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EIGHT

CHARLOTTE

A prison cell has better lighting than Theo’s suite does. At least I assume that’s the case. I’ve never been to prison, but I imagine the lighting would be decent. If it weren’t, the inmates could easily hide things and do sketchy stuff without being seen. I know that’s what I’d do. For a motorhome that costs millions, AlphaVite dropped the ball on this. I’m surprised my brother hasn’t complained, since he live-streams himself more than a beauty influencer does, and there’s no way anyone can look good with shadows dancing across their face the way they do in here.

Good thing I’ve got a travel ring light. In a pinch, it works well as a flashlight. Crawling across Theo’s room like it’s an underground tunnel, I use the ring light to illuminate the space beneath his couch. All I find is ugly carpet. Fuck . Groaning, I stand and fan my face. The motorhome is air-conditioned, but even working nonstop like it is, it barely puts a dent in the S?o Paulo heat.

My VIP lanyard, wallet, and purse lay scattered on the desktop, but my phone is still nowhere to be found. It’s not uncommon for me to misplace things, especially when I’m in a rush—which, honestly, is often—but rarely do I end up playing Where’s Waldo? with my phone. I tend to keep track of it more than just about anything I own. And for a good reason. I can’t survive without it. Not in the stereotypical, generational way of being addicted to social media and texting, but because my phone’s a lifeline for me. Literally.

Despite my forgetful tendencies, I’m meticulous when it comes to my health. I’ve been a Type 1 Diabetic since I was four, and from a very young age, I’ve understood the importance of checking my blood sugar levels throughout the day. Even with my wireless pump and the small wearable glucose sensor on my arm that communicate with one another to adjust my insulin delivery, I still need to manually add doses when I eat and monitor my levels because the fluctuations in glucose can be rapid and unpredictable. And, of course, I have to use the app on my phone to do it.

Running a hand through my hair, I scan the room again. It has to be here. Ugh . Climbing onto Theo’s couch—which isn’t easy in a dress—I slip my hand between two cushions and run it along the length. While I don’t find my phone, I do find an earring I thought I’d lost at the last race, which I’ll consider a win.

“Am I interrupting something?” a feminine voice asks from behind me. “Because I can come back later.”

Without turning, I know it’s Ella. There are only two Americans in existence who would waltz into Theo’s room without knocking. And since Ella’s voice is feminine while Lucas’s is raw, unadulterated sex, it’s more than a little easy to distinguish between them. I quickly untangle myself from the awkward downward dog position I’m in. I may have a good arse, but no one needs to see it that up close and personal.

“Hi,” I say, smiling. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Probably hard to hear when you’ve been muttering ‘fuckity fuck’ under your breath for the past minute,” she says, her own smile only growing wider. “Which, by the way, is one of Theo’s favorite phrases, too.”

Chuckling, I swipe my hair out of my face. “Our mother would be happy to hear that.”

Her laugh is light and easy. “Whatcha doing? Yoga?”

“Hell no.” I shake my head hard enough to give myself whiplash. “Being left alone with my thoughts in silence? While sweating? That’s my biggest nightmare.” I click off my ring light. “I’m looking for my phone. I know it’s here because I haven’t left since I spoke with my mum thirty minutes ago. Well, I did pop out to go to the loo, but I already checked there, and unless I accidentally flushed it, it’s not there.”

Ella raises her brows and side-eyes the desk. “You mean the phone by your purse?”

I snap my head in that direction, and sure enough, the damn device is peeking out from under my purse. Oh my God. The tension in my chest loosens instantly. “If I wasn’t worried your boyfriend would come for me, I’d totally kiss you right now.”

Grinning, she shakes her head. “Any interest in watching quals from McAllister’s rooftop? The view from there is incredible, and I’ve been surrounded by way too much testosterone today.”

I eagerly agree. Not only am I desperate to get away from the criminal lighting of Theo’s suite, but I love hanging out with Ella. She’s easy to talk to and funny as hell. Plus, I respect how she’s made a name for herself in such a male-dominated sport.

As we step outside, the Brazilian heat hits me hard. And by me, I mean my hair. For the most part, my curls behave well. I use enough fancy product to maintain a beachy-wave style most of the time, but when heat and humidity come into play in such a powerful way, it’s every strand for itself. Not wanting to deal with the impending frizz, I flip my head down and wrangle my hair into a messy bun. Of course, that’s when Lucas appears out of thin air like he’s Harry fucking Houdini. With my hair secured, I snap back up, earning myself a major head rush.

“Hey,” he says, the corners of his lips quirking up. That fucking smile . It’s simple and sincere, which makes it all the more sinful. Like a warm hug from the sun after a month spent camped out in the Arctic. It’s impossible not to want to bask in its glory while simultaneously stripping off every item of clothing.

Instead of greeting him with a hey, hello , or hi , I blurt out, “ Did you ever have braces?”

Is it really any wonder that I’m single? Having a nonexistent filter is tough. I learned that lesson the hard way. Apparently, telling a man he reminds me of my grandpa isn’t a compliment. Asking a surgeon what she wears under her scrubs is inappropriate. And inquiring about what hair color people who are bald put on their licenses is invasive. There’s no winning.

Lips parted, he rubs the nape of his neck. “Um, yeah… when I was nine. Why?”

“You’ve got good teeth,” I continue. The train has left the station at full speed. “I bet you could charm a leprechaun out of a pot of gold if you flashed him your pearly whites.”

I don’t comment on how leprechauns are always a he and never a she . Oh God. My heart jumps into my throat. He probably thinks I have a tooth fetish after I admitted that I wanted to be one as a child .

With a chuckle, Lucas shakes his head. “No one’s ever complimented me on my teeth before, so thanks… I think. My parents will be happy to know that their investment paid off.”

“I always picked ligature bands that would match the outfits I wanted to wear that next week.” I shrug. “I had to take into consideration any pieces of jewelry I might wear, too, and my skin tone, of course, and that can change depending on the season, you know?”

Ella snorts. “It doesn’t surprise me at all that you managed to style your braces.”

“Me neither.” Lucas stuffs his hands into his pockets. “We should get AlphaVite fans with braces to get blue bands as a subtle way to support the team.”

“Yes,” I exclaim, clapping. “Subtle support is great. It’s exactly what I do.”

With a single brow raised, Lucas gives my outfit a once-over. “I don’t see any type of subtle blue on you today, Roo.”

“Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean I’m not wearing it,” I say with a wink. Yes, way to flirt with the guy moping over his ex. Good job, Charlotte .

Lucas’s face goes slack for an instant, then he bursts out laughing. The rumbly, deep sound does something entirely illegal to my body, and despite the humidity, goose bumps cover me like a blanket. He’s still laughing when Mitchell appears to herd him into the garage for qualifying.

Once they’re gone, Ella hooks her arm through mine and pulls me toward the McAllister motorhome. With wide eyes, she asks, “Are you really wearing a blue thong?”

When I finally realize she’s referring to my underwear and not what Americans call flip-flops, I snort. “Nah, but he’ll never know that.”

Unfortunately .

McAllister’s motorhome, like AlphaVite’s, is composed of staff offices, drivers’ rooms, a coffee bar, an actual bar, and a dining space, but with a way better rooftop. Not that I’ll ever tell Theo . The balcony doubles as a VIP lounge, but it’s not too crowded today. Thank goodness for that because packed people plus heavy heat equals me stressing about not applying enough deodorant.

Ella and I claim a table in the far-left corner where we have the perfect view of the track. From here, the whirs of the mechanics from the garage and the announcer over the loudspeaker are audible, but the balcony is a pocket of peace.

Putting on my sunglasses, I turn to Ella. “All right. Spill the tea. How have things been going with Blake and Cooper?”

Blake can be a major dickhead when he wants to be, and from what I’ve seen, he’s been avoiding his new driving partner’s company like the bloke’s got cooties and the chicken pox.

Ella lets out a low, long sigh. “It’s a work in progress.”

“That bad?”

“It’s not that he dislikes Cooper.” She clasps her hands on the table between us. “He just doesn’t know what to make of him. And you know Blake. I wouldn’t exactly describe him as warm and cuddly.”

“Who would?” I laugh.

The only reason he puts up with Theo is because, when they were kids, my brother wouldn’t stop pestering him until he agreed to be friends. Cooper and Blake don’t have to be besties, of course, but they’ll be driving partners for at least the next two years, so finding common ground would do them a lot of good.

“I’m interviewing Cooper for the podcast next weekend, and Blake hasn’t complained about it, which I’ll take as a good sign,” Ella tells me. With a mischievous smile, she adds, “I’m dying to ask him about—well, you know… but Blake would kill me. Honestly, I’d probably chicken out, anyway.”

Curiosity fully piqued, I slide my sunglasses down my nose and arch my brows. “Know about what?”

Her cheeks go pink. “About his thing.”

“His thing ?”

“His thing thing,” she whisper-yells. She peers over one shoulder, then the other, to ensure no one’s eavesdropping. They aren’t. Qualifying may not be as exciting as the grand prix itself, but this is where the starting order of tomorrow’s race is determined, so the crowd is still invested. “His one-eyed wonder weasel. His tadpole torpedo. His lap lizard. His boney macaron?—”

“I seriously don’t know if I’m more interested in hearing about Cooper’s dick,” I tease, “or why you have so many alternative names for the body part.”

The flush in Ella’s cheeks darkens. “Let’s focus on the first one. There’s a rumor that it’s, well, that it’s”—she glances around once again and then lowers her voice—“pierced.”

My breath catches in my throat. “He has junk jewelry?”

Grinning, Ella nods. “According to the rumor mill, he’s rocking some major junk jewelry.”

“You so have to ask him.” I wiggle in my seat. “I used to hook up with a guy with a frenum piercing, and the sex was unreal . Obviously, it’s more about the driver than the make and model, but phew , that man could deliver where it counted.”

“I don’t know where a frenum piercing goes, and I’m 100 percent okay with that,” Ella admits, shaking her head emphatically. “Oy, that sounds painful. I wouldn’t want a needle or a tattoo gun anywhere near my nether regions.”

“Tattoo gun?” I perk up, my spine snapping straight. “He has tattoos down there, too?”

“No, not him. Shit, Jos didn’t tell you about the other one, did she?”

I blink at her, racking my brain. But… nope. I have no inkling of what the other one is, and now I desperately need to know.

“You can’t repeat this to anyone,” Ella warns me.

“I won’t.” I place my hand over my heart for emphasis. I’m a fantastic secret keeper. No one knows that when we were babysitting my aunt’s dog and had to pick her up from the groomer, my mom brought home the wrong dog. Or that when my best friend Willow broke her hand, it’s because she fell out of a tree trying to spy on her ex-boyfriend. Or that Theo once thought our parents were hiding another sibling from us because he found my Cabbage Patch doll’s birth certificate and thought it was real.

Ella holds out her pinky, her expression nothing but serious, so I link mine with hers and give it a shake.

“Okay,” she says, once she’s satisfied I won’t repeat what she’s about to tell me. “There’s absolutely no proof whatsoever that this is true, but according to the friend of a friend of a cousin’s ex-wife—or something like that—Lucas has a tattoo… down under.”

I gasp, my lips forming the perfect O as her words sink in. Of all the things she could have told me, I would’ve put money on it being anything but that . Now that I’ve heard this rumor, how am I supposed to look at Lucas and not imagine his potential dick tattoo? I shudder at the thought of how badly that had to hurt. What kind of tattoo would he even want in a place like that? And how does tattooing that body part work? Does he have to be hard or— nope! Stop thinking about it .

“I know,” Ella says, though I haven’t said a single word. “That was my reaction, too. I honestly don’t think it’s true, since all of Lucas’s tattoos have meaning, but the does he or doesn’t he rhetoric is fun to think about.”

“Oh, it’s all I’m going to be thinking about.”

She throws her head back and laughs, clearly thinking I’m kidding.

I’m absolutely not.

“Maybe it’s his ex’s name.”

“Ex?” Ella frowns, her brows furrowed. “Lucas doesn’t have an ex.”

“According to my brother, he does.” I shrug.

She presses her palms against the table and adjusts her legs so she’s sitting crisscross on the chair. “Huh. As far as I know, Lucas hasn’t dated anyone seriously in the few years I’ve known him. ”

My heart squeezes at that, but I ignore the sensation. “Maybe I misheard.”

I definitely didn’t. I’m sure his ex is gorgeous, and her left boob isn’t slightly bigger than the right one, and her hair doesn’t look like Medusa’s when she wakes up.

“You can ask him,” Ella suggests, leaning forward, her forearms resting on the table.

I waggle my brows, going for light and easy. “About the ex or the tattoo?”

“The ex,” she clarifies with a humph . “You’ve known him longer than me. You’d have the better shot at getting the tea.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I shrug noncommittally. “I’ll think about it.”

I can’t recall a time when I didn’t have a crush on Lucas. It’s a constant in my life, like my love for pickles or the way the scent of lilacs makes me smile. I don’t remember when or how it started, but my feelings have never gone away. It’s not like I plan to act on them—a woman has her pride after all—but knowing he’s caught up on his ex makes my crush seem silly. While he’s been living his best life, I’ve been secretly pining for him, measuring every guy I date against the impossible standard he’s set.

Not that I’d admit any of this to a soul. If I’m good at keeping other people’s secrets, I’m exceptional at keeping my own.