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ELEVEN

Blake

MONACO IS PACKED with celebrities from all over the world flying in to enjoy the race weekend. The city begins to smell like Chanel No. 5 as hordes of models, actresses, and singers flood the streets. And don’t even get me started on the men. If you’re not dressed from head to toe in Armani, Gucci, or Louis Vuitton, you may as well not be here. It’s a whose-dick-is-the-biggest competition, and although I’d most definitely win, I have no interest in participating.

I’m focused on the race. I start in P2 but move into first after Theo rams into the wall on a turn, damaging his car and requiring an early retirement from the race. After the two-hour circuit, I secure my sixth consecutive Monaco Grand Prix win. It feels fucking fantastic. Harry congratulates me and I thank him without any malice or sarcasm. The humming from my car and the cheers from the crowds as I take my victory lap match my own energy.

The VIP section of the ceremony is jam-packed with glitz and glam. I spot Ella leaning against the railing, deep in conversation with Josie and one of the Hemsworth brothers—I’m not sure which one. I hope it’s the married one. Or are both of them married? Isn’t there a third one? I’m not sure. I make eye contact with her from the podium, and she gives me a big wave. She’s wearing a McAllister hat featuring my name and number. It somehow makes my win even better. Suck on that, Thor.

The festivities are in full swing by the end of the press conference. This means I’m exchanging a race suit for a navy suit almost right away. I’m slated to attend some party where Diplo’s performing. The club is a shitshow. Sweaty bodies everywhere, drinks spilling left and right. Not that I don’t have a good time rubbing shoulders with the female fans who throw themselves at me all night, but right now the entire situation is giving me a migraine.

Lucas and Theo are thriving. I’m pretty sure Theo’s getting a handy as he sticks his tongue down the throat of some fake blonde at our table. No amount of bottle service can erase that from my mind. I quickly divert my attention away so I don’t see any more. How he can yell at me for eating a crisp off a table but then go and do shit like this is beyond my wildest imagination.

Around midnight, we head over to the second event of the night. It’s an invite-only party hosted by Dom Perignon. Scoring an invitation means you’ve made it, or you’re rich and famous enough to buy your way in. I’ve gone every year. I scan the crowd, taking in the impressive array of people. I’ve already spotted George Clooney and Naomi Campbell when I see Josie talking to some people by the bar. Ella’s never too far away from her new bestie. Theo must have seen Josie too because he’s off without another word. Lucas and I trail behind him like lost puppies.

“If it isn’t my favorite Formula 1 female.” Theo sweeps his eyes up and down her body. “Lookin’ good, Jos.”

Josie’s not my type, and she’s also not single, but she does look gorgeous in a red minidress.

“I always look good, Walker.” Her tone is playful as she flips her hair over her shoulder. “How was the club? Full of sexy women and sloppy guys?”

Theo launches into a five-minute detailed explanation of his now-confirmed under-the-table handjob. Josie looks positively nauseous. Theo may win races, but he is not winning Josie’s approval anytime soon.

“Where’s Ella?” I sip my drink coolly, trying to come off like I’m not dying to see my writer in a little black dress. I’m dying to see her naked, but this will do in the meantime.

“She’s not here.” Josie gives me an imperceptible look. “She left after the podium ceremony.”

My head flinches back. “What?”

Theo tries to shove a vodka shot into my hand, but I ignore him. I’d spoken to Ella right before the race, and she said she’d see me later. She wanted to interview a few celebrities to get some quotes for the book, and Ella wouldn’t miss out on that unless something was seriously wrong.

“She just didn’t want to come.” Dark blond hair twirls around her finger as she studies me. “Not that big of a deal, babes.”

Why would Ella lie about where she was going? And how hadn’t I noticed she was lying? She widens her eyes like she’s surprised whenever she’s not telling the truth. I play back our conversation in my head, trying to pick up on the cues I must have missed.

“Why are you lying?”

“Hollis. Chill.” Theo places a hand on my chest, pushing me away from Josie. I didn’t realize how in her face I was.

Josie looks at me with a desperate appeal in her eyes. “She’s fine, Blake. She went to your place. Just let it go, okay?”

Yep. I offered to let Ella stay with me … again. The first time, I hadn’t offered. She’d pretty much forced her way there. This time is all me. Honestly, I don’t mind her company and Chef Nicola keeps asking about her, anyway.

Before my brain knows what my fingers are doing, I’m texting my driver to meet me out front. And before my legs register the command, I’m walking into my house. I don’t know why I’m so worried. Or mad.

MUSIC ECHOES off the walls as I make my way to the kitchen. Maybe she’s listening to it while she works? I don’t know why she’d be working right now, but she’s a workaholic, so it wouldn’t surprise me too much. All I know is that if she brought a fucking bloke back to my place, I will absolutely lose any ounce of cool I have. I should’ve checked to see if Elliot Stabler was actually a fictional character or not.

Not much can prepare me for what I see.

Ella is dancing barefoot on the granite island in the middle of my kitchen like it’s her own personal stage. The way her hips shake is absolutely tantalizing, rooting me in my spot. I can’t move. My feet become cinderblock, stuck to the floor, impervious to my mind telling them to fucking walk. Singing into a kitchen spoon, rocking her hips to a Britney Spears song, she looks positively carefree. Wild hair falls out of the pink scrunchie trying to keep it in place. She missed the party of the year for a dance party of one.

I’ve never been so grateful my kitchen is open concept with no door. It allows me to watch Ella from the comfort of the shadows. She’s too lost in her own world to notice me anyway. I’m not sure how many songs I stay there for. Two, three? Five? All I know is I’ve seen Ella dance to pretty much every genre of music, from Broadway show tunes to Y2K rap.

I finally cough to announce myself, but it backfires terribly. She jumps back, smacking her head on a hanging pendant light. The rough sound mixes with the music and I’m in front of her instantaneously.

“Shit, are you okay, love?”

“I may have a concussion.” She massages the back of her head where a bump will undoubtedly form. “So, ask me again in ten minutes.”

Ignoring my offer to help her off the island, she instead chooses to hop down and almost break her ankle in the process. We stare at each other for a full thirty seconds without speaking. I’m not sure which of us is more surprised by the other’s presence. Her nipples poke through her shirt and I can’t help when my eyes drift down. She crosses her arms over her chest in response.

“What are you doing?” I finally ask.

“Nothing.” Her cheeks burn bright red. “Have you ever heard of knocking?”

“It’s my house.”

She fights the urge to sass me but quickly loses. “Well, it’s my dance party.”

There’s no use trying not to laugh. Her smart mouth never ceases to keep me on my toes. “Your dance party?”

“I’m not waving around a spoon for fun. It’s my microphone.” Everything about her face says duh . Ah, of course. Silly me. I notice her eyes look red and puffy; she’s been crying. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a night of partying.”

I’m not sure what I’m doing here. Making sure she’s okay? Finding out why she’s at my house instead of out? Avoiding the party because as much as I hate to admit it, it’s getting a little old? I answer her question with a question. “In the mood for an adventure?”

Her teeth trap her bottom lip as she considers it. Is it really that hard of a decision? Continue dancing half naked in my kitchen by herself or go on an adventure in Monaco with me, an extremely attractive man, with an accent .

“Okay.” Uncertainty marks her words, but it doesn’t stop a grin of practiced charm from flitting across my lips. “Just let me put on pants.”

“Are you sure?” I’m quite enjoying the view of her tanned legs peeking out from underneath the oversized Chicago Cubs shirt hanging on her petite frame like a dress. “Those are optional.”

“If I didn’t invite you to my dance party, why would I want to go to a no-pants party with you?”

Bare feet pad across the floor as she power walks to her room. Not her room, my room. The room in my house that she’s currently staying in. Whatever.

The incessant roar of fireworks makes it hard for conversation, so I settle into the back seat of my car as my driver pulls out of the driveway. From my vantage point, I have the perfect view of Ella’s profile as she rests her head against the window. I’m not sure if it’s the way she carries herself, or how gorgeous she is, or the fact that the only action I’ve gotten in a while is from my hand, but I can’t look away.

Ella taps her pointer finger against the cold glass. “Doesn’t that one kind of look like … you know?”

I lift my brows and wait for her to give me some sort of explanation.

Huffing out a sigh, she says, “Sperm.”

“Sperm?” It comes out dumbly as if I’ve never heard the word.

“Do we need to have the birds and the bees talk, Blake?” she teases. “Look! Look!”

The powerful burst of white does indeed look like drips of jizz. I’m more concerned that she notices this than that she’s right.

“It sort of does.”

“Definitely does.”

The tip of her nose presses against the glass for the rest of the drive. She enjoys her view, while I enjoy my view of her. We park at a private harbor on the outskirts of the province where the smaller of my two yachts is anchored.

“So was your plan to lure me away from your house so you can murder me and dump me in the sea?” Ella questions me as we walk down the dock.

“Considering you said my looks kill, if I wanted to murder you, all I had to do was glance your way.”

She lets out a laugh, smooth as silk. “I think we can both agree you’re quite brooding.”

“Most women I know find brooding men sexy.”

I’ve been told this more times than I can count. I don’t have the heart to tell them I’m just not interested in anything more than playing Whac-A-Mole. I can’t give them more than that.

“Well. I hate to disappoint you, Blake,” Ella says with a brief smile, “but I’m not like the other women you know.”

I don’t bother telling her it’s not a disappointment. It’s a problem because I don’t know how to handle it.