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VIENNA | DECEMBER | FEDERATION INTERNATIONALE DE L’AUTOMOBILE PRIZE GIVING CEREMONY

PETRA

If I’d known we’d be celebrating a second-place finish in Vienna, I would’ve bought new heels. Something with a little more knife in the toe.

Dad insisted I come, and Coy rarely insists.

So here I am, strapped into a vintage black satin gown with a slit high enough to disarm diplomats, hot pink streaks coiled rebelliously through an otherwise obedient brunette updo, and eyeliner sharp enough to open champagne bottles.

(I enlisted the capable hands of Maiken Lange Pritchard for this face.

The woman is a miracle worker with makeup, whereas I’m rather hapless.)

The Hofburg glitters around me, a gilded fairytale.

Vaulted ceilings soar above polished parquet floors and golden chandeliers drip light over a sea of tuxedos and couture.

Massive arched windows reflect the flicker of candlelight and camera flashes.

Every inch of the imperial palace whispers power — the old kind that’s watched the rise and fall of empires while plotting its own return.

I swirl the champagne in my glass and hope to find my dignity at the bottom. I hate these functions. They’re too slow and sedate for my taste.

“Petra Hayter.” The voice is low, Spanish accent curling around my name in an entirely too sexy way. “Don’t you dare look bored.”

I turn at the gentle touch on my back, there and gone in a breath. And damn him, Nico Belmonte fills out a tux like a Bond villain with excellent posture.

His bow tie is precise. His gold cufflinks glint with understated Spanish money. And his golden hair looks like it’s been gently tousled by the hand of God herself.

I lean against the nearest marble pillar. “I’m not bored. I’m internally monologuing.”

Doubtless his crooked grin has melted many a girl’s panties. “Dramatically, I’m sure.”

“Oh, to tragic effect.” I roll my gaze to him. “You know how much I hate these things, Nico.”

He smiles, and something tightens under my ribs. Just slightly. Bloody hell, that’s unwelcome.

“You always clean up well, bunny boy.”

His lips twitch at the nickname that only I use. “I have to bring my A-game. I never know who’ll be on your arm.”

“Tonight it’s just my ego. She’s the only bitch who tolerates me.”

He chuckles, then sips his drink. Bloody hell, even the way he drinks champagne is annoyingly refined. He lowers it and nods toward the crowd. “I’m surprised you’re not pressuring Coy to give a speech about team sabotage and chronic underfunding.”

“I already did that. He said I wasn’t allowed to stage a coup on a historic ballroom floor.”

“Shame. You’d look very powerful in a tiara.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You think I don’t own one?”

“Oh, I know you do. I also know you stole it from Nia to wear on karting podiums.”

I laugh. “God, she was furious.” I can’t believe he remembers that.

“She still wants it back.”

“Speaking of Nicolina.” I tilt my head. “Where is your charming twin?”

He loses a little of his ease. “Seattle. Stayed home with Mamá. She’s had a rough autumn. School stuff, roommate drama…”

“Roommate or hot volleyball player?” I’ve seen a little online gossip.

“Hmph… Both.”

I cackle ’cause I know Nico. His jury’s still out on his sister’s crush. “Is this the one with the jawline and the six-pack?”

“Sebastian. Professional beach volleyball player. He’s tragically egotistical but oddly decent.”

“What does El Conejo think of all that?”

He snorts. “That if he breaks her heart, I’ll personally introduce him to tarmac at three hundred seventy-eight km/h.”

I raise my glass. “To sibling loyalty and lightly veiled threats.”

Nico clinks his against mine. “To patience.”

I arch a brow. “That so?”

He nods once, expression still serious. “Some things are worth waiting for.” He holds my gaze a second too long.

I break eye contact with a grin and a shake of my head. “Careful, Belmonte. You almost sounded sincere.”

“I’m always sincere.”

“I know. That’s what worries me.” I down the rest of my champagne, then offer him a wink.

He watches me walk away, and I pretend I don’t feel the weight and warmth of his gaze all the way down my spine.

But.

What would happen if I turned around and stopped pretending the way he says my name doesn’t flip my stomach like I’m taking Eau Rouge flat out during the Belgium GP?

The bassline of a classic jazz number throbs through the floor, warm and low, like a heartbeat. I still hear Nico’s voice in my ear, feel the press of his hand against my back. He always says my name like it’s something worth savoring.

No. No-no-no.

I shake my head and keep walking, because falling for Nico Belmonte would be as bad as crashing at Monaco — spectacular, public, and absolutely fucking devastating.

I’ve known Nico since I was a spotty-faced teen karting in dusty paddocks with duct-taped overalls and a mouth full of chewing gum and attitude. He’s my friend. My rival. Even was my teammate for a time.

There’s nothing going on there.

Never has been.

Never will be.

“Fuck’s sake, Petra. Don’t be a bloody idiot.”

I've spent twenty years proving I don't need anyone to stick around.

Why second-guess that now?

THE END