Page 2

Outside, the November night is cool and electric, the Vegas Strip a neon carnival. Reece's hand settles lightly at the small of my back, not possessive but protective, as we navigate the crowded sidewalk.

Curiosity gets the better of me. "That third guy is your brother?"

"Yeah. Wyn." He shoves his hands into his pockets. "He's... look, our relationship is complicated. Has been since we were kids. We're competitive by nature."

"What about the entitled prick? Is he your friend?"

Reece snorts. "Noo. He’s someone I can't escape in my line of work."

"Which is what?"

He looks at me, unease turning to amusement in his eyes. "You really don't know who I am, do you?"

"Should I?"

"No." He chuckles. "No, this is brilliant."

I take it he means that in a good way, not sarcastically.

We walk a few blocks to reach my favorite all-night diner, a place just off the Strip where tourists rarely go, and where I spent my high school afternoons and weekends serving locals. As I push open the door, the familiar scents of coffee and grilled onions hug me.

“Hey, Mai. I’ll be right with ya.” That’s Dini. She’s been the face of D’s All-Nighter for as long as I can remember. D for both Dini and her hubby, Diego.

We slide into a vinyl booth, and I drape my garment bag over the back.

“Okay, if you're not gonna tell me, I'll have to guess. Given the Grand Prix connection... race car driver?"

The smile that spreads across his face is answer enough. “How did you ever guess?” Clearly, he thinks this is obvious.

“Your hands." I gesture to them. He has long fingers, neat nails, and calluses that don't come from an office job. I like hands. They say a lot and never lie.

"My hands?" He looks down at them, bemused.

"Mm-hmm. Strong but precise and really fucking fast. I bet you need insane reflexes to drive those super speedy cars.” I pick up the laminated menu, though I already know what I want. “Are you any good?"

He laughs and cute little lines crinkle the corners of his eyes. "I manage." His gaze narrows. “Are you bullshitting me, or do you really not know anything about Formula 1?”

I give him a wide-eyed look and shake my head. “Not a fucking thing.”

Dini appears tableside with two glasses of ice water. "The usual, Mai?" She has a wide smile for me and a wider one for Reece. Which, I can’t blame her. He’s hot as fuck and she may be married but she ain’t dead.

"Please. And coffee."

"For you, speed demon?"

Wait. She knows who he is? This makes me feel a little extra dense ’cause, like, am I the only person in Vegas who doesn’t?

Reece orders a salad with grilled chicken, blue cheese dressing on the side, and a Coke. When she leaves, he leans forward, forearms on the table. "Burlesque dancing. How'd you get into that?"

"I was a ballet dancer first." I watch his expression. Most people look surprised when I say that, as if someone who takes off her clothes for an audience couldn't possibly be classically trained. He just nods, eyes attentive. “You know anything about dance?”

Reece grins. “Not a fucking thing.”

I laugh and he looks pleased with himself, which is adorable.

"Touché.” I sip my water then continue. “I had a girlfriend in college who introduced me to burlesque. It was empowering. Ballet is all about discipline and pain and conforming to an impossible ideal. Burlesque celebrates the body you have."

"You're brilliant at it. The way you move is hypnotic."

Well hell, I think he means it. “Thanks.” I look down as heat rises to my cheeks. I’m used to guys hitting on me and making assumptions. Reece isn’t doing either. "So, fast cars, huh?”

“Pretty fast, yeah.”

“Is it glamorous or sweaty and tiring?"

He laughs. "Sweaty and tiring and sixteen-hour days and living out of a suitcase for nine months of the year."

"God, that’s gotta suck for relationships."

His eyes meet mine. "Is that a subtle way of asking if I'm single?"

I take another sip of water. "Maaaybe."

He smiles. "I am. How about you?"

"Also single. Men tend to get weird about dating a woman who takes her clothes off for a living."

He blows a raspberry. "Their loss."

I sit up and slap the table. “Thanks for saying that.”

“It’s your body.” His gaze wanders for a split second. “I know what it’s like to have people control you.”

That’s surprisingly heavy, but before I can follow it, our food arrives — my burger and onion rings, his salad and soda. Reece takes a sip of his Coke and makes a sound of pure pleasure that sends a little zing right to my naughty nethers.

"Good?" I ask.

"Fuck yeah." He lowers his glass. "I get a Coke maybe twice a year."

“Why not more?”

“Physics.”

“Huh?” I offer him an onion ring. He shakes his head, so I eat it. Wasting them is a sin.

"F1's a bit of a physical paradox, honestly.

We need serious muscle to handle the g-forces — we're pulling five, six g’s through some corners.

But the car and driver get weighed together, so every pound matters.

Lower body fat means I can carry more muscle where it counts.

" He indicates his neck and shoulders. "Better muscle means better g-force tolerance.

Pretty straightforward physics, really."

“Ahh. That sucks.” I cut my burger in half. “But I totally get where you’re coming from. There’s no hiding any extra lumps or bumps when I’m bumping and grinding and nearly naked.” I gesture to my meal. “I indulge every Sunday though, because I work my ass off, literally, seven days a week.”

He nods. “I bet you put in a ton of work.”

I snort. “Yeah, you try humping the floor without being in really good shape.”

Reece laughs. I like that he doesn’t expect me to be all girly. I dress it, but appearance is where my demureness ends.

We eat and talk. He’s really genuine, and I kinda see him relaxing as our meal unfolds.

"So you’re British?" I dip an onion ring in ketchup; nothing better than fried food, except salty tangy sauce on fried food.

"Actually, Wyn and I have dual citizenship. We were born in Los Angeles, but more or less grew up in England. That's where we started karting. Proper racing education, that."

“Kart racing? Like, little kiddie go-karts?"

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Same concept, different league. That's how most F1 drivers start. I was seven, Wyn was five. Tiny." His eyes spark with the memory. "His feet barely reached the pedals. He'd stretch his whole body to make a turn."

"So your parents just... what? Strapped in their kindergartners and said, 'Good luck, kiddos'?"

The sparkle in his eyes dims. "Our father encouraged it. Demanded it, really." He twists the paper napkin beside his plate. "He produces video content for F1 — race footage, documentaries, that kind of thing. Racing wasn't an option; it was an expectation."

Hmm. I knew he had a story. A lifetime of them, probably. “Is your whole family racing-obsessed?"

"Just our father." He spears a piece of grilled chicken with his fork. "What about you? Your family into dance?"

I scoff. "Nah. It’s just me and Frankie — she’s my mom. She nearly had a stroke when I told her I was doing burlesque, but she’s come around to it. She’s a correctional nurse, and it made her nervous. My dad is I don’t fucking know. I’ve never met the guy."

“Lucky you.”

Interesting.

“I take it you and Daddy Dearest don’t get along so well?”

“Yeah. Daddy is Graham. He controls a majority of the F1 media coverage you see, and he’s a real piece of shit.”

“Ohhh.” I remember what Junior said at the club — that Graham wouldn’t like Reece interfering — and my dinner companion’s response: "I don't give a damn what Graham likes."

We focus on our food for a minute before he says, "Your bio says you teach dance too, right? Not just a performer?"

"Yeah. I teach ballet to kids and burlesque to adults. Helps pay the bills when club bookings are slow."

"Do you like teaching?"

"I love it. Especially the adult classes. There's something amazing about watching someone rediscover the power of their own body, you know? Seeing that confidence bloom." I’m gesturing with my hands, all excited to talk about this. "Actually, my dream is to open my own venue someday."

His dark eyebrows lift. "Yeah? A burlesque theater?"

"A cabaret. With a restaurant, live music, variety acts — not just burlesque. A place that celebrates art in all its forms, especially the kind that makes you feel something."

"I'd like to see that." His expression is open and warm, and I think he’s genuinely excited by the idea.

"Maybe you will someday." I reach for the check that Dini leaves on the table.

But Reece is faster. "I invited you to dinner, remember?"

Normally, I’d argue — I hate the assumption that men should always pay — but something in his expression stops me. It's not arrogance or expectation, more like he wants to do something nice.

Still, I pull out my wallet. "Fine, but I'm leaving the tip."

Outside, the night has turned chilly. Neon signs cast us in alternating shades of pink and blue as we stroll back toward the Strip.

I don't want the evening to end. I like having company, and Reece is low-key and easy to be with. No pressure. No expectations. He’s as refreshing for me as I guess my F1 ignorance is for him. "Where are you staying?" I pause at the end of the block.

"My brother’s name is Wyn, so guess."

He means he’s got a room at the Wynn. I laugh and ask, “The Encore?”

Reece chuckles. “Pretty sure the asshole gets comped a room.” He side-eyes me. “Do you live nearby?”

“Nah. My apartment's about twenty minutes from here, in Henderson."

Reece checks his watch — some fancy European thing that’s probably worth more than my car — and I brace for the brush-off. It's late, after all, and he's probably got racing shit to do tomorrow.

Instead, he surprises me. "Can I walk you to your car?"

“Sure, if you don’t mind going back to the Oyster.”

“That’s quite alright.” He offers his arm again, and I take it, then he frees me of my garment bag. “Let me carry that for you.”

“Are you always this gentlemanly, Reece Pritchard?”

He chuckles. “Not on track.”

I laugh. We stroll and talk, and I think he’s gotta be one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. We reach the parking lot behind the Oyster.

"That's my ride." I point to my ancient, reliable silver Honda Civic. "Not exactly a Ferrari."

"Gets you where you need to go though, doesn't it?" He walks me to the driver's side, and I'm struck again by how he carries himself — confident but not cocky, his movements fluid and controlled.

Reece Pritchard is beautiful .

I unlock the door and face him, suddenly unsure. This is usually the awkward part — the will-he-won't-he moment, the calculation of whether a goodnight kiss is on the cards. Or even should be.

Reece solves the dilemma by taking my hand and bringing it to his lips. The gesture is unexpectedly old-fashioned, and it makes my stomach go all ahh-wooo-gah.

"I enjoyed dinner, Maiken, and your company."

"I should be thanking you for the rescue and the meal."

He smiles, still holding my hand. "Listen, I'd like to see you again. Properly." He meets my gaze directly, no games. “I’ll be back in the States in late December.”

"Okay. I’ll be around." I pull out my phone. "Gimme your number."

As he recites it, I type it into my contacts, then send him a quick text so he has mine. His phone buzzes in his pocket.

"Goodnight, Reece." I take my costume from him and open my car door.

"Goodnight, Maiken."

I put the garment bag in the back, then slide into the driver's seat, but pause before closing the door. "That was you, right? The big tip after my performance? You’re RP11."

He nods, looking sheepish. "Too much?"

“Depends. Did you think you were buying something with it?”

His brows furrow for a moment, then arch as he realizes what I’m saying. “No, Mai. It was just admiration. One athlete to another.”

I stare at him. “No one has ever called me that.”

Now he looks worried. “Did I offend you?”

“Nooo. Impressed. It’s nice to be acknowledged.”

"What you do, it's craft. Dedication. I recognize that in any athlete. Different worlds, same commitment. I respect it."

I reach for his hand and squeeze it. "Thanks for that — the compliment and the tip. I'll put the money to good use."

"You’re welcome. And I'm sure you will." He steps back and shuts my door. I lower the window and he says, "Drive safe."

I start the engine, my mind racing faster than any Formula 1 car. As I pull forward out of my parking space, I check my rearview mirror. Reece stands in the circle of the security light I parked under, watching me go.

Something in my chest expands and contracts all at once.

I've just had dinner with a Formula 1 driver who tipped me a thousand dollars and kissed my hand like he stepped out of a different century.

Am I really just gonna drive away?