Page 13

THIRTEEN

Blake

ANOTHER GALA I don’t want to attend, yet here I am. I chug my whiskey before the bartender slides a new one in front of me. I’m watching Ella from across the room. She’s deep in conversation with Keith, nodding animatedly. Every time I think about her being harassed at work, which has been nonstop since she told me, anger thrums through my veins. It takes strength to walk away from something like that, to walk away from a job you love because of some prick who can’t keep his dick in his pants.

Ella called me immediately after finding the gift, thanking me repeatedly. I still feel helpless about what happened to her, and I’m not sure if she even wants to podcast again, but at least the portable podcasting set was something I could give her to bring a smile to her face. And damn, is her smile beautiful. Plus, friends do stuff like buy the other one presents to cheer them up.

Keith makes his way across the room toward me. Fuck . I quickly down the rest of my drink. It burns my throat. My manager’s in the process of locking in a massive brand partnership and the executive vice president of the company is in attendance at tonight’s event. A good word from him will expedite the deal, and it’s a bloody good endorsement considering Keith flew in for the French Grand Prix.

I’ve met the bloke once before and didn’t particularly like him. He acts like he’s God’s gift to Earth and everyone should be honored to be breathing the same air as him. Wanker .

“Ah,” Keith says, appearing next to me at the bar. “There you are. Thought you were avoiding me.”

Not avoiding, but not going out of my way to announce my presence.

“Avoid you, Keith? I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Well, good”—he chuckles—“because Jean-Francois is here and I want you two to chat for a bit.”

I nod and follow his lead. Jean-Francois is hard to miss. He looks like the villain in every Disney movie that Millie’s ever made me watch. Tall, dark, and handsome with a side of malice and a hint of evil.

“Blake,” Jean-Francois greets me. “Pleasure to see you again.”

The smile he gives me doesn’t quite reach his beady eyes. He doesn’t make a move to shake my hand. Does he expect me to bend down and kiss his shiny Valentino shoes?

“Jean-Francois. How have you been?”

“ Magnifique . We just signed David Beckham for an upcoming project.”

I guarantee he had nothing to do with Beckham signing with them. I swallow my dislike for the man and let him brag for the next fifteen minutes about how successful he is. If my endorsement goes through, I pray I never have to work with him. He’s insufferable.

“So, tell me how you’re doing.”

“Things have been good.” I cross my arms over my chest defensively. “The season is shaping up nicely so far.”

His mouth jerks into a sardonic grin. “Much better than last season.”

My jaw immediately tenses, and he knows he’s hit a nerve. I’m about to knock this piece of shit out. I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, just like my therapist told me to. I wish I hadn’t finished my drink because I could use one right about now. He drones on and on about my less than stellar season last year and I’m this close to breaking his nose when a hand lightly touches my arm.

“Blake,” Ella greets me. “There you are! I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

“’Ello. This is Ella. She’s—”

“Blake’s biographer,” she cuts in.

The smile on her face is the same one my sister used to give me that means “shut up and just go with my plan.” I have no idea what she’s playing at or what she’s doing over here, but I stay silent. There’s not much more of this conversation I can handle on my own.

“ Bonjour .” He couldn’t be more obviously checking her out. “I’m Jean-Francois. You’re quite the beauty, Ella.”

Hell fucking no. Is he kidding? If I didn’t want to knock him out before, I definitely do now. I don’t like how he’s eyeing her one bit. When Ella holds out her hand to shake his, he presses it to his lips for an uncomfortably long amount of time. She shoots me a grossed-out look and I stifle a laugh. The moment he releases her hand, she tucks it into the crook of my arm. The action both calms me and sends a bolt of desire straight to my dick.

“Blake here was just telling me about last season.”

I work to unclench my jaw. This fucking bloke.

“Amazing, right? Not only does he have the highest winning percentage the sport’s ever seen, but he holds the record for most wins of any Formula 1 driver. Did you know he averages eighteen points per race? It’s no wonder he has the all-time most career points.”

Ella goes on and on, listing my achievements, going into detail about my most impressive wins. She even talks about some of my races from last year, focusing on what I did right, rather than how I fucked up. Undercutting to bring myself up to P3 from P8 at the Australian Grand Prix. Insisting on finishing the Hungarian Grand Prix on wet tires versus changing back to slick tires, securing a podium win.

“Sorry about rambling on.” Her smile is as sweet as the candy bars she loves so much. I know she’s not one bit sorry. “Blake’s just so impressive! Don’t you think?”

Her hand squeezes my arm as she waits expectantly for Jean-Francois to respond, which he does with a quick nod.

“Anyway. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” She’s an awful liar, but he’s not a pro at reading her face like I’ve come to be. “But I just wanted to let Blake know that the CEO of Puma was looking for him. Something about a campaign for their new activewear line. I’m not really sure, but I said I’d pass along the message if I found you.”

This catches his attention. Fuck, I wish I could kiss her. Not only has she stupefied Jean-Francois with a brief rundown of my career highlights, but she’s also planted the seed that his competitor is trying to poach me. There’s no one from Puma even at this party.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Jean-Paul,” Ella says with doe-eyed innocence.

“Jean-Francois,” I correct, although she knows damn well what his name is.

“So sorry! Of course. Jean-Francois.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” he purrs, giving her another once-over.

Ella shoots me a “good luck” smile before walking away, her hips swaying in a way that hypnotizes me. Thankfully, the conversation doesn’t last much longer than that. After Keith praises me for impressing Jean-Francois, who said I was “exactly the type of person they want to partner with,” I search for Ella. I have her to thank for the endorsement not falling apart at the seams.

She’s chatting with Josie and Harry at the bar, the three of them laughing at something. I suck up the fact that I’m going to have to socialize with Harry and head over to them. I may respect him on the track, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend time with him off of it.

“I owe you big time.” I lightly bump Ella’s hip against mine. “How’d you know my arse needed saving?”

“You were giving him the same look you gave me when we first met.”

Josie’s subsequent giggle makes me realize that she’s aware of my outburst in Bahrain. Lovely. Ella shoots me an apologetic look, but I deserve it. I’d gone in hard on Ella without giving her a chance. Harry doesn’t say much; no doubt because he thinks I’m going to rip into him if he opens his mouth.

“I appreciate it.”

“Anytime.” She waves off my thanks. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

If one friend constantly thinks about the other friend, then sure, that’s exactly what friends are for.

“As your friend,” I inform her in a serious tone, “I’m obligated to tell you that I know the best steak and frites place in town. Any interest in going after the race? My treat to thank you for your service.”

Ella doesn’t speak a lick of French, but she damn well knows the translation for French fries. The smile she shines on me is sultry and sweet. I like being the one to put a smile on her face because for those few seconds, I know I’ve made her happy … and fuck if that doesn’t make me happy, too.

ACCORDING TO THEO, I’ve broken “bro code” by not going out with him and Lucas after the race. He’s acting as if I’ve committed a crime against humanity. I try to tune him out, but he’s seated next to me at the post-race press conference; he placed third behind me in first and Lucas in second. Reporters are still setting up their cameras, but Theo’s keeping his voice low, so our mics don’t pick up his words.

“Mate,” he whispers solemnly from next to me. “You’re pussy-whipped and you’re not even getting any pussy.”

Lucas overhears his comment and chokes on his water. A slew of people look to see what the commotion is, but the stares don’t faze Theo, who continues his one-sided conversation. “Your actions are forcing Luc to waterboard himself. Is this what you want, Hollis?”

My lips twitch up. His dramatization never gets old. He’s been this way since we met when I was eight.

“We can’t just be lettuce and tomato,” he whines, switching tactics. Sticking out his lower lip, he slugs me in the arm. “We need our bacon.”

Ever since Ella pointed out that our initials are BLT, like the sandwich, Theo won’t stop referring to us as such. He’s seriously tried catching my attention by calling out, “Bacon!” I’m not sure if I dislike that or Blakey Blake more.

“Call me lettuce one more time, Theo,” Lucas complains under his breath.

There’s no one who dislikes press conferences more than me, but for once I’m ready to get the show on the road. Anything to get Theo to stop bothering me about how it’s not “just dinner.” I’m not sure how many times I can repeat that it is just dinner . It’s simply dinner with a friend who happens to make my dick throb uncomfortably.

I’ve all but forgotten about Theo’s insinuations as Ella and I are seated at dinner. The restaurant is small but stylish, bottles of wine lining the walls, black tablecloths and candles decorating the tables. It’s understated in just the right way. They don’t have a menu and the only thing they ask you is how you want your steak done. Simple. Ella’s in heaven since they have unlimited fries. Yeah, I now sometimes call them fries because of her. Whatever.

Despite the small menu, our waiter continues to stop by our table every ten minutes. I’m thoroughly enjoying the whiskey I’m drinking, but if he looks at Ella like that one more time, I’m going to smash my glass over his head. Or maybe I’ll just break the glass and then use a shard to cut his dick off. I don’t mind getting creative. He’s eye-fucking her as if I’m not sitting right here. Even though she’s only a friend, so I have no right to get angry, it’s still impolite. I don’t blame him considering how turned on I get just from being around her—the chase or something like that—but that’s beside the point.

“Is everything to your liking?” he asks Ella, dutifully ignoring me. It takes everything in my power not to wipe the cocky smile right off his face with my fist.

“He’s flirting with you,” I comment after he leaves. “Big time.”

Ella scrunches up her nose. “He’s definitely not. He’s just being friendly.”

“Would you like to hear about our delicious Montepulciano d’Abruzzo?” I mimic the waiter, deepening the pitch of my voice. “It’s got a deep color and juicy flavors with soft , supple tannins. It’ll absolutely delight you.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re crazy.”

The owner of the restaurant comes over to our table to greet us. I’ve been here before, and he remembers me. He takes an instant liking to Ella, who spends twenty minutes asking him about his life story. Journalism was the right career path for her given her thoughtful questions and genuine interest in his responses.

Halfway through dinner, Ella tells me she has a really important question. Hesitantly, I nod. I’m never fully ready for any question she asks me. I quickly swallow a piece of steak, not wanting to choke on it in case the question catches me off guard.

Her eyes blaze with excitement. “Okay, what would your death-row meal be?”

Whatever I’d been expecting her to ask, I can assure you it wasn’t that. A shocked laugh escapes my lips, and once it does, I can’t hold back. I’m doubled over, my abs constricting as they do after an hour in the gym with Sam. When I finally get a hold of myself, Ella’s looking at me adorably. Her head’s tilted and her eyes twinkle with delight.

“You know what death row is, right?” Ella asks. “Like when they’re going to kill you because of your crimes?”

“Yes, Ella. I know what death row is. I’m British, not dumb.”

Ella makes a tsk, tsk noise and shakes her head slowly. “After your race earlier, I have to disagree with you. Overtaking Lucas in lap fifty was extremely risky. Almost got you a five-second penalty and then you wouldn’t have placed podium. And what the hell was up with you boxing out Theo on lap twenty-two? Kind of a dick move.”

A minor flush creeps up my neck, threatening to make my pleasure at her words evident. There’s something so unbelievably sexy about Ella talking about the race. It may be her job, but I enjoy knowing that she keeps tabs on my progress throughout the circuit.

“A win’s a win.” I’m choosing to focus on that part versus her calling my driving dumb, which it absolutely was. Andreas had ripped me a new one on my radio during the race and then again after the champagne spray.

“Anyway, a death-row meal is essentially what you would choose as your last meal on Earth. Nothing is off the table. But you only get two appetizers, one main, two sides, one dessert, and two drinks. Well, those are the rules I follow, anyway.”

Hm, interesting. This is a question I can get behind. Although based on how Ella treats most of my snacks, I have no idea how harshly she’ll judge my meal. She gagged when I put pea protein powder in my smoothie. It’s not like I put sand in there.

“Oh, and although this isn’t a test, if you say La Croix, you’re automatically blacklisted in my book. Because it tastes like flavored static electricity and anyone who claims to like it is a liar.”

I snort as I contemplate my options. Shit, this is harder than I thought it’d be.

“And—”

Groaning, I push a hand over my face. “Are you going to give me a moment of silence to think?”

“Just one last thing! Promise.” She pauses dramatically before lowering her voice. “You can’t say pussy .” Her cheeks flush adorably. “That’s not a valid answer for a death-row meal.”

The water I’m drinking sprays out of my mouth. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a wildly dirty mouth?”

“Nope. I’ve never even had a cavity.”

“Who in the hell said that as their death-row answer?”

I bet it was her friend Jack. Cocksucker.

Her nose crinkles at the question. “You don’t want to know.”

I collect my thoughts before listing out my “death-row meal.” Fried calamari and crispy Brussels sprouts with bacon for my appetizers, lamb chops as my main, potatoes au gratin and spring rolls—from my favorite restaurant in China—as my sides, my sister’s banoffee pie for dessert, and green tea and whiskey for my drinks. It’s surprisingly harder than I thought it’d be. After I say it, I already want to swap out one of my appetizers and change a drink choice.

“That was such a good death-row meal! I’m seriously impressed. You even included a restaurant name, which is, like, five hundred bonus points.”

It’s baffling how something as simple as a death-row meal can brighten her face as if she’d just won the lottery.

“I thought this wasn’t a test.”

“If you lost, I wouldn’t have let you know. Want to know mine?”

I don’t have time to say yes before Ella launches into a long-winded explanation of her meal. She’s seriously thought this out. There are even rotating options based on the season or the type of mood she’s in. When she finishes, we’re smiling at each other like idiots. For the first time since my mum left, I wish that cookie-cutter fairy tales were written for guys like me. But they’re not. They’re written for girls like Ella. The ones who deserve a happily ever after.