Chapter 2 #2
I blink away the thought, registering that Mr. Steele is waiting for me to answer.
Sheepishly, I reach for the bottle.
The tips of our fingers brush, and champagne bubbles dance in my belly again. It’s unnerving and concerning, how viscerally my body responds to this man.
Once the bottle is in my grasp, he lets go, and I study the orange label, humiliation flooding my nervous system.
It’s definitely lube, and it’s half used. Pulsating Peach. My stomach twists as my mortification soars to new levels.
I’m allergic to pit fruits. Specifically pit-fruit oils.
I dutifully avoid all peach, apricot, or nectarine-flavored or -scented products.
I discovered the allergy the hard way—I had a massive breakout all over my face and chin for seventh grade school pictures after I borrowed a peach lip gloss from Natalie Wrangler.
My throat constricts from a more recent memory. A few months ago, I had the worst itching and burning down there after sex. Luca said it was probably from the hot tub at the hotel we stayed in at the Las Vegas Grand Prix. I let him convince me that had to be it.
In reality, he’d probably slathered this lube all over his dick when he was sleeping with someone else, and then he had sex with me.
Tears well up, because ew, and also, what the fuck?
I got tested for STIs last week. The results were all clear, luckily. And that’s what it was. Good luck. That’s all I can attribute the outcome to, given all the evidence I’ve discovered that point to weeks of infidelity, if not more.
When I caught Luca cheating on me a few weeks ago, he told me it was just that once.
I allowed myself to believe him, because accepting that lie was the kindest thing I could do for myself.
I was dumping his ass regardless—but to have proof that he cheated on me on my grandma’s couch and then had the audacity to stick his pit-fruit-coated dick inside me without having the basic human decency to shower in between?
I crush my eyes shut and inhale deeply, willing myself to keep it together.
Hold your nerve. Hold your nerve. Hold your nerve.
I stand straighter and scrunch my nose, refusing to let the tears fall.
The last thing I need is to come off as overly emotional in front of Luca’s dad.
Especially because I can’t exactly explain that this crusty bottle of half-used lube confirms his son is an even nastier dog than I could have imagined.
Dammit, Luca.
What I wouldn’t give to go back and break up with him again. This time, with gusto.
“Is that yours?” Alaric asks again.
Grimacing, I shake my head. “Wish I could say it was.”
His brow furrows at my response.
God, this man has good eyebrows. They’re dark and thick.
Well-defined but not overbearing. Actually, all the hair on this man is doing it for me.
I’m fascinated by the waves on his head and the five-o’clock shadow decorating his jaw and upper lip.
Does he shave every morning? How quickly does the facial hair grow back?
What would that scruff feel like under my fingers?
He clears his throat and tips his chin to the couch that’s being hauled through the open garage bay. “Is that, perhaps, yours?”
I glance over my shoulder and watch the movers cross over the threshold.
“It is,” I admit with a sigh.
He rakes a hand through his hair, which is supremely distracting to me. I want to be that hand. I crave confirmation that his thick hair is as soft as it looks.
“If it’s not too bold, may I ask why you’re putting your couch in my garage?”
My stomach lurches. His garage.
His garage?
Dammit, Luca.
Groaning, I cover my face, as if pressing my palms against my cheekbones will keep me from physically combusting. I want to scream.
Instead, I blow out a long breath, count to five in my head, and drop my hands, allowing civility and manners to slip into place.
Calmly, I say, “I’m Evangeline,” then offer a sheepish smile.
I have no idea when Luca last talked to his dad. The man before me may not yet know we broke up.
“I’m Alaric Steele.” His words are clipped and cordial. Impersonal. With a look at his watch, he winces. “Now that introductions are out of the way, I would appreciate an explanation for all this.”
Shit. Is he losing patience with me? His tone is different. His posture has shifted. Is he upset that I broke up with his son? I can’t imagine Luca telling him the truth, but I wouldn’t put it past my ex to blame me for our separation.
Wait.
No.
He hasn’t lost his patience.
His expression is one of cold, calm indifference.
“Evangeline Bennett,” I repeat, including my last name; maybe that’ll help him place me.
Not even a hint of recognition registers on his face. In fact, he presses his lips together and blows air out through his nose, as if he’s ready to tell me to shove off.
Does he really not know who I am?
The niggling in my belly blooms into panic. I’m awful at reading faces and discerning what people are thinking. But something’s off here. Maybe my brain can’t place it, but the alarm bells in my gut are blaring and declaring a state of emergency.
“Evangeline? Luca’s ex-girlfriend?” I blurt out, placing extra emphasis on the ex.
Alaric grimaces.
The words form in his mind. I can see it in his eyes. It’s on the tip of his tongue to apologize.
Instead, he breaks into a surprised smile.
“Wait. Bennett… any chance you’re related to Aurelia Miller-Bennett?”
My spirit deflates. Damn. My friends are going to love this one.
This man has no idea that I wasted two years of my life dating his son. Yet just the sound of my last name has him connecting dots between Aurelia and me.
“Yes. Aurelia is my sister.”
Alaric’s face lights up even further. “She’s an outstanding engineer,” he praises. “And she was a hell of a driver, too. I would kill to bring her on at Granata.”
My sister is a lead engineer for Kelly, another Formula 1 team on the grid. It makes sense that he’d link me to Auri. But it’s a shame that’s the only connection that registers.
“Please excuse my earlier confusion. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Evangeline. You said you’re a friend of Luca’s?”
Mortification whooshes inside me. I don’t want to correct him, but what else am I supposed to do? I’m standing in his driveway, moving furniture into his garage. He needs to know the reality of the situation.
A scratchy tingle crawls up my chest, and my neck and face flame. Doesn’t help that I’m still holding a bottle of allergen-laden, half-used lube.
I slow blink to center myself, at least a little, then clarify. “I’m Luca’s ex-girlfriend.”
Alaric winces, then hums, hands on his hips and head lowered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know my son had a girlfriend.”
Frustration, humiliation, and grief slam into me, the overwhelming emotions making my stomach clench.
The sensation is quickly followed by a round of chills that knock through my bones and cause my insides to quiver.
Despite the violence of the reaction, a quick glance down at my hands confirms they’re steady. At least I’m not outwardly reacting.
Yet, anyway.
But then I glance up and clock the pity in his eyes. Between one heartbeat and the next, all my defenses crumble.
It’s too much. I can’t keep this locked down.
A loud, obnoxious laugh escapes me as a tear streams down my face. Doubling over, I place my hands on my knees to steady myself. I might throw up. Or pass out.
I will my stomach to not expel its contents, instead laughing harder, the reaction fueled by days of confusion and heartbreak. Loud, maniacal chortles burst out of me, yet I’m so disconnected from my body, from this moment, that I barely recognize the sound.
More tears come, streaking down my cheeks, dripping onto the ornate stamped concrete. Two of them merge, creating the tiniest of puddles. This may be the most ridiculous moment of my life. I’m both laughing and crying, and fuck—I’m having a legitimate breakdown—
A firm hand grips my shoulder, startling me. I straighten in one convulsive move.
“Are you all right?” Alaric asks, deep concern etched into his face as he pulls his hand away.