Chapter 21
EVANGELINE
I’m equal parts delighted and concerned about how deep this tub is.
Before tonight, I hadn’t paid much attention to it. Honestly, I thought it was comically small. It’s much more compact than a standard American tub, that’s for sure. But what it lacks in length, it makes up for in depth.
I snicker to myself. With my nose at the surface of the steaming water, the move creates little bubbles that tickle as they rise.
The buttons and icons on the side of the tub were easy enough to figure out. The water has remained balmy, despite the time that’s passed since I stepped in.
The pieces of hair that have fallen out of my messy bun dip into the water each time I shift and slosh, but I don’t care.
I love a bath, especially when the water is hot enough to warm me from the inside.
Though never in my life has a man insisted I go take one.
I am equal parts freaking out and swooning over everything that’s transpired tonight.
I’m also feeling exceptionally vulnerable. Partly because I’m completely naked and chin deep in steamy water while Alaric Steele is inside my messy hotel room, on the other side of the wall, doing dishes. But more so because this man sees me in such a raw, intimate way.
The urge to cringe is about as strong as the urge to swoon over the way he waltzed in, made food for me, and then insisted I relax in this bathtub.
How long does he expect me to stay in here?
Is it wrong that when he mentioned the bath, I secretly wished he’d suggest we get in together?
Yes, Evan… that’s really fucking wrong.
He’s my boss’s boss’s boss.
He’s Luca’s dad, for crying out loud.
Luca’s dad, who happens to have the most gorgeous, chiseled jaw and incredible head of hair I’ve ever seen.
I didn’t expect to see him today. I didn’t expect to see anyone. Using my flex time meant I could do a marathon live. The plan was to stay up late to make the products from today’s sales and get it all shipped by the end of the week.
My plan started off strong. But because of the time difference, a lot of my regulars didn’t tune in like I hoped they would. By the time the afternoon waned, I was fighting for my life to meet my quota.
If I hadn’t assumed the knock on the door was one of my friends coming by, if I hadn’t been looking for an excuse to wind down that live, I wouldn’t have answered.
I wasn’t lying when I told Alaric it was painfully exhausting.
Yes, I hit my goal, and then even exceeded my sales for the day thanks to the surge of orders at the end, but at what cost?
And now I’m wrinkling in this tub, trying not to get my hopes up. Because I wouldn’t be upset if Alaric were still here when I’m done.
Ugh. I don’t have the bandwidth to figure out my next move. What I wouldn’t give to shoot off an SOS text to the Pussy Power group chat and get their perspectives.
The group chat started almost a decade ago after Shelby and Mia both overtook and beat Angelo Francois at the Formula 3 race in Budapest. It was Mia’s first F3 race and one of Shelby’s last.
He thought he was so clever, calling the girls pussies under his breath with his nasty French-boy accent. And so we named our chat Pussy Power, because fuck anyone who relies on an unoriginal slur rooted in patriarchy to try and make themselves feel better.
His insult was weak. Just like his driving, honestly.
Angelo never made it past Formula 3. He did a brief stint as a Formula E reserve driver, but even there, he failed to get results. Last I checked, he was peddling low-level sponsorships on his socials.
Today, Mia and Shelby have seats in F1 cars. Pussy Power is magic, full stop.
Head tipped back, I blow out another sigh and wistfully look toward my phone. Though I absolutely cannot text my friends, the temptation is still there.
What would I even tell them? My boss’s boss’s boss, the man who is also my ex-boyfriend’s dad, showed up at my hotel room tonight, cooked a delicious meal for me—even serving my rice in a cute little dome, exactly how I like it—then insisted I take a bath while he did the dishes?
My god, I am in so far over my head.
Holding my breath, I submerge my face, blowing out a few bubbles through my nose.
Beneath the water I rub my thumbs against my fingertips, confirming that yes, I am as wrinkled as one would expect after spending more than thirty minutes soaking
Surely Alaric is gone by now.
I rise slowly, not wanting to slosh water over the side of the tub, and engage the drain. Then I carefully step over the high ledge.
I dry myself with one of the pristine and fluffy white towels, then slip into a thick, luxurious robe. It may only be the second race of the season, but it’s already clear that Granata’s accommodations are far superior to any of the hotels I ever stayed in with Luca.
I secure the sash of the robe around my waist, then get to work on my skincare routine. As I dab on moisturizer, my mind wanders back to my to-do list for the rest of the night.
When that damn wheel landed on free personalization, my workload basically doubled. Note to self: take that option away before the next live. I’ve got a long couple days of mixing polymers and prepping picky pads ahead of me.
Thankfully, it won’t take me long to get the fidgets going using my 3D printers.
This is the first time I’ve attempted to create and fulfill orders on the road, and so far, it’s been manageable.
It’s a good thing I’m not much of a fashionista.
I only need half a suitcase for my belongings, and that leaves the other half, plus another bag for hauling my business stuff around the world.
Two 3D printers and all the molds, beads, and polymers for picky pads are surprisingly easy to carry.
I’m proud of myself for having the forethought to ask for the time off to set up.
By the time I’ve finished with my skincare, I’m much more at ease.
My headache has dulled to a barely there ache behind my temples, so with any luck, a good night’s sleep will banish it completely.
The urge to thank Alaric for what he did for me tonight is strong, but I resist sending him a text. It’s better if I wait and track him down around the paddock in the next few days.
Remembering his original request, I pick up my phone and cue up a duplicate of the fidget I gave him on one of my printers.
Once I’ve selected the right template, I change the quantity to three. I’ll give him two, that way he can keep one in his office. Then I’ll keep the other as a backup.
As I lower my phone to the counter, three sharp knocks sound from the other side of the door.
Startling, I drop the device into the empty sink.
“Evangeline?” Alaric calls.
My heart rate spikes, hammering double time in my chest.
What in the world is he still doing here?
“I’m about to head out. I just—”
Mind whirling, I grip the bathroom door handle and yank, then charge through the bedroom and swing that door open as well.
His eyes widen, his jaw unhinging as he drags his attention down my body. When he gets to my bare legs, he quickly forces himself to focus on my face.
“I…” He falters.
“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to take that long,” I explain.
Why is he still here?
And why did I rush over and open the door while I’m wearing nothing but a robe?
His brow softens, concern and compassion clear in his eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he tells me. “I wanted to say goodbye. The dishes are done and the leftovers are in the fridge.”
Leftovers? Like he made more than that one serving for me? My heart skips a beat at that.
“I tidied up the beads. Hopefully I sorted them the way you like. If there’s something else I can do…” He trails off, searching my face.
Popping up on my tiptoes, I peek over his shoulder.
Sure enough, the kitchen is spotless. The stray piles of beads are neatly sorted and organized. My supplies are all in order, in stark opposition to the way they were when he walked in.
A mix of gratitude and shame slams into me. My emotions overwhelm me, my chest constricting and threatening to cave in on itself.
I sniffle away the itchy sensation in my nose. I’m only slightly successful. But I power on, opening my mouth to thank him. To apologize for being such a mess. To express what it means that he cooked for me. To tell him how grateful I am that he stepped in and took care of things the way he did.
But despite all the things I want to say, no words come out.
His deep brown eyes home in on my face, the compassion there morphing into concern, then alarm.
“Evangeline,” he says softly, his tone sincere but not at all contrite or aggravated like it should be.
And that’s what fucking does it.
It’s the way he regards me, looking at me as if I’m not a burden. He sees me, and for once in my life, I don’t feel like I’m too much. I don’t feel the need to shrink myself under his gaze.
It’s that realization that breaks me.
An embarrassingly loud sob escapes me as tears flood my eyes. With a hand on my mouth, I shake my head, trying to hold them back.
I sniffle again, my shoulders caving in on themselves as I back away from the man I always seem to break down in hysterics around.
My retreat only spurs him on.
He crosses the threshold, stepping into the bedroom without hesitation, and cups my face.
“Please don’t cry. What can I do for you?” he asks. The sentiment is so simple, his words so sincere.
He honestly cares. And that makes me cry harder.
Anything I ask right now, he would do.
His ability to see me and his desire to help create an overwhelming emotional burden I can’t even begin to process.
He’s already done so much. Too much, honestly.
“I’m fine,” I lie between hiccups.
His brows furrow in disbelieving concern. “You’re very clearly not.”
I choke back another sob, trying to gather enough composure to fake it and tell him to go. But instead of any real words, all that escapes me is another pathetic whimper.
He snaps, dropping his hands and wrapping his arms around my shoulders.
The contact is everything, and my last bit of resistance evaporates.
I lose my balance and find myself leaning against his chest.
He holds me tighter.
My inability to keep my shit together just makes me cry harder.
I don’t even know what I’m upset about.
I’m so angry that I’m crying. I’m frustrated that, once again, I’m in hysterics in front of this gorgeous, powerful, in-control man. What is it about him that makes me lose my ever-loving shit?
He cradles me against him, cupping the back of my head.
A low, steady “shh” rumbles out of his chest, the sound vibrating through my body and soothing parts of me I didn’t even know could be soothed.
He strokes up the length of my spine, then hugs me tighter. Walking backward, he guides me toward the bed, then gently settles on the edge with me in his lap, whispering, “I’ve got you. It’s okay. Just let it out. I’ve got you.”
I lose it, every reasonable thought leaving my head as I well and truly fall apart in his arms.