Page 51 of Faster

Chapter Thirty-Six

The car pulled up in front of a nondescript SoHo warehouse building.

Well, it wasn’t anything to write home about on the outside.

The building had housed a commercial laundry for about a hundred years, until the offers from real estate developers got too rich.

Paola knew that a couple of billionaires, several A-list actors, and three or four professional athletes owned apartments there.

One of those professional athletes was Brent.

If he truly wanted privacy, he’d have to move someplace that didn’t have tourists and paps hanging out by the door, hoping to get a glimpse of Harry Styles.

He’d been avoiding her calls long enough. It was only four days, but she was going to have to put out a press release regarding who would be driving his car in Baku by next week—him or the very talented reserve driver who would be only too happy to take Brent’s seat for good.

And that didn’t even touch how she felt about him avoiding her calls as his girlfriend. If that’s what she was. They hadn’t talked about it, thinking they had all the time in the world to define their relationship. And she’d been resistant to defining their relationship as anything before Monza.

She didn’t stop at the concierge desk, and he didn’t try to stop her.

Either Brent had put her on the approved guest list and given them a picture or she looked as though she might just stomp over anyone who got in her way.

It was probably the latter, because Brent’s silence made it clear he didn’t want to see her.

So, she’d done what she had trained to do.

She’d pried this address from Liam, even though he hadn’t wanted to give it to her.

He wanted to let his son sulk in peace. Well, he was actually afraid of what would happen if he poked the bear—his own son—too quickly after his relationship with Micaela had been revealed.

That controversy had actually died before it had started. Paola put out a press release denying the relationship had ever taken place. The account didn’t have photos or any other evidence—only a blind item—so no one else had picked up the story.

And they wouldn’t if Paola could get Brent to come back to the team and pretend that nothing had happened.

Paola could tell reporters that the team had taken the decision to let him leave the race at Monza, and that everything was harmonious.

She almost laughed thinking that line of bullshit, but she didn’t.

It wasn’t funny that Brent was making every effort to throw his life away.

At this point, she didn’t care. Both her personal and professional lives were colliding and making it impossible for her to put those crisp lines of separation between her logical thoughts and her very illogical feelings.

She’d felt pity for Micaela and Cece, and how they’d fallen prey to something as stupid as love.

But she hadn’t been willing to admit to anyone, including herself, that she was just as vulnerable. She didn’t know when it had happened or why the guardrails she’d so carefully constructed around her heart had failed when it came to Brent.

He was good looking, but he was far from the best-looking man she’d dated. He was funny, but his humor was so bro-y that she found it embarrassing when she laughed at one of his jokes. He was sweet, but he could turn sullen and entitled on a dime.

He wasn’t her type at all. But he made her feel like she was the smartest and most beautiful woman in the world.

His attention on her was like sitting on a sunny beach with a fruity cocktail in one hand and a book in the other.

It didn’t matter if she was in the middle of answering ten thousand press inquiries and teetering on the edge of a meltdown.

He made her feel free.

Four days without that was too long.

She didn’t have to wave a key card in front of the sensor on the elevator, so he must be home and have approved her entry. Good. She wouldn’t have to try to find a window washer to help her break into his fifth-floor loft.

The elevator opened into Brent’s living room.

Paola had never been there, so she took a moment to take it in.

Brent had mentioned them coming here after the season was over and seeing New York during the Christmas season.

Paola had never seen the Rockefeller Center tree up close.

And she’d only been ice-skating a few times. Brent had told her that he’d teach her.

He lived on the top floor, and the elevator opened facing three large, arched windows looking out over the city. Light played over the deep leather couches in the open loft space. Brent obviously hadn’t decorated it himself, but everything about the place spoke comfort to her.

He’d also talked about how this place was the only thing that truly felt like his.

He’d purchased it with money from a trust fund set up by his mother’s father and his racing earnings—making sure it was only performance bonuses.

It was important to him that his father hadn’t bought this place for him.

He felt like he could be his own man here.

A heavy dining room table that looked like it had been made with reclaimed wood dominated the center of the room.

It was big enough to seat at least ten people.

Big enough for friends and family. It said that he wanted to invite people into his space, even though inviting people in made him vulnerable.

As much as he wanted to be his own man, separate from his father, he was a testament to the man who raised him. He didn’t know she could see that—probably didn’t think anyone saw it—but she saw him.

That was probably the moment she’d realized she was in love with him.

Her eyes stopped roaming the giant loft when her gaze met his in the kitchen off to the right. He looked happy to see her, unsurprised.

“Are you hungry?” For a second, she let herself think about what it would be like if that was an everyday occurrence—her coming home to him and him asking what she wanted to eat. But just for a second. They didn’t have an ordinary life, and both of them would grow bored with the domesticity.

Her stomach growled, answering for her. “What’s for dinner, honey?”

Now that she was here and saw he wasn’t attempting to destroy his liver or drown in pussy—not that she’d thought that, but she didn’t know if it would even be cheating if he did—she could relax a little and let him open up to her in his own time.

Well, unless she got impatient, which was extremely likely.

“You’re in New York, so we’re having pizza.

I called in an order when I saw you in the lobby cameras.

” He rounded the island and walked toward her.

She expected him to crowd her against the door to the elevators or one of the rustic wooden posts that held up the high concrete ceilings, but he stopped at the giant, sun-soaked, leather sectional.

He perched on the back of the couch and waited for her to come to him.

She’d come all the way to New York for him, so he could cross the room for her. She stayed put.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me at all.”

He shrugged. “I figured you would come find me and try to sort me out. You’re not going to get me to come back, though.”

Despite herself, she stepped forward. Now she was close enough he could reach her.

She wasn’t sure if she wanted him to do that.

It would be so easy for him to pull her in and soften her up.

Then, she could make all of his little PR problems go away and smooth things over with his father so he could—what?

“What are you going to do?” Paola asked. “Are you just going to quit, midseason? You’ll never get another drive, no matter the series, if you do that.”

He looked down. “So, you’re going to start right in about how I’m an irresponsible, ungrateful prick then? You’re here as an employee of the team and not my girlfriend?”

“I tried to be both, Brent.” Her whole body tightened in anger. He knew how important her job was to her, and he was throwing it in her face like the asshole he pretended to be for the rest of the world. “But you’re making it extremely difficult.”

“I’m not jealous of them,” he said.

“What?”

“I’m not jealous that my father was with Micaela. I didn’t love her, and I don’t love her.”

Paola hadn’t entertained that idea any more than she had the idea he was holed up with someone else to lick his wounds for him. “I know that. And I’m here because of you. Not the team. Not your father.”

“You managed to kill the story?” There was a hint of disappointment mixed with pride in his voice.

“You don’t want to see your father’s life ruined. And you might hate Micaela for a lot of reasons, but I know that you respect her.”

He was silent for a beat, and then the intercom went off.

He pushed off the couch and walked close to her.

So close she thought he was going to gather her in his arms and kiss her.

Part of her wanted that—had wanted that as soon as she’d walked through the door.

She vibrated with wanting him as he got near her, as she could smell him.

But then he passed her and walked to the panel near the elevators. When he turned around, he smiled at her as though he knew what she was thinking and said, “Pizza’s here.”

“That was fast.”

He snagged her hand as he came up next to her. “That’s what I love about New York. You can get whatever you want within fifteen minutes.” He looked down at her and bit his lower lip. “Almost anything you want.”

She wanted to slap him on the shoulder—or the face—and tell him she would have come running had he answered any of her calls. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The elevator doors opened, and the delivery guy handed Brent the pizza. “Thanks.” He never let go of her hand.