Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
As rain plummets down the Silverstone racetrack, transforming the regularly slick asphalt into a glossy ice-skating rink, I wonder if my anxiety has somehow affected the local weather.
I keep going back and forth with my options: save Arthur from a $60-million-and-counting bear trap, and trust that it won’t swing shut on me once he’s free. Stomach the inexcusable lying, the attention from Ignition staff who do witness our “fake courtship,” the inevitable ahh when he fake-dumps me, because of course that’s how our story would go. Withstand months of worrying so I can create another award-winning documentary and keep Black he’s just in a very different career field.
My vague statement has him frowning more. “Made your mind up about what?”
“Us.”
Arthur’s jaw works, like he’s overwhelmed by the word us meaning me and him. Then he lets out a breath. “Explain,” he demands.
A white spark zings through my frustration.
Yup. This is why I need to work with Arthur Bianco.
Life’s taught me that power is transmutable—but it usually comes from men, bubbling up naturally from the perpetual spring that is the patriarchy. Men can do anything. And yes, the rest of us can, and we should, and we do. But men have that innate, excruciating, incredible confidence to record found footage of strangers and call it a film, or throw paint on a canvas and sell it as art, or drive cars really fast and get paid millions. Just like Max can steal my life’s work out from under my nose, Arthur can look me in the eye and demand that I explain what I’m thinking, after all but telling me how little he trusts me.
Maybe that’s it. Power.
Power is confidence.
I lick my lips and try to find the courage that got me to England in the first place. “What I mean is… Your glove looks like it’s half off.”
Arthur looks down at his gloved hands, startled. Then—slightly irritated? “My gloves are fine.”
My heart is already awake and alert. It’s beating louder, worried, second-guessing. “Let me see it. I—I just want to check.”
Arthur’s razor-sharp gaze roams up my face, attempting to peel back my sudden switch in demeanor. He doesn’t stop trying when he holds up his hand, stretched out just enough for any onlooker to think he wants me to take it.
And I do. I have to use both hands to wrap around his wrist, arranging it so that his palm is toward me, fingers bent. I inspect the wide plane of his palm, then gently turn his hand around and study where his shiny gloved fingers meet his knuckles.
Arthur’s voice is church quiet. “What game are you playing now, Graywood?”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“You said…” he starts too loudly. Stops. Swallows. “People are watching.”
I lift one shoulder, painfully casual, and flick my eyes back to his. I’m so not prepared. My breath catches at his expression, the wicked curiosity shot with confusion, irritation, impatience. He’s starting to realize what’s going on. The decision that I’ve sprung on him, and he’s upset, entertained, and—maybe—impressed. There’s a tiny notch between his brows, thin lines fanning from either side of his narrowed eyes.
He knows.
“Ah,” he murmurs. “You little devil. Warn a man next time.”
His tone makes warmth pool in a part of me I’ve never thought much about, somewhere between my belly button and feet. He thinks I act like a stray cat who bites his hand whenever he’s nice to me? Arthur is a damn mountain lion . Holding his hand feels like I’m offering my life up to the jaws of a hunter, and hoping he doesn’t taste something he enjoys enough to bite down.
But this isn’t real. We’re only doing this to get what we both want.
“Warn you? I’m just helping you with your glove.” I softly fold Arthur’s large hand back so I can reach the strap running around his wrist. There are two flat gray circles near his pulse point, one of them the underside of a button snap. I click it into place, pressing the snap firmly into his skin for leverage. Just enough pain to vent some of the many ways he’s annoyed me since we met.
He doesn’t even wince.
“Is that so?” Arthur tuts. “You’re touching me out of the goodness of your own heart?”
Forget my heart. That thing is racing out of this garage. “I mean, nothing could ever happen between us. It would simply ruin Black & Graywood’s film.”
“And we couldn’t have that happen.”
“Absolutely. Rumors would start flying.”
“And rumors are dangerous things,” he says. “They travel even faster than me.”
We’ve both been watching my fingers on his wrist, as if us touching is some new art film only in theaters for one night, alluring and strange and a little off-putting. I’m touching Arthur. In the garage . In front of Max, who I can’t bring myself to look at. This is past weird. This is main-character behavior, stupid and careening toward a tragic end.
Realizing how deep I’m in makes my confidence splinter. “Are you sure you want to go with this narrative? I know you have—” A girlfriend. A girl friend. Women? “A lot going on.”
Arthur meets my eyes again. After too many seconds of staring right at me, his gaze drops to my lips, tracing the way my mouth is split open by my rapid breaths. Then he looks lower. At my neck. My shoulders. Lower. He’s touching me with only his eyes, assessing.
Deciding.
“Getting caught with you is fine with me. I like playing offensively better.” He smiles, obviously not at all worried about whoever he’s seeing finding out about our scheme. Stand-up guy, this one. Though I’m not exactly surprised that Arthur doesn’t care about the emotions of whoever “she” is. Caring about interpersonal fallout seems to be a skill reserved for non-athletes.
“Did you know that these gloves track my heartbeat?” he adds.
“Y-yeah?” Ugh.
He hums, definitely and without a doubt biting back a laugh, and turns his hand so his wrist is facing up again. When he angles his arm just right, a tiny sliver of bare skin is exposed between his glove and race suit. And I think this has to be what Victorian-era men felt when they saw a wanton ankle. I’m stunned by that centimeter of Arthur, his skin, the idea that he wants me where he could get hurt—“Feel it for yourself, princess,” he says teasingly.
Right. He’s the worst person in the world. Devil in a race suit. Good-looking, bad acting. I push him and his biometric-tracking hands away, muttering, “I changed my mind. I do hate you.”
There’s that cutting smile. “Right.”
“I do .”
“I believe you.”
I frown up at him. This isn’t working. I can’t let Arthur and his expert flirting skills overpower me. If he and I are really doing this, if I’m going to prove to the world and his uncle that he’s interested in me , then I need to get him to chase me, whether he realizes it or not. If our “courtship” is going to be remotely believable and contract shattering, I have to make him show everyone in this room that he’s a changed man because of me, not just a lion toying with his prey. This needs to be a love story, not a power imbalance. Otherwise, it’s just sad.
Confidence. I need to be as confident as he is.
So, I nibble at my lower lip. From nerves… and, if it’s at all possible, in an attempt to distract him as much as he distracted me with his wrist.
“Maybe this is too much,” I say, going for the airy surprise of an epiphany.
“What’s too much?” Arthur was about to put on his helmet, but he sticks it under his arm, pausing.
“ This. You. Me.”
“The jury’s still out, is it?” he says roughly.
“Well, you don’t seem that into it. Maybe Faust would be willing to star in a movie? He’s having an interesting summer.”
Arthur swallows. He’s trying not to look stricken. “You don’t want Faust.”
“Or James…”
An engineer pops up by his side. “Hey, King, we need to get you in the car.”
He ignores them. “No James.”
“I guess it depends on if you actually win today,” I mumble. “If you don’t, then I don’t need to keep touching you. Ever.”
Arthur’s bright eyes narrow, a spark glowing in the dead of night. “Are you challenging me to win the Grand Prix for your hand, Graywood?”
I squint at him, innocent. “If you think winning would be a challenge, I guess not.”
“No. No, I’m winning this.”
“King, we really need you to—”
“I’m coming,” Arthur snaps at the engineer. Then he points at me, a real scowl on his lips. “Put your headphones on and sit where I can find you later, micetta. You’re about to watch the best race of your life.”
Then he’s gone.