earned a significant amount of points in the skills race, putting him in an excellent position.
Still, I can’t help but feel like something is bothering him, not that anyone else has seemed to notice, but it is my job to watch him.
Now don’t get me wrong, he’s been present, alert, focused on the race, but still not really fully present.
He’s sitting across from me on the plane right now, and in typical Wilder fashion he has his headphones on and his eyes closed, but he isn’t asleep.
I can tell by the tense set of his shoulders and the tightening of his jaw.
Maybe he doesn’t like flying and that’s what’s bothering him, or maybe he’s still not sleeping.
He can deny it all he wants, but I see the lingering dark circles beneath his eyes, telling me he’s still struggling.
If I get up early enough, I can find him most mornings watching the sunrise, and I’m not convinced whether it’s because he truly loves it, or just because he knows he will be awake to see it.
That morning I joined him is the only time I have seen him truly relax, I started talking and he just drifted off to sleep.
It made me feel accomplished and worthy of something, and surprisingly at ease enough to fall asleep right beside him.
My eyes trail over him again, while I pretend to be focused on my laptop, as the others talk back and forth beside me.
He’s cut his hair a little shorter, which has given him a sharper look that makes him look even hotter, if that’s possible.
I told Eloise about what happened on the deck, the fucking, not the nap, and she texted me so many fire emojis that you’d think our penthouse was burning down.
Not that I could refute her, it was hot as hell, and anytime I let my mind slip, I find myself thinking about it.
As if my stare somehow summoned him, Wilder opens his eyes and meets mine, not seeming surprised that I’m watching him, so I offer him a shy smile and focus back on my laptop.
Except I can no longer concentrate, because now I can feel him watching me.
I force myself to work for about ten minutes, before I excuse myself to get up and grab a coffee.
The cabin crew offer to do it for me, but I politely decline, just to give myself something to do.
I feel him before he even speaks. “Working hard?” he asks, leaning in close to grab his own cup, putting it down next to mine.
“Aren’t I always?” I don’t even think about it, as I make his coffee too, adding the perfect amount of sugar and cream that I have come to know he takes, before meeting his stare.
He is watching me with rapt fascination and amusement now, as he shrugs. “I don’t know, I’d have to work you over again and see how hard you can go.”
I’m already shaking my head, having come to expect that kind of response from him, but still I can feel my cheeks heating. Wilder Miles is already a deadly combination of hot guy doing a hot sport, but when you add his flirting to the mix, you are totally screwed.
“We’re only friends now, remember?” I tell him firmly, focusing back on our coffees, even though the words don’t sound right as I say them.
“Ah, yes, friends, I remember perfectly,” he muses, and I glare at him as I hand him his coffee, but then his eyes flick down to my throat and I know exactly what he sees.
The shirt I’m wearing has shifted slightly, offering him a small look at what’s hiding underneath.
When his eyes snap back up to mine there is something darker in them, something primal.
“I told you I don’t like pretty boy bullshitters,” he finally adds, in a low and lethal tone.
“I think you like them just fine,” I reply slowly, and the corner of his mouth tips up slightly, before he takes a sip of his coffee and walks away.
By the time we make it to our hotel in Zurich, I have felt his gaze on me countless times. In fact, I am so caught up on him that I almost bump right into Mr. Miles, who is waiting for us in the lobby. We all took different cars from the airport and Wilder, Matt, and I are the last ones to arrive.
“There you boys are,” Mr. Miles says, greeting us with our room keys, after already checking us all in, before settling his eyes on me. “You didn’t tell me your father was coming out, Lamont.”
The words hit me slowly, and I smile in confusion. “I don’t know what you mean?” I tell him firmly, and Mr. Miles frowns.
“Your father, he’s right over there.” I follow his line of sight, completely perplexed, until my breath hitches in my throat, as I realize he is right.
Prescott Lamont III strides across the lobby in all his glory, all the power in the room instantly drawn to him.
“Well, hello daddy,” Matteo purrs, coming to a stop beside me. “Maybe I will start coming to those parties after all, Reed, your dad is a stone cold fox.”
I don’t respond, I can’t, because panic is eating me alive from the inside out.
What the hell is he doing here? Did something happen?
Is everyone okay? Did I do something wrong?
I wrack my brain for any way someone could have known, or seen me, when we were out last week, but we were careful, I know we were.
Knox and Beckett both appear, watching my father approach, but it’s the silent tension I can feel pouring off Wilder that worries me.
I pull my gaze from my father and look at him, and unlike everyone else, his eyes are on me.
Gone is the playful amusement and lust, and in its place is something much more sinister, and all I can do is steadily shake my head.
“Son.” My father’s voice scrapes over me like broken glass, my spine going straighter, as I push back my shoulders and turn to greet him.
“Father, what an unexpected, yet welcome surprise.” I no longer sound like the Prescott they have all come to know, and right now in this moment, only a shell of him remains.
“What brings you to Zurich? Are you here for the race?” There is no way in hell he would have traveled all this way to watch the PRI, or to see me, but I know what he expects of me.
“I have some business to take care of,” he tells me firmly, and I nod, keeping my smile in place.
“Well, don’t be shy, Reed, aren’t you going to introduce us,” Matteo cuts in from beside me, clearly already taken with my father.
“Of course, I’m sorry, where are my manners?” I ignore my father’s displeased gaze and hold a hand out to the guys. “Father, may I introduce Matteo Estefan Rodriguez-Marquez, Knox Walker, Beckett Ford, Wilder Miles, and his father, who I presume you have already met, Cooper Miles.”
All of them offer him a polite handshake, except for Wilder, not that my father notices, no, his focus is solely on Matt. “Yes, you’re Santiago Rodriguez's son.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question, but still Matteo nods.
“Yes I am, it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir, Reed has told us a lot about you.” I know he means for his response to be polite, but I see my father’s jaw tighten.