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CHAPTER NINE

ROCCO

R occo stared at her.

She looked. Different. And yet. The same.

It’s her eyes. There’s something about her eyes.

“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” the photographer said.

“I guess it’s just the mindset of a Formula 1 driver baffles me.

All the work, the time, the sweat, and the tears you have to put into becoming one of only twenty drivers in the world to get in—what is it—seventeen hundred, eighteen hundred, give or take, pounds of metal and send yourself hurtling around a track at over two hundred miles per hour?

I always wonder why they do it. What drives them to do it? ”

“It’s hard to put into words. There’s this quote, I don’t know who said it. ‘Speed has never killed anyone …’”

Rocco knew the quote. He recited the rest of it along with her silently in his mind.

“‘Suddenly becoming stationary … That’s what gets you.’”

The camera flashed. She blinked.

The photographer turned toward the door. “Ah,” he said, spotting Rocco. He raised his hand. “Good. You’re here. I see you’re suited up. Ready to go?”

Rocco nodded before glancing over at Nico. The light was shining in her eyes. She held up her hand in an attempt to shield them.

“Okay, Rocco,” the photographer said, “get up there.”

“What are you doing here?” Nico demanded when he came out from behind the light.

“The same thing you are.”

“Could you stand a little closer?” the photographer asked.

Rocco inched over.

Celeste marched up to them, waving the photographer’s assistant off.

“This was the other thing I wanted to tell you,” she whispered in Nico’s ear.

“They decided they wanted Rocco too, and he agreed to do it. I should have told you sooner. I would have, but I didn’t believe he would actually go through with it.

He hates this kind of thing.” She drew a deep breath as she took a step back and surveyed them.

“Normally this isn’t part of my job, but can you two loosen up? ”

She took them both by the shoulders and pushed them together.

Rocco felt a spark and flinched.

It’s these racing suits.

After taking a series of shots, the photographer threw up his hands. “These are awful. Maybe a change of scenery. Let’s go outside.”

Rocco leaned against the embankment with his arms crossed alongside Dario, who had joined them. They were on the outskirts of Vegas with the desert as the backdrop. It was mid-February, and they were experiencing a heat wave. It was ninety degrees out.

A slight breeze wafted past them. It should have been a relief.

He was sweating pistons in this damn racing suit.

But in some ways, the breeze made the heat worse because his skin could hardly welcome it before it was quickly taken away by the sun, which was relentless.

It was as though he were looking forward to something that never quite arrived, because the moment it did, he was all too aware of its going.

What’s more, it was nothing like a breeze in the places he loved, like the small Italian village where he’d grown up.

There was no fragrance of pine or magnolia, jasmine or lavender, olive groves or wildflowers.

It didn’t carry the scent of anything. It only carried sand, which made his skin feel gritty.

Rocco guessed that was because there was nothing for the breeze to grab hold of. As far as he knew, cacti had no scent.

“Why the hell did I agree to this?” he grumbled.

“You tell me,” Dario said. “You could have said no. You did say no. Until you didn’t. Why is that, by the way?”

“Okay, we’re ready!” the photographer’s assistant cried.

Rocco walked over to the car where Nico was waiting.

“I don’t know why you agreed to do this,” she hissed.

“Me? What about you?”

“I said yes first, with the understanding that I’d be doing it alone. You knew I’d be doing it, so why didn’t you say no ?”

He hadn’t liked it when Dario had asked him the question. He liked it even less when she did.

“Why did you agree to do it at all?” he growled. “Haven’t you had enough exposure?”

Her brow wrinkled.

He sighed. “Have you not seen the photos posted of that coffee delivery of yours? Seen all the comments?”

Her eyes flashed. If she could shoot laser beams from them, they would have extinguished him on the spot.

“I didn’t post those photos,” she spat. “Nor did I make any of those comments. And might I remind you what my doing that coffee delivery was in response to? Your tweet. So, if there’s anyone here who shouldn’t be looking for more exposure”—she lifted her finger and poked his chest—“it’s you .”

Why should that jab send a twitch that developed into a tingle settling in his groin?

“Yeah,” he said, doing his best to turn that twitch into a shrug, “but those were just words. It’s nothing like an image of—”

“You’re in the photos too!”

He stared into those dark eyes glaring back at him, and an image of the photo, the one that everyone was talking about, flashed before him. He recollected his discussion with Dario. He drew a deep breath and adopted a cool tone.

“Yeah, but I’m not bending over.”

Her eyes gaped, and her mouth followed in quick succession. “I wouldn’t have been bending over if you would’ve stood up.”

“Okay,” the photographer cried, “now I got some good stuff. Give me a moment, I need to put in a new roll.”

Rocco frowned, looked around, and then walked over to Dario and Celeste.

“Was he taking photos?”

Celeste looked at him as though he had a cabbage between his ears instead of a brain.

“Duh.”

Rocco looked at Dario.

“Dar?”

“Yeah,” Dario said. “That’s what we’re here for.”

“Yeah, but why didn’t he say something? I didn’t know he was taking photos.”

Celeste grinned. “All the better. It didn’t give you the chance to look like you were getting a rectal exam.”

“Okay,” said the photographer, coming over. “Let’s do this!”

When Rocco didn’t move, Celeste waved her hand at him.

“Go on.”

Rocco stormed back to the car where Nico was still standing, clearly stewing with her arms crossed.

He crossed his arms as well and leaned back on the car.

“Nico,” the photographer said, “lean against the car like Rocco.” He paused. “Okay but move closer. Rocco, what are you doing? Don’t move away. You’re already too far apart.”

Rocco inched right.

“Still too far.”

He inched again.

Exasperated, the photographer snapped his fingers. His assistant came over and pushed Rocco until he stumbled into Nico.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“Humph.”

After taking only three shots, the photographer sighed. “We’re back to this again? You’re both so stiff.”

“I have an idea,” Celeste said. “Come on, Dario.”

She dragged him over to the car and placed him alongside Nico, pulling Rocco away.

“The magazine doesn’t want photos of me,” Dario insisted.

“I know. They’re not going to use any of them. Just be yourself. Tell Nico a joke or just chat. So Rocco can see what he should be doing and maybe he’ll loosen up.”

“It’s not just me,” Rocco muttered to Celeste.

She waved her hand. “Shush.”

The photographer began taking shots.

“Oh, man,” Celeste cried, “these are going to be great!”

Watching, a reluctant Rocco agreed.

Dario was so damn handsome, and she was—

Not beautiful. No. Not beautiful.

Not even pretty, he told himself stubbornly.

But damn if her face doesn’t command attention when you look at it.

“Hey!” Celeste cried, nudging him hard. “What planet are you on?”

Rocco looked over at her with a blank stare.

She looked annoyed, held out her arm, and glanced over at the car where Nico was standing. Alone. What happened to Dario? That’s when Rocco realized he was standing behind Celeste.

When Rocco didn’t move, Celeste muttered under her breath. “Get your ass over there now, Rocco. You said you wanted to do this. Don’t think we’re just going to up and quit because you haven’t budged after the photographer shouted your name three times.”

Three times? Three? Times?

The photographer’s assistant grabbed his arm and dragged him over to the car, planting him beside Nico.

Once she’d walked away, Nico spoke quietly, barely moving her lips and without glancing at him. “Look, I don’t want to do this any more than you do. So, let’s just get it over with. Quick.”

“Right. The sooner the better.”

“Finally, something we agree on.”

But it didn’t go quick. Whatever they did—the way they stood, the way they looked at each other, the way they looked even when they didn’t look at each other—all of it was wrong.

It was a complete disaster. If the assistant wasn’t pushing Rocco to get closer to Nico, she was pushing Nico to get closer to him. You would have thought they were manufacturing epic farts the way they both steered clear of each other.

The only thing mildly pleasant was that occasional breeze, because now there was a hint of something beyond sand—a heady scent that he had to attribute to her, much as he didn’t want to.

It had to be her. He only smelled it when she was near.

It reminded him of that woman at the bar. But, he thought, it had to be different.

Has to be.

And yet it had that same heavy way of landing in his body.

He would have thought something heavy would scorch his nose, give him a headache. This didn’t. It was like the air itself.

The air itself? What does that even mean? Clearly, the heat is frying my brain.

But it was there. Something. Was there.

The heavy suit he was wearing didn’t help matters. He could feel tracks of sweat racing down his flesh and pooling under his arms and in his groin, forming lakes that had begun to make his skin itch.

And yet that scent, whatever the hell it was, was welcome.

The only thing that is.

I just wish it came from some other woman.

This photoshoot was probably even worse for her. There’s no way he could be smelling good. Not the way he was sweating.

These photos were bound to be awful. The good thing about that—they wouldn’t publish any of them.

The photographer groaned. “Let’s move on to the Strip.”

“What?” both of them cried in unison.

“We’re going to take some shots on the Vegas Strip.”

“How many?” Rocco demanded.

The photographer was gritting his teeth. “As many as it takes.”