Chapter 2
EVANGELINE
Idon’t know what to do.
Where am I? Why am I here? And what the hell is happening right now?
I’ve called Luca four times.
I’ve texted him, too.
And just like every other time I’ve really needed him over the last two years, he’s not available.
At least the guy’s consistent.
“Are there stairs inside?” One of the movers grunts, shuffling toward what appears to be an enormous garage behind the main house.
He’s younger than the driver, with a prominent nose and bushy brows.
Every few seconds, he snorts like he’s going to hawk a loogie, the grotesque sound making me shudder.
There’s a grease stain down the center of his white T-shirt.
My stomach roils as I realize there’s a very good chance that stain will transfer to my grandma’s couch.
The couch where I found my ex-boyfriend fucking another woman with her face shoved against the scratchy fabric two weeks ago. That event left a stain, too.
I’d been worrying over the random brown and orange stains that appeared out of nowhere for weeks. Turns out the mystery stains weren’t actually mysteries—they were some other girl’s contour.
Hands trembling, I wrap my arms around my stomach and grimace. “I don’t know.”
I’ve never been here. I don’t even know where we are. I just followed the GPS. It took nearly an hour to drive out this far. According to the address Luca provided, we’re in Lakeway.
The moving guy shifts his grip on his side of the couch, grunting again. “There’s an extra charge for stairs. Just so you know.”
Of course there is.
I pull out my phone and take a picture of the garage in front of me, then send the image to the man responsible for this nightmare.
Ev
Where the hell am I right now?
The message goes through, first showing delivered before changing to read.
I wait, lips pressed together so tightly they ache.
It takes all of thirty seconds for me to accept that he’s going to leave me on read.
Maybe he thinks keeping read receipts on two weeks after the decimation of our relationship is a power move, or maybe he’s just that dumb.
Spite sizzles in my veins, making my heart gallop as heat crawls up my neck.
Teeth gritted, I pound out another message.
Ev
This is bullshit. You told me you put all my things in storage. This isn’t a storage center, Luca!
Another message read and ignored.
Great.
“Through here?” the driver calls out as he nears the bay door of the garage.
I jog after them, panting, a single bead of sweat trailing from my temple to my neck.
“I really don’t know. If you could just hold on—”
“This thing’s awkward and heavy, ma’am,” he says. “Old furniture like this always is. And we’re already thirty minutes late for our next gig. Just let us do the job we were hired to do so we can get on our way.”
Before I can respond, a tinkling sound distracts me: metal hitting the stamped concrete beneath our feet.
Three or four coins roll toward me, passing by like they have a far-off destination in mind.
“Set her down,” the driver tells the other guy.
They drop the couch harder than necessary, the stubby wooden legs clunking from the force of the fall. When the man straightens with a groan, he wipes his brow, then hits an inconspicuous button outside the bay door.
The mechanical sound of the lift has my gut twisting with anxiety.
It also drowns out the soft purr of an engine pulling up the driveway.
For a few seconds, anyway.
When the sound registers, I whip around, then gawk as a vintage black Lamborghini Countach rolls up the driveway, nice and smooth.
Wait.
I’ve seen that car before. It’s an unforgettable machine.
Luca’s taken me out in a Lambo before. The one approaching is identical to the car we drove to his teammate’s wedding in Arizona last summer.
The glossy black mirror paint finish and gold rims are ostentatiously memorable.
There’s no way there’s more than one of these babies around Austin. It has to be the same car.
Hope floats through my chest like tiny effervescent bubbles dancing toward the surface of a glass of champagne.
Luca couldn’t reply to my texts because he was driving. He’s a cheapskate and a cheat, but he still showed up for me today.
With a huff, I strike the brightness from my heart. I don’t want to fawn over a man who clearly doesn’t give a shit about me. It’s stupid to be grateful when a person does the absolute bare minimum.
Still.
At least I don’t have to deal with this on my own.
At the end of the day, that’s all I’ve ever really wanted.
A confidant to share my days and my thoughts with.
A person who doesn’t consider my fears too much, who doesn’t think my dreams are too big or my quirks too outlandish.
A partner who isn’t turned off by my mess.
Because my god, do I attract and create messes everywhere I go.
I blow out a long breath, sticking my hands in the pockets of my paper bag shorts.
It’s not really warm enough for shorts today, but I tried two pairs of jeans and a pair of leggings while stress-dressing this morning.
Nothing felt right because I was already anxious and overstimulated by this whole ordeal.
I didn’t experience the same visceral reaction I’d had to all three pairs of pants when I slid these babies on, so shorts it was.
Oh, if only eight-a.m. Evangeline had known what we were about to endure.
I stand straighter, steeling my spine and giving myself a pep talk as I wait for Luca to get out of the car.
Hold your nerve. Stay strong. You deserve more than the bare minimum, Evan.
My pep talk sounds pathetic even in my own mind. My inner diva is a badass bitch who takes no shit. It’s a shame she gets stage fright and rarely appears to help when it’s time to advocate for myself.
I don’t want Luca to see how deeply this morning has affected me. I may be in the middle of an internal meltdown, but that doesn’t mean he gets to see any real part of me. Not anymore. He might not have ever deserved to in the first place.
It’s that thought that inspires me to plant my hands on my hips and scowl at the dark car.
It pulls up and parks beside my Honda Civic, and when the driver’s-side door lifts in a slow, sleek rise, I hold my breath.
Black loafers emerge first. Legs clad in tailored pants navigate around the suspended door, and a fitted red polo clings to the biceps of a guy who looks like Luca but most definitely is not my traitorous ex.
The man halts a few feet from the car, looking from me to the movers, then back to me again, his brow creased.
He scratches at the stubble on his sharp jawline, bewilderment etched into his expression as he takes us in.
He’s wearing a large watch, but it’s not the bling that catches my attention. It’s the sinewy definition of muscle under the dusting of dark hair on his arms that has my mouth going dry as I drink him in.
I drag my attention down to his hand. God, I’m a sucker for good hands. And this man has really good hands. Each finger is thick but also long, with prominent veins between his knuckles. He has blunt, well-kept nails, and based on how he’s flexing his wrist, he’s got an impeccable grip.
When I look up, warm espresso eyes bore into me. I force myself to hold his gaze. Surprisingly, it’s not unpleasant like it often is when I come face to face with a stranger.
Though the sensation is foreign. The way my breath catches in my lungs as we size each other up is new.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Four.
He looks away first, giving me a quick assessment from head to toe. His attention makes me shiver involuntarily.
His focus shifts, and he locks in on the driveway behind me, and when I pivot, following his gaze, my mouth falls open into an O.
Less than a foot in front of the bumper of the Lamborghini is a small bottle of… shit. Is that lube?
Confusion rushes through me. Where the hell did that come from?
Oh. Right. Grandma Mae’s couch.
It makes sense that a random bottle of lube would present itself during this nightmare of a morning.
With that thought, I spring into action, lunging to snatch up the offending item.
Except by the time I’ve scurried over, mystery man has also closed the space.
I’m reaching forward, close enough to see my reflection in the glossy shine of his loafers, when he swoops down and scoops up the bottle first.
His quick movement sends me jolting back, hand on my chest.
Shit, shit, shit.
Eyes narrowed, he assesses the item in his hand. One side of his mouth tips up in the hint of a smirk, but he quickly schools his expression.
His stoic mask is all sharp angles. The rugged jaw and cheekbones contrast with the soft, wavy strands on his head.
Streaks of gray pop against the dark tresses, their placement subtle and even.
They look natural. He couldn’t pay to have highlights or lowlights so perfectly placed.
He’s got a great head of hair; I’ll give him that.
The color and texture remind me of Luca’s.
“Yours?” he asks, cocking one brow and holding up the bottle.
As soon as he opens his mouth and speaks, I place him. I’ve seen this man before. Many times. But always at a distance or online.
I’m talking to newly appointed Granata team principal Alaric Steele.
Also known as Mr. Steele, a.k.a. Luca’s dad.
Luca always kept a healthy distance from his dad and all things Granata when we were at a grand prix or fundraising event. He insisted it was important the world knew he’d earned his position on the grid on his own merit. That there was no nepotism or shoulder rubbing involved.
That and Luca was a salty loser and a little butt-hurt because his team, Waytrek Racing, has consistently lost places in the Constructor’s Cup over the last three years, while his dad’s team has been on the rise.
Now that I’ve made the connection, I can’t unsee it.
This man has Luca’s long, sooty lashes and gorgeous cheekbones.
No, wait. Luca has his lashes and his defined facial structure. That’s how genetics work.