Daniella
I’m doing my best to be grateful and demure—all the things my mother would expect of me in a loss. The only problem with that is, I’m completely failing.
A tiny blonde with a pixie cut offers her hand out to me as she tucks herself into the side of the guy beside her, rambling on about how amazing my car is and how close that finish was.
Don’t I know it?
She’s still talking when I feel the presence of the winning guy approaching.
I don’t need to turn around, although I can’t seem to help myself. He’s a vibration under my skin, and the closer he gets, the more the goosebumps along my arms erupt.
It’s August in England, meaning it’s warm, even if it has been cloudy as fuck all day, so I never thought to pick up a jacket when I grabbed my keys and escaped the hotel, meaning there’s nothing to hide my physical reaction to his proximity.
That irks me.
My mother barely noticed me leave, too wrapped up in the plans she was making with whatever guy she’s going out to meet. Don’t know. Don’t care. Not interested.
What is interesting is the way the streetlights catch the winner’s light blue eyes. They’re so light they could almost be grey. He stalks towards me, ignoring everyone that offers out a hand or a congratulatory back slap.
Nobody seems to care, though, brushing his rudeness off like it’s par for the course.
Great. He’s just another fuckboy with a sexy car. So cliché.
I should probably care why he’s this rude to people, and why they just accept it. I should probably care that he’s clearly got an in with the coordinator—the one who’s no doubt in the pocket of some underworld mob goon: Van DeVille and his friends.
I should definitely care that he drove over that start line like I wasn’t even moving, then held that lead the entire way.
Easy. Effortless. Irritating as fuck.
I don’t need the prize money—my trust fund is more than generous in that respect—but I needed the win tonight. The endorphins are still flying around my system chaotically, and I didn’t get the win because of him.
I don’t even realise that everyone has started dispersing until someone calls out, “Girl power,” from a distance, and when I turn to look around, it’s just the two us and a handful of guys standing chatting with the other two drivers.
The whole hoard of people has disappeared faster than I expected.
“You did good.”
His voice sounds like honey or salted caramel: smooth, sweet, and with a little bite. Not at all what I expected.
“Is that what passes as a compliment around here?” I ask, tilting my head as I lean back against the car door, doing my best to seem unaffected when he comes to a stop just a few feet from me.
I don’t know if I want him closer or farther away.
The threat that emanates from him is all too familiar, but there’s also something very perceptive about him too.
He knows just how to stay out of striking distance whilst still being close enough for me to get a lungful of whatever intoxicating aftershave he chose to throw on tonight.
Though, I’m not sure this man has ever done anything as nonchalant as ‘throwing something on’ in his entire life. He looks like the epitome of control in this moment.
“From me? Absolutely. You came a lot closer than anyone has in way too long,” he admits with a rueful smile, something akin to playfulness sneaking into his eyes.
“I’d have had you in a street race,” I counter, knowing the truth of it.
His beast of an engine may have more get-up-and-go than mine, but it can’t complete the same way around corners and through the streets.
“Lucky for me, that’s not how we were rolling tonight, then, huh?”
He shoves one hand into the pocket of his dark jeans before taking a testing step closer, then another, and a third, until he’s leaning back beside me on the car, his fingers trailing along my custom paintwork absentmindedly.
“If you’re not careful, I’ll be sending you my valet bill,” I warn him.
It’s irritating, but the race is clearly set up for his strengths.
I was never going to win, and the coordinator probably knew it, but at least he offered me another chance.
It’s a consolation prize I’m sure these guys don’t offer very often, so I should take it as the secondary prize it’s supposed to be.
“I’ll give you my number so you know who to send it to,” he offers with a smirk.
“My, my, my, Mr Winner Boy. Are you flirting with me?” I ask, mock surprise heavy in my tone.
“I believe you started it.” He catches me in that intense gaze of his.
I shouldn’t be out here alone with him, unguarded, in the dark.
He’s well connected after all. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m somewhere new, or maybe it’s because I’ll probably never see him again, but I’m feeling a little hot under the collar, as well as a little reckless.
So, why not make the most of this opportunity?
“I think you might be right,” I agree, ready to throw caution to the wind. Fuck it, you only live once, right? “Do you want to get out of here?”
“Got somewhere or something in mind?”
There’s no way in hell I’m taking him back to the hotel suite I’m sharing with my mother. The chances of her being there are slim, but I’m reasonably sure there’ll be half her wardrobe strewn across the bed, the sofa, and any chair or desk she could find. So, what are my other options?