Page 15

Stella

I’ll be honest, if anyone had asked me if I knew the difference between Formula 1 and NASCAR before this week, I would have said no. But I was a straight-A student in school, and I’m hideously competitive on top of that, so I’ve done nothing but study up over the past few days in the moments between meetings and conference calls. I might as well be part of the pit crew at this point.

But no YouTube video or Wikipedia page could have prepared me for actually being at a race.

Vegas is probably not the best choice for my first to attend. For starters, the race is on a Saturday night instead of a Sunday—which, apparently, is not the norm—and as Thomas warned me, this is a grand prix on steroids.

I’m seeing that firsthand as we slowly pull into a cordoned-off parking area, having driven no more than a single mile per hour as Thomas fought through traffic to get here. Between the flashing neon lights, the crowds snapping photos, and the general chaos, I’m doubting my decision to make this our first public outing. Maybe I should have come for media day or for the practice sessions, when things would have been so much calmer, but we decided race day would be the most significant time to debut our relationship.

The new ring on my left hand is just loose enough that I can spin it around my finger, a nervous tic I’ve picked up in the short time since Thomas slid it on.

“I think Cartier suits you a little better than Krispy Kreme,” he joked as we both stared down at the diamond glinting in the light of my hotel room. “But I can get you another doughnut if you’d like.”

“I prefer diamonds,” I answered, unable to tear my eyes away from the ring.

Even now, as I twist it around and around, I’m still thrown by how much more I like it than the one étienne got for me. The solitaire diamond on this one is just as big as the other, but the band is slim and gold, compared to the thick, gem-studded platinum one of my first ring. It’s bold and flashy, just like you , étienne declared when he pushed the slightly-too-tight thing on my finger. I almost laughed when Thomas said nearly the exact opposite.

“I hope it’s not too much,” he fretted. “I know you said you didn’t care what I got, but I figured you’d want something classic. Nothing too gaudy. And with a gold band because all the jewelry I’ve seen you wear is gold.”

It’s wild that a man I met just over a week ago knows my taste better than the one I was with for five years—that he’s paid enough attention to notice such a small detail as my jewelry choices.

“Just enough,” I choked out.

We’ve only spoken a few words since we left my room. I’m tempted to crack some half-assed jokes to ease the tension, but nothing is coming to me. I roll my lips between my teeth and watch as Thomas eases the low-slung McMorris sports car into a parking space, turning the wheel with the heel of his palm like it’s nothing. And I suppose it is to a man who’s about to go race at stomach-dropping speeds.

There are already a few photographers milling around the car, taking pictures of us through the tinted windows. Part of me wants to turn to Thomas and demand he drive me back to the hotel, though thankfully there’s a braver part that has me swiping my tongue over my teeth to make sure there’s no lipstick on them and then hauling myself out of the passenger seat. My grin is brighter than the camera flashes.

Internally, though, I’m a quivering, shaking mess. I’m sure Thomas can feel it, especially when I slide my hand into his.

A look of shock passes over his face at the contact. “Jesus,” he breathes out, “your fingers are freezing .”

I nearly rip away from him, his words reminding me of étienne in the worst way possible at the worst moment possible. I’d rather be the one to pull back this time instead of being rejected, especially in front of all these cameras. But before I can, Thomas presses my hand to his chest, keeping his on top of mine to warm it. His gold wedding band shimmers under the lights.

“We’ve got to get you some gloves,” he comments, more to himself than to me. “I should have brought some, I’m sorry. Didn’t realize how chilly it was going to be tonight.”

He stares down at me, checking to make sure I’m okay, but I’m too surprised by his actions to reply. He must not believe I’m fine, because he gives me a reassuring smile next, then closes the small gap between us to speak into my ear.

“Just breathe,” he says, and I draw in a deep breath at his prompting, inhaling his clean scent along with the cool night air. “I’ll be right beside you.”

His words take the edge off, and I don’t drag my feet when he guides me toward the paddock’s security checkpoint. We both nod and smile to the staff there as we tap our passes against the checkpoint sensors. The fact that I even have a VIP pass on a lanyard draped around my neck makes me want to laugh, because who the hell would have thought I’d end up here?

I’m no stranger to red carpets or high-profile events, but this isn’t just some event , despite the handful of celebrities I’ve already spotted. I’m here to support my husband— God , that’s still wild to say—at his job. My role today is doting wife, the kind who keeps her mouth shut and smiles and sticks to the sidelines…or whatever the motorsport equivalent of the sidelines is.

Thomas and I agreed that we’d walk in together so we could be seen by photographers and fans, but after that I’d slink away to the McMorris hospitality suite. Which is fine with me, because as we make our way into the chaos of the paddock, I’m realizing this is…a lot. It’s loud and crowded and there are so many things happening at once that I don’t even know where to look. But there are plenty of eyes on us.

“Everyone is watching you,” I murmur from the corner of my mouth, keeping a practiced but pleasant smile on my face.

Thomas gives a slight shrug, like all of this mayhem is perfectly normal. “You get used to it.”

I’m skeptical. “Really?”

“Well, you learn to ignore it,” he corrects, lifting a hand and grinning broadly at someone on the other side of the busy pathway. “And you learn how to deal. It’s part of the game.”

I thought I was playing the game already, but clearly not. This is a whole different level.

He greets everyone we pass, from fans with paddock passes to members of rival teams. He jokingly salutes a few people wearing hideous red-white-and-blue uniforms and good-naturedly slaps Dev Anderson’s shoulder. He even stops to take a picture with a gaggle of children who can’t be more than eight years old and should be in bed by now. For supposedly being hated, he’s faring pretty well around here as far as I can tell.

But that changes when a group of people in head-to-toe red uniforms walks by us, and all Thomas gets when he attempts to offer them a smile are cold silence and disgusted glances.

“Let me guess,” I murmur. “That’s the Scuderia D’Ambrosi crew?”

I already know it is, just like I’ve known a lot of the faces and team colors so far—I’ve done my research. But Thomas’s sigh and his slumping shoulders tell me more about the situation than any website or article ever could.

“They don’t all hate me,” he tries to reassure, though he’s clearly saying it more for his benefit than mine. “Reid Coleman, their other driver, knows I didn’t mean what I said. Although, he’s not talking to me at the moment either, so I can’t really say for certain that he hasn’t been convinced to hate me.”

I file that detail away. It might not ever be relevant, but it’s probably good to know the dynamics between him and the other drivers.

“Have you tried making nice with the guy you talked shit about?” I ask, clinging a little tighter to him as we pass by a group of people with their phones raised, recording every move we make.

Thomas shakes his head. “I apologized and explained myself after the video came out, and he laughed in my face. I haven’t been able to get in contact with him since the crash, though. I don’t think any of the drivers have. And no one from D’Ambrosi will even acknowledge me, as you just saw, so I can’t ask them anything. I just want to know how he’s doing.”

There’s a new forced quality to Thomas’s smile. He’s not happy with the situation, and I wouldn’t be surprised if guilt was eating away at him. He probably hates himself more than anyone else out there ever could, and the gut punch I get thinking about that makes me almost stumble.

“Is there anything I can do?”

A dip of surprise appears between his brows before clearing away. “No, I don’t think so. But I appreciate the offer.”

I nod, trying to brainstorm how I might be able to help, though I’m pulled out of my thoughts when he slowly draws me to a halt in front of a set of stairs leading to McMorris’s hospitality motorhome, the team name lit up in green neon lights.

“Unless you want a garage tour, this is where we part ways,” he says, and I slip my hand from his, my heart rate ticking up.

But instead of bidding me adieu and leaving me to fend for myself, Thomas turns toward me and cups my shoulders, waiting for my answer. I glance across the paddock toward the back end of the team garages, noting the team members flowing in and out. A tour means being introduced to everyone working in there, so that’s a big no thank you .

“I’d rather go hide now, if that’s okay,” I reply, strangely comforted by the contact of his hands on me. He’s had them in places far less appropriate, and yet this has me melting a little bit.

Maybe he’s just doing it for the cameras. Or maybe he’s just a touchy-feely kind of guy who doesn’t think twice about this stuff. Whatever it is, I’m thankful for it.

“Perfectly acceptable. I’ll get my assistant to take you up to the suite.” He glances around, frowning as he looks for someone. “She said she’d meet us here, but—oh shit.”

I jump when a woman practically materializes out of thin air beside us. The brunette can’t be taller than five feet, but she has the energy of a six-foot-six linebacker.

“You’re late,” she snaps at him, eyes narrowed. “You were supposed to be here half an hour ago.”

She’s speaking English, but it takes me an extra beat to comprehend the words in her thick Irish accent. Despite her tone, which I’d never allow anyone who worked for me to use, this must be his assistant.

I should apologize since I’m the reason he’s late. He would have been here sooner if he didn’t have to worry about sliding a ring onto my finger. But before I can speak, Thomas shifts so his arm is around my shoulders and I’m tucked into his side.

“Sorry, Maeve.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Stella and I got a little caught up. Lost track of time.”

Emerald eyes flick to me before returning their venom to Thomas. “What you’re not going to do is place any blame on your beautiful wife. I already know you can’t tell time.”

I’m both flattered and taken aback. And yet Thomas looks perfectly content with her ribbing, his smile genuine as he peers down at her. Jesus, I think he likes it. No wonder he understands my humor.

“No one tell the watch brand that sponsors the team,” he says cheerily. “Anyway, I should run. Would you mind escorting Stella up to the suite and getting her settled?”

Maeve scowls. “She’s a perfectly capable woman, Thomas. Don’t act like she’s some child who needs her hand held.”

“I’m not—”

“But yes, Stella,” she continues on, turning to me. There’s a sparkle in her eyes that tells me this is the typical dynamic between them, and she enjoys it as much as he does. “I’d be happy to take you up. I’ll give you a moment with your husband to wish him luck. He’s going to need it.”

With a little wave, she saunters off, and I glance up at Thomas in near disbelief. “Well, she’s…something.”

He nods. “I’m sure you’ll get along fine. She also thinks the English are a bunch of twats.”

“I never said that.”

“You’re American, it’s ingrained in your DNA.”

I snort, and it gains me a glimpse of satisfaction on Thomas’s face, as if making me laugh is his new favorite thing.

I’m acutely aware of his arm around me, the heat of his body seeping into mine. Last Friday night’s shenanigans flicker on the edges of my memory—the soft press of his mouth over mine, his broad palm under my dress, his sturdy chest to my back, our hearts racing in tandem. It was all so reckless, and yet the flashback has me wrapping my arm around his waist in return, not fighting the desire to hold him closer. I’d be breaking my own rules if we weren’t in public. If he questions me, I’ll give that as an excuse, even if my reasoning is simply that I crave the comfort the contact brings. It doesn’t have to be more than that, does it?

Thomas must be able to read my mind, or maybe my thoughts are just written on my face, because his gaze drops to my lips. In my black pumps, I’m once again not much shorter than him. It’s the perfect distance for a kiss. For me to tilt my chin up a little and for him to dip his head. So easy. Too easy.

A camera flash has me blinking, snapping me out of thoughts that were quickly growing dangerous. I start to turn my head to see where it came from—and to give myself some much-needed distance from my husband—but Thomas’s fingers on my jaw stop me.

His eyes are darker in the paddock’s floodlights but no less blue. Still easy to sink into. To drown in.

“Should we give our onlookers a show?” he asks softly.

The ground is unsteady beneath me as his mouth lifts in a knowing smile. I’m struggling to find my footing, desperate to grasp the upper hand again. One look shouldn’t be enough to practically knock me on my ass. I should be doing that to him .

“Are you asking me for a good luck kiss, Thomas?” I finally volley back, batting my lashes. Really, though, it’s to clear away the hearts that have descended over my vision.

“Mm, I think I need it,” he says, tugging me against him until our chests are flush.

It’s bold as hell, far more than I was expecting from Mr. Buttoned-Up while sober. We do have a show to put on, though, and there are plenty of cameras catching this, but it doesn’t feel as fake as it should.

“I’m adding no flirting to our list of rules,” I muse as his hand moves to cup the back of my neck.

“Come on, Stella. Where’s the fun in that?”

His mouth is on mine before I can answer, stealing away my words and my breath. Compared to our past kisses, this is chaste. It’s even tender. There’s no brush of tongues or biting of lips. Nothing fierce or commanding about it. This is the quick, casual touch that a couple in love would share without a second thought. It’s the exact thing we need in this moment. It’s us saying, Of course we’re the real deal, can’t you see?

Or at least that’s what it’s meant to be until I make the mistake of curling my fingers into his shirt as he starts to draw away. I don’t mean to do it. I think. Okay, maybe I do mean to, but this is just so nice that I don’t want it to be over so soon. Is that such a crime?

And clearly Thomas doesn’t mind, because he draws me closer and kisses me again like it’s his absolute pleasure.

But it’s over almost as fast as it happened, our lips parting slowly. I know I need to bring back my practiced smile and act like that kind of kiss is something we share on a regular basis, but I’m blinking up at him like my whole world’s been rocked. All over an innocent kiss. I’m losing it.

I clear my throat and release his shirt from my grasp, focusing my attention on smoothing out the wrinkles I made. Doting wife, am I right?

“That should be enough luck to get you on the podium,” I quip, amazed I can even find my voice.

“I think that’s enough to get me the win.”

I glance up at the laugh in his voice to find him grinning down at me, that same slightly dazed sheen in his eyes that I know is still in mine too.

“Now, now, don’t get ahead of yourself.” I pat his chest again. Not that I need to, since his shirt is smooth. It’s just… damn , this man is built. “Go win me a trophy. Any size will do.”

“I bet you wouldn’t say that about most things.”

I snort and cover my face in an attempt to smother it, but Thomas reaches up to pull my hand away, revealing the smile I’m trying to hide.

“Whatever my wife wants, my wife gets,” he says before pressing a kiss to my knuckles like a true fairy-tale prince. “See you after the race.”

My head is full of clouds as we step away from each other. I somehow make it over to where Maeve is standing, ignoring how she’s rocking back on her heels with her hands clutched in front of her, fully smug. She’s kind enough not to bring up what she’s witnessed, instead instructing me to follow her a little farther down the paddock to get to the entrance of the suites that sit above the team garages.

I know I shouldn’t, but I glance over my shoulder to see if I can still spot Thomas. A jolt of giddiness passes through my chest when I find him standing with a group of fans, the grin that I inspired lingering as he scrawls his autograph on items. It’s so endearing that I’m mirroring that same gooberish look, waiting to see how long it takes to disappear from his face—which means I’m not watching where I’m going.

I might have thought Maeve had linebacker energy, but turns out I’m the actual one. The woman I run smack into stumbles back like she’s hit a brick wall, and I have to dart out a hand to keep her from landing hard on the concrete. Her curtain of dark curls flies into her face, leaving me staring down at a faceless figure in red. Fucking great. I’ve nearly wiped a D’Ambrosi employee off the face of the planet. Thomas and I are two for two when it comes to making these people hate us. It’s like we were made for each other.

I force that thought away and check the woman over for damage, but she seems to be fine, thank goodness.

“Are you okay?” I ask, still clutching her shoulder as she uses her other arm to flip her hair back into its rightful place. “I’m so sorry about that.”

Her light brown cheeks are flushed, but she doesn’t seem upset that I’ve almost killed her. “No, I’m sorry,” she rushes to say, eyes about level with my chest. She’s the same height as Maeve, and with the two of them flanking me, I’m starting to feel like a giant. “I was too busy taking pictures and I wasn’t watching where I was—”

She finally looks up at me, the words dying on her lips with a small squeak. Her eyes go wide and her jaw hangs open in a way that would be unflattering if she wasn’t so fucking cute.

“Holy shit,” she breathes out, gazing at me like she’s just found the love of her life. “You’re Stella Margaux.”

I don’t get recognized all that often, but it happens. And I’m sure it’s going to happen more now that my viral rant will haunt the internet for the rest of eternity. Maybe that’s where she recognizes me from, though I doubt she’d be vibrating with excitement over meeting someone who acted a whole fool for the world to see.

“I was the last time I checked,” I say with a smile, praying she’s not about to bring up the video.

Her face brightens even more, like a full ray of sunshine beaming through the paddock. She even has dimples in both cheeks.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she gushes, hands clutching together around the phone she was likely taking pictures with. “I’m a huge fan. I’m really trying not to freak out right now.”

I’d say she’s doing a decent job, considering she hasn’t tried to barrel me down with a hug or started crying, which I saw Dev Anderson dealing with as we walked in. I’m not on that level of fame anyway, though she’s gazing at me as if I am.

“Congrats on your wedding, by the way,” she goes on. “When I saw you’d married Thomas, I told my boyfriend I hoped we’d see you in the paddock.”

I take my hand off her shoulder and use it to jokingly frame my face. “Here I am.” It’s always a little strange when someone knows all about me when I don’t even know their name. I glance down at her uniform again, searching for a topic change. “You work for D’Ambrosi?”

That snaps her out of the fangirl haze. “I’m Reid Coleman’s social media manager,” she explains before sticking her hand out to me. Her handshake is surprisingly firm. “Willow Williams.”

“So nice to meet you, Willow.”

And it is. It’s always nice to meet a fan of my businesses and products. But instead of basking in it and taking comfort that my recent scandals haven’t put everyone off me, I’m focusing on her job—or really, who she works for.

Reid Coleman. Didn’t Thomas say Reid wasn’t speaking to him? If anyone’s going to know anything about Lorenzo Castellucci and his condition, it would probably be his teammate.

Thomas might have told me there wasn’t anything I could do to help, but I think the key to doing so has just crashed into my life.

“Hey,” I say, hand back on her shoulder. “If you have time, I’d love to sit and chat…”