Chapter 20
Francesca
London knows how to put on a show.
The red carpet at the entrance of The Ritz is crowded with photographers on one side and a legion of fans on the other, hoping to catch glimpses of the celebrities at this pre-race sponsor party. Nash and I arrive together in a Rolls-Royce Phantom, our driver looping us right up to the rope line.
I’m in a fitted, floor-length gown of midnight blue silk that hugs my hips before pooling at my heels.
The high slit up my left leg gives me enough room to walk without tripping and enough to make the photographers work for their angles.
The stylist paired it with delicate silver chains at my throat.
my hair swept into a loose knot with a few curls framing my face.
She tried to add a matching bracelet but I declined, instead choosing to wear the charm bracelet my mamma gave me.
Nash, in a tailored charcoal suit and open-collared white shirt, grins for the cameras like he’s on a movie poster.
When we stop to pose in front of a Titans backdrop, a new ripple of flashbulbs start popping. I turn to see Lex stepping out of a limo and my heartbeat picks up because I know Ronan will be right behind him.
I have to say, Ronan does not disappoint. His black suit is impeccably cut, his hair perfectly tousled. He fastens a button on his jacket, flashing a smile at the photographers, and then his eyes land on me at the end of the carpet.
And the heat behind them as he takes in my dress… I almost incinerate.
“Smile for the cameras,” Nash says beside me, and I jolt out of my daze. My head swivels and I beam a smile, trying to force myself not to look back at Ronan.
I follow Nash inside the hotel and we’re led past the grand staircase to The Music Room, where gold-leaf moldings gleam under crystal chandeliers and the vaulted ceiling catches every ripple of light from the sconces.
Waiters in white gloves move through the press of evening wear, silver trays balanced like extensions of their hands.
The party is hosted by one of Silvercrest’s headline sponsors, and it’s as much about being seen as it is about the actual race weekend.
It’s mandatory that the drivers attend and we were expected to arrive together for the media opportunity.
Not that I could have arrived with Ronan had I wanted to.
We’re still flying under the radar, not advertising that we’re together.
Across the room, I spot Bex standing in the corner with Posey. Both women are angled toward each other, champagne flutes in hand, laughing. They look effortlessly elegant and Nash notices them at the same time I do. “C’mon.”
We cross the room, weaving between clusters of guests in tailored suits and evening gowns.
“You clean up nicely,” Bex says to Nash, accepting a kiss on the cheek before turning to me. “And you—well, you’re going to make half the sponsors fall in love tonight.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I reply, returning her quick hug. Posey greets me with a warm smile, and the four of us slip into small talk about the upcoming race, the food (excellent, according to Bex), and how Posey nearly didn’t make it after a flight delay.
I’m mid-laugh at one of Nash’s comments when movement at the entrance catches my eye.
Ronan walks in, pausing to scan the room with that cool detachment he wears like armor.
My pulse stutters, and for a moment, I forget what Bex asked me.
Ronan moves to the bar where Carlos stands and the two talk as if they were friends.
I can’t help but smile because I’m not sure that would be happening if it weren’t for our dinner last night.
But my fond memory and smile are both scrubbed away when I see the same woman Ronan brought to the gala last weekend.
She’s on Ryan Hughes’s arm—a driver for Coral Reef Racing—in a dress that shimmers with a million crystals, her hair sleek and perfect.
She laughs at something Ryan says, but her eyes scan the room.
She could be looking for a variety of things, but when they land on Ronan and stay pinned there, I know she has a purpose.
I narrow my eyes, very proprietary over the man she’s staring at.
“What are you looking at?” Posey asks as she nudges me with her shoulder.
I tilt my head toward Amelia. “That’s the woman Ronan brought to the gala last weekend. And tonight, she’s here with another driver.”
Posey follows my gaze, her brows lifting in mild recognition and then she chuckles. “Ah. In the sports romance fiction world, what we call a track bunny.”
“A what?”
“A track bunny,” she repeats, leaning closer to keep the conversation between us.
“You know… someone who hops from one driver to another. They’re not in it for the long haul, just the thrill of being in the orbit of whoever’s hot on the grid that week.
Same thing exists in other sports—different nickname, same playbook.
Romance authors love to put that in their books. ”
I glance back toward Amelia, who is now sipping champagne at the bar. “So basically… she collects drivers.”
Posey’s Bex’s mouth curves in a knowing smile. “And judging by the way she’s looking at Ronan right now, he’s still an acquisition target.”
I clench my jaw and mutter, “She’s going to be disappointed.”
“What was that?” Posey asks.
I watch with the eyes of a hawk as Amelia peels away from Ryan and makes a beeline toward Ronan.
“Nothing,” I say with a quick smile to Posey, but my insides churn as Amelia reaches Ronan. I see her speak, and he listens and before motioning for her to precede him as they walk away from the bar, leaving Carlos behind.
Oh, hell no.
“Excuse me a minute,” I say to Posey. “I see someone I need to talk to.”
“Okay,” she chirps and turns to join the conversation with Bex and Nash.
I wind through the crowd, not making eye contact so no one can stop me with small talk. My focus is locked on them—Amelia steering Ronan toward a quiet corner partially shielded by a tall potted palm. She’s leaning in, one manicured hand resting on his forearm.
I don’t even think. I close the gap, step right into their space, and give her my brightest, fakest smile. “Hi. Just so we’re clear, he’s off the market. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get your hand off him.”
Ronan makes a choking sound, but I don’t dare look at him. I’m satisfied when her hand falls away, but she’s not completely cowed.
Amelia straightens, blinking as if I just slapped her. “And you are?” she asks, all frosty disdain. “Because last I checked, you weren’t at the gala with him.”
Before I reply, Ronan cuts in, his tone calm but final. “She was asking me out,” he says, looking directly at me, “and I was telling her I’m seeing someone exclusively. That someone being you.”
For a second, I forget how to breathe. My pulse spikes with pure, stupid joy that he is outing us as a couple. I turn back to Amelia, all sugary steel. “Which means you need to leave… now.”
Her lips press into a thin line before she spins and stalks off, sparkly dress swaying like she’s on a runway.
I turn back to Ronan, ready to gloat, but he’s already watching me with a faintly amused expression. In one smooth move, he steps closer, herding me back until my spine brushes the wall. The press of the crowd keeps us partially hidden, but he doesn’t seem to care if anyone notices.
“Possessive, Accardi?” he murmurs, his voice a low scrape of heat. “Should I be flattered… or concerned?”
I tilt my chin up. “Neither.”
His mouth curves in a slow, knowing smile. “You were jealous.”
“I was not.”
“You were,” he says, leaning close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath on my cheek. “And it was sexy as fuck.”
I exhale. “Fine. I was.”
The smile that pulls at his lips is wicked and satisfied. “Good.”
“You realize by standing here, having a private talk like this, people are going to wonder what’s going on.
” I keep my voice low, but my eyes flick past him toward the glittering crowd.
A few heads are turned in our direction, subtle as they pretend to be focused on their champagne flutes.
FI gossip is a full-contact sport, and this is prime spectator fuel.
Ronan glances over his shoulder, surveying the room like he’s assessing the line into Turn 1. When his eyes come back to me, they’re calm but sharper. “Which means I definitely won’t be kissing you right now.”
My lips twitch before I let out a quiet laugh. “That would cause the entire FI world to explode,” I say, picturing the headlines already forming in some reporter’s draft folder.
I take a small step sideways—not because I want to, but because I’m acutely aware of how close we are. “But on another subject… my parents are coming for Silvercrest. Whole weekend—practice through race day. Which means they’ll be at my place, and well… we won’t be able to…”
“Sleep together?” he hazards a guess, lips twitching. “I suspected that would be the case.”
I shouldn’t throw this out there… it’s way too soon, but I’m bolstered by his very public proclamation to Amelia that he’s mine. “Want to meet them?”
His look shifts and the faintest twitch pulls at the side of his mouth. “It’s race week and you know… I try to keep my head clear.”
I smile, although I acknowledge I’d expected this response. “That’s a very polite no.”
“Just… not sure it’s the right time,” he says, and I know instantly it has nothing to do with time and everything to do with what meeting parents represents. A relationship step. Commitment. Two things Ronan Barnes keeps locked in a box deep inside him.
I shrug, forcing my shoulders loose, like it’s no big deal. “Suit yourself.”
“But maybe at some point,” he adds, and there’s a guardedness in his expression—as if he wants the option but can’t commit to it out loud.
“Maybe,” I reply breezily.
His frown tells me I’ve given the wrong answer. He looks… unsettled, which is rare enough to make me soften.
I reach out, my fingers brushing his forearm, the muscle beneath the fine wool of his suit solid. “It’s fine, Ronan. When you’re ready, I know my parents would love to meet you. Whether that’s this weekend or a year from now. No pressure.”
His throat works, and then he nods, a little stiff. “Okay. When will your parents be in?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
A beat passes, and then his voice drops a fraction. “So… can I stay with you tonight and tomorrow night?”
That catches me deliciously off guard. My mouth curves before I can stop it. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The relief apparent in his features is subtle, but I catch it. It’s an unspoken admission that whatever he’s avoiding, he still wants to be close. His smile, when it comes, is small but genuine, and it hits me low in my stomach like the roar of an engine opening up down a straight.