Chapter 15 #3
“Bernard Montgomery,” I tell her. “Real estate developer who loves to remind everyone he raced in amateur series for two seasons twenty years ago.”
“Ah, one of those,” she says with a smile. “Like that guy at the bar who played high school football and still wears his letterman jacket at thirty-five.”
“Exactly like that, but with a three-hundred-million-dollar mansion,” I laugh.
The car pulls through massive iron gates into a circular driveway lined with palm trees wrapped in tiny white lights. The mansion itself is sprawling Mediterranean-style, with fountains flanking the entrance.
The valet opens the door, and I offer my hand as Lark steps out. She takes it, squeezing lightly as she stands, her eyes widening as she takes in the full scale of the place.
“Wow,” she says, looking up at the mansion. “You forget places like this actually exist until you’re standing in front of one. It’s like a movie set.”
“The guy has a Picasso in the bathroom,” I say. “The bathroom.”
“Of course he does.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s amusement in her voice. “Because where else would you put it?”
We climb the steps and the entryway opens to a massive foyer with marble floors and a crystal chandelier that probably weighs more than my bike.
Staff in black and white uniforms circulate with trays of champagne and tiny, artistic food.
A string quartet plays in the corner, barely audible over the hum of conversation.
“Jack Midnight!” Bernard Montgomery booms, approaching us with the enthusiasm of a game show host. He claps me on the shoulder hard enough that I have to brace myself. “The man himself! Good to see you, my boy!”
“Bernard,” I say, shaking his hand firmly. “Thanks for having us. This is my girlfriend, Lark Reyes.”
Bernard turns his attention to Lark, taking her hand in both of his. He leans in slightly too close, enveloping us in a cloud of cologne so strong it could strip paint. I catch Lark’s slight wince before she composes her expression into a perfect smile.
“Enchanted, my dear. Absolutely enchanted. The famous musician! I’ve heard all about your talent.”
“All good things, I hope,” Lark says with a warm smile, subtly extracting her hand from his grip.
Bernard laughs loudly. “You know, I used to sing a bit myself. Back in my racing days. Had quite the voice, they said.” He puffs up slightly. “Maybe we should do a duet later! I’ll have someone bring out the karaoke machine.”
“That’s very generous,” Lark says smoothly, “but I wouldn’t want to overshadow the other guests.”
I bite back a laugh. She’s good.
“Charming,” he says. “Well, enjoy yourselves. The east terrace has the better champagne, just between us.” He winks and moves on to his next victims.
“Karaoke machine?” I murmur as we move away. “At a black-tie gala?”
“He’s definitely singing Sinatra’s My Way at some point tonight,” Lark predicts. “I’m calling it now.”
We grab champagne from a passing server and make our way through the crowd.
The mansion is packed with racing executives, Miami socialites, people who look important but I have no idea who they are.
Everyone wants to stop and chat. We smile, nod, make small talk about the Formula One season and Lark’s music.
After twenty minutes of this, I steer us toward the terrace doors, needing air.
The terrace is less crowded, opening onto a view of the water. String lights are draped overhead, and the ocean breeze cuts through the Miami heat. A few other guests stand in small clusters, but it’s quieter out here. Calmer.
Lark takes a sip of her champagne and leans against the railing. “Okay, Bernard was annoying, but this champagne is incredible.”
“One of the perks of this life,” I say, taking a sip of my own. “The champagne almost makes up for having to talk to Bernard.”
She laughs. “I think my sinuses are permanently damaged from his cologne.”
“You handled him perfectly,” I tell her, bumping her shoulder lightly with mine. I spot Luca across the balcony, and he catches my eye, excusing himself from a conversation to make his way over.
“There you are,” he says, kissing Lark on both cheeks European-style before clapping me on the shoulder. “I was beginning to think you’d found something better to do than grace us with your presence.”
“We considered it,” I reply, “but we didn’t want to deprive you of our company.”
Luca turns to Lark with a warm smile. “That dress is stunning on you. Though you could make a potato sack look like haute couture.”
“You’re incorrigible,” she laughs. “Does that Italian charm work on everyone?”
“On most people,” Luca says with a wink. “Jack’s just sick of hearing it after all these years.”
“He’s been using the same lines since we were fifteen,” I add, taking another sip of champagne. “You should hear his pickup lines in Italian. Even worse.”
We talk for a while, Luca regaling Lark with embarrassing stories from our karting days. How I once crashed because I was so focused on beating him I forgot about the actual racing line. How he threw his helmet at me after I “accidentally” bumped him wide in the final corner.
“He’s always been like this,” Luca says, gesturing to me with his champagne. “Competitive about everything. Even who could eat the most pizza after a race.”
“Who won?” Lark asks.
“I did,” we both say at the same time, then glare at each other.
As she laughs, an older woman in diamonds that could probably pay off a small country’s debt approaches us, all air kisses and calling everyone “darling.” She immediately monopolizes Lark, asking about her music, her Instagram aesthetic, her skincare routine, whether she does Pilates.
Lark handles it gracefully at first, nodding and smiling. But after about five minutes, I catch her eye. There’s a slight panic there. Help me.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I say smoothly, sliding my hand to Lark’s lower back. “But I need to steal my girlfriend away for a minute.”
“Oh, of course, of course,” the woman says, waving us off. “Lovely to meet you, dear!”
As soon as we’re out of earshot, Lark exhales. “Thank you. She was telling me about her juice cleanse and I was about to fake a medical emergency.”
“I could tell,” I say, grinning. “You had the look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘get me out of here before I say something I’ll regret’ look.”
We make the rounds after that, moving through the crowd more deliberately. I introduce her to more drivers, some of whom she recognizes from watching races. Team principals who ask polite questions about her music.
And I keep noticing the way men look at her.
The appreciative glances that linger too long.
The handshakes that hold on just a beat past professional.
The way they lean in slightly too close when they talk to her, invading her space with the excuse of hearing better over the crowd.
My hand stays on her back almost constantly.
A reminder to everyone here that she’s with me.
“Ready to get out of here?” I ask Lark later, finding her by the dessert table where she’s contemplating a tray of tiny chocolate sculptures with intense focus.
“God, yes. These shoes are basically torture devices. Beautiful, expensive torture devices that I regret nothing about wearing,” she says, popping a truffle into her mouth.
I laugh, texting the valet service to bring the car around. “The price of beauty is steep.”
“And yet men get away with flat shoes and still look incredible,” she says, eyeing my perfectly normal dress shoes with mock resentment. “The injustice.”
“One of life’s great unfair advantages,” I say with a grin. “Along with pockets that actually fit things.”
“Yes, that too!” she exclaims, pointing a second truffle at me. “What even is the point of fake pockets? Just cruel fashion trickery.”
We say our goodbyes to Bernard and make the rounds one last time. The night air hits us as we step through the mansion’s massive doors, warm and heavy with the scent of the ocean.
The Ferrari is waiting, engine already running. I hold her door, watch her slide into the seat, that dress riding up slightly on her thigh. Good God. I close the door before I can think about it too long.
I slide into the driver’s seat and pull out of the circular drive. The engine purrs as we ease onto the main road, Miami’s nightlife glowing around us. Clubs with lines around the block, restaurants with outdoor seating packed with people, the energy of the city humming even at this hour.
Lark leans her head back against the seat, eyes half-closed. She looks tired but content, a small smile on her lips.
At the hotel, the elevator carries us to our floor. Lark steps out first when the doors open, heels clicking against marble. Inside the suite, she kicks off her shoes immediately, groaning with relief as she stretches her toes.
“I know I already complained, but man, they’re killers,” she says, holding one shoe up and examining it with a mixture of admiration and betrayal. “Though I still love them. Beauty and pain, the ultimate toxic relationship.”
I can’t help but smile as I loosen my tie. “You handled tonight like a pro. Everyone loved you.”
“Even the woman in the red dress who kept calling me ‘Jack’s little musician friend’?” Lark asks, reaching behind her neck to massage a sore spot.
“Especially her. I saw her asking for your Instagram before she left,” I say, tossing my tie over the back of a chair. “She probably wants her daughter to take lessons or something.”
Lark snorts, reaching up to pull pins from her hair one by one. Each pin releases another strand, her hair falling in waves around her shoulders. My fingers itch to touch it, to bury my hands in it, to feel if it’s as soft as it looks.
“Probably wants to make sure I’m good enough for racing royalty Jack Midnight.”
“You’re way too good for me, Lark,” I say, the words coming out before I can stop them.
She looks up, something flickering across her face that I can’t quite read. The moment hangs between us, charged with all the things we aren’t saying. The suite suddenly feels too small, the distance between us both too much and not enough.
“We should probably get some sleep,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “Big day tomorrow.”
She looks at me for a long moment. “Right, of course.”
We move around each other carefully, taking turns in the bathroom, maintaining that careful distance.
But when I come out she’s standing at the window in her sleep shorts and t-shirt, looking out at the Miami skyline.
I could cross the room. Turn her around, finally do what I’ve been wanting to do for weeks.
Instead I get into bed.
The fake dating plan is working perfectly. Too perfectly, maybe. Everyone’s bought the story—sponsors, teams, fans. My image rehab is right on track. Her music is getting attention. Everything going according to plan.
Except for one thing. I’m falling for her.
Have been for fucking weeks now, well before the kiss. But this can’t go anywhere. The plan has an expiration date—September—for a reason. By then, if things keep going like today, I’ll be back in a race car, back to flying around the world, living out of hotel rooms between races.
I fuck things up. I always do. Can’t stay in one place. Can’t commit to one person. I get restless, then reckless, then I bolt. It’s what I’ve done with every relationship I’ve ever had. Racing is the only constant, and even that I managed to jeopardize.
And Lark deserves better than that. She’s finally building something real with her music after Brandon spent years making her feel small. She’s got label interest, a growing platform, actual momentum. The last thing she needs is me fucking it up because I can’t keep my hands to myself.
Because I’ll only end up hurting her. And that’s the one thing I can’t do.