Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ease up, bitch. You’re killing it, and that’s enough.
Chill the fuck out and recharge.
—From Remy’s Badass Bitch Affirmations
Remy
The surround sound from the Bose speakers vibrated the living room in symphonic harmony with the rumble of elite engines moving into position. This was Remy’s other happy place. Sitting on her couch, watching the Grand Prix coverage, with Chicane in her lap.
Except…with her on said couch was a blockbuster movie star. And nestled in his lap was her disloyal bunny.
Happy place invaded. The thing was…she wasn’t sure she minded.
Remy had been stunned when a glance at her Ring doorbell notification revealed a distorted but still ridiculously handsome Sebastian Wheatley on her doorstep.
Even more stunning? Her reaction. A pulse-jittering, heart-leaping, palms-sweating, core-clenching wallop of a reaction like she’d never had before.
It had to be the movie star effect, right? Right??
She’d quickly smoothed her clothes, and even put on a dab of the pale-pink tinted lip color she kept in her purse—a recent concession to vanity.
A hard examination in her bathroom mirror just before their lunch date last week had revealed a depressing reality—her lips were losing collagen.
Remy didn’t consider herself vain, but she’d always liked her lips.
Not wanting needles jammed there, she settled for adding a bit of color.
And that impulse vanity purchase had nothing to do with Sebastian Wheatley. Nope. Nothing at all.
“Why are they weaving all over the road?”
Remy looked over and her heart did a crazy flippity-flip thing when her eyes landed on Sebastian’s handsome face as he studied the television, a confused frown in no way marring his devastating good looks.
“It’s the formation lap. They’re warming up their tires,” she explained, tearing her eyes away from him and forcing them back to the screen as she kept her voice neutral. “I know this is new to you, but please hold your questions. I’ll answer them after. I want to focus.”
“Oooohkay, my grump-a-potomus, my queen, my angel. Focus mode…activate!” Sebastian called out, Chicane chittering in what Remy interpreted as lop bunny laughter. Yep, her fake boyfriend had won her bunny over.
“I’m not grumpy,” she grumbled.
“Sssh,” Sebastian chided with a wink. “They’re almost finished the formaldehyde lap.”
“Formation,” Remy muttered.
“Oh, right,” Sebastian nodded, eyes wide in faux innocence. “You seem grouchier than usual. Did my queen not sleep well?”
Remy turned slowly to glare at him. “I haven’t been sleeping well for the past week. I wonder why? Now, quiet.” She turned back to the screen, pretending to ignore the heat of Sebastian’s stare on her face.
It was an uphill battle. He looked decadent—formfitting athletic pants that hugged the very visible muscles of his thighs, a black T-shirt that was unholy in its plain sexiness. And…mother of fucking God…he just put on his glasses.
Remy almost swallowed her tongue, fighting to recover her faculties while simultaneously battling the heat building in her core.
“I—I thought those were for reading.” She tried to sound casual, keeping her gaze on the race that was about to begin. But all she could focus on were those glasses and his thick thighs in her very sharp peripheral vision.
She caught his grin out of the corner of her eye. “Don’t tell anyone, but they’re actually bifocals. The top is for distance, to correct a mild astigmatism. The bottom is for up close. But if you tell anyone, I’ll have to dump you. Because…my image, you know?”
She whipped her head to face him, instinctively licking her lips at the teasing smile dancing on his defined lips. Really, it was unfair how sculpted his lips were. He didn’t appear to be losing any collagen.
“Kidding,” he grinned.
“It’s lights out and away we go!” the commentator announced from the screen, and Remy once again had to force her eyes from his striking face.
“Silence,” she reminded him. “This is my happy place.”
Remy tuned into the announcer, who was expounding on her favorite driver’s streak at pole position and the value of pole. Next to her, Sebastian snickered.
“Position is everything,” the voice on the television intoned, and Sebastian snickered again.
Remy rolled her eyes but didn’t look over.
The race unfolded with expected tension, with several lead changes and a near miss on an overtake that had her on the edge of her seat.
She’d ordered a pizza earlier, but had only eaten one slice before the surprise appearance of her fake almost-husband.
Now, her stomach was in knots. And Remy was pretty sure the race had nothing to do with it.
“Box, box!” Remy yelled, seeing the perfect opportunity for her favorite racer to enter the pit lane. The sound switched to the radio frequency between Max and his engineer. “Box, box!” the engineer echoed.
A piece of pizza halfway to his mouth, Sebastian snarfed at the term—which Remy knew could also be slang for vagina—and then demolished the slice in two bites, still chuckling. Despite herself, Remy’s lips twitched.
A few laps later, her favorite driver did a strategic overtake of the British racer who’d been trading leads with him. “Amazing move by Max,” the commentator enthused. “Let’s switch to ‘driver’s eye’ footage from the cockpit.”
“Cockpit,” Sebastian whispered, giggling like a schoolgirl at a slumber party.
“That was a rough straight for Lando,” continued the analyst. “The car had good balance, but it was bottoming and he lost time.”
“Oh, come on!” Sebastian cried out, now laughing hard. “Bottoming? Who knew this was such a dirty sport? Absolutely filthy.”
A giggle slipped from Remy’s lips. She couldn’t help it.
“Only if you have the sense of humor of an eleven-year-old boy. Now hush.” Remy made the mistake of swatting his arm, gulping at the powerful flex of his bicep under her hand.
She snatched her hand away, ignoring the zap along her fingers from the contact.
Chicane, clearly getting as revved as the racers, began shifting around, signaling an imminent arrival of zoomies.
One eye on the television, Remy eased him out of Bash’s arms, trying like hell to avoid any more contact.
And failing miserably. Bash tried to help her and ended up holding her forearms, looking up at her and squeezing gently.
How was anyone that handsome in real life? And, yet, Sebastian seemed completely down to earth, relaxing and polishing off the last of her pizza, his long legs crossed at the ankle, resting on the coffee table with her reluctant permission.
A bolt of unwanted lust—it was unwanted, right?—sizzled through her, and Remy knew if she checked her simple, cotton panties, they would be damp with desire for him.
Even in the best of times with Doug, before things spiraled to the depths of hell, she’d never experienced such intense physical yearning.
If Sebastian Wheatley could elicit that kind of response from her body by simply squeezing her arm, what would happen if he explored her body with sexual intention?
Remy shuddered and then quickly scooted past him, putting Chicane in his running box.
Box, box! Remy rolled her lips together to hide her amusement at Sebastian’s potty humor infecting her now.
She checked the lap count. Fifteen to go, and the drivers in the numbers two and three spots were burning down their tires.
Max’s were in worse condition, but he kept them at bay.
Remy stood at attention, arms folded, gripping her elbows as she watched the duel.
“I’m not sure you’ve breathed in the last minute.” Sebastian’s deep voice lifted past the speakers.
“Quiet. This is tense. The guy in third just got new tires, then undercut and gained on Max. Now he has fresh tires and Max is on the hards that have worn down. We want him on mediums. I don’t think soft is the right compound for these conditions today,” Remy responded, eyes fixed to the screen.
“I have no idea what you just said, but that was hot. I love it when you talk filthy F1 to me. Also…the hards? Same, dude. Same. The soft ain’t good in some conditions. Thankfully, I’m only on my softs when I want to be.”
“Shush, you perve. I can’t hear the TV,” she reprimanded, with no heat. “Timing is everything on this.”
“And a quick stop for some fresh rubber for Lando,” the analyst crooned excitedly. “Will he take Max?”
On her couch, Sebastian fell back against the cushions and positively howled. Remy rolled her eyes hard…and burst into the kind of laughter she hadn’t experienced since Etta.
Instead of the powerful wave of sadness that rolled her and took her under every time she thought of her best friend, this time Remy got the distinct sensation of Etta there with her, doubled over in hysterics and wiping the tears from her eyes.
That happy, soothing image, coupled with Sebastian’s snickers of lingering amusement, served to knock down another section of Remy’s carefully constructed walls.
Still smiling, she circled around the side of her couch and sat down…just a little bit closer to Sebastian than she’d been before.
Cutting off any additional commentary from him, Remy pointed to the screen. “Now, pray for a small crash and a safety car. Manifest safety car,” she chanted. “This is a street circuit known for its wrecks, and we need an opportunistic safety car to get…fresh rubber.” She winked at Sebastian.
He grinned back at her.
Another wall bites the dust.
Not two minutes later, the tenth and eleventh place drivers, vying to finish in the points, crashed and spun out.
“Safety car!” she and Sebastian yelled in unison, high-fiving.
Oh, hell. Remy was in serious danger of falling for her playboy fake husband.