Page 6

Thomas

Nothing about tonight is going the way I expected. And that’s a good thing.

I presumed this party was going to teeter somewhere between a bore and a nightmare, but right now, it’s sitting on a completely different scale. All because of Stella.

She held on to my elbow during the journey from the high rollers’ room back down to the casino floor, supposedly because of her shoes, which she proclaimed were nothing short of a thousand-dollar death trap , but I’m choosing to believe she just wanted an opportunity to feel me up. Now she’s sitting next to me on the party bus, our shoulders and thighs pressed together thanks to the crowd pushing in from all sides. They were already a rowdy bunch, but after money won and lost and a handful more drinks in their systems, they’re even worse.

We’re jostled and tossed about as the bus lurches into motion. Almost everyone is cheering, ready for the next part of the night, and some of my earlier apprehension creeps back in now that we’ve left the safety and security of the casino.

“You’re doing that British thing again,” Stella shouts over the music.

I glance down at her, brow furrowing, but I’m tempted to laugh nonetheless. Some of the things she says…they truly come out of nowhere. But fuck if it doesn’t get my mind off the thoughts that haunt me. “I’m sorry?”

“That.” She lifts a finger to motion to my face before contorting her mouth into a confused mix between a pitying smile and a grimace. “That face is very ‘my family is titled and I have a career that requires me to wear a powdered wig, but I swear I’m a man of the people.’?” The statement is said in the worst attempt at an English accent I think I’ve ever heard. Like if Queen Elizabeth II grew up in Liverpool but was also somehow South African.

This time, I can’t hold back a guffaw. “Are you serious? I literally told you I’m a Formula 1 driver.”

“You didn’t deny the title,” she says, though she moves on before I can even try to do so. “Are you really having that awful a time, your highness?”

I hitch my chin higher to sell my forthcoming joke. “The proper address for me is ‘my lord.’?”

Her eyes go wide. “Are you seri—”

“I’m kidding ,” I interrupt, laughing as I bump her shoulder with mine. Americans. So gullible. “I don’t have a title.” My grandfather does, but she doesn’t need to know that. “And no, I’m not having that awful a time.”

“Maybe tell that to your face.”

“Well then, maybe someone should explain to my face why the bride and groom are currently trying to consume each other five feet away from us.”

I’ve been attempting to ignore it, to focus instead on the gorgeous woman beside me, but it’s hard to block out the two people practically dry humping at the front of the bus.

Stella leans forward to peer around me.

“Now you’re doing the British thing,” I point out when she produces a grimacing smile. “But I guess it’s nice to see just how in love they are.”

“Nah, it’s sickening,” she confirms. “Still happy for them, though.”

Something in her expression changes then, and her attention darts away from the entirely-too-happy couple. Instead, it settles on the woman who’s just dropped into a seat across from us. Even with the motion of the bus, the woman’s short hair doesn’t move a centimeter.

Her eyes narrow as she takes in the two of us, as if she’s not enjoying what she sees. When Stella suddenly throws her long legs across my knees like she’s claiming me and smirks back at the woman, I start to understand what’s going on here.

This is a game. And it probably has been all along, from the very second she laid eyes on me.

Stella sucks in a breath when I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her into my side. I get a hit of her perfume as I do. It’s something sharp but sweet, like a citrus bloom off the coast of somewhere warm. Someplace I’ve been before and couldn’t get enough of.

I inhale it again as I bring my lips down to her ear. “Was I just a challenge to you?” I murmur, glancing at the other woman for a split second before returning my gaze to Stella. “Part of whatever game you’re playing?”

Her eyes swing up to mine, almost Bambi-like with their innocence, but she’s grinning. “It’s not exactly a game,” she says, not upset that I’ve caught on. I think she’s proud of me. “But would you be mad if I said you were part of it?”

“No,” I admit. I knew she was prowling from the start; the reason for it doesn’t matter. “I’m flattered you thought I was good enough to play along.” I spare another look at the woman, who’s frowning so deeply that I fear her face might get stuck that way. “Do you need more help with whatever it is you’re trying to prove to that woman?”

“I wouldn’t say no,” Stella muses. “But just so you’re aware, it wasn’t about you specifically. I mainly wanted to show her that I could act like a ‘nasty little slut’ if I wanted to.”

I blink, pulling back a little, though not letting her go. “Excuse me?”

“Her words, not mine,” she reassures, reaching up to pat my cheek. She’s clearly not going to explain past that. “But it’s cute how that ruffled you.”

“Not ruffled.” After all, those words have left my lips before, though only in the bedroom and only when agreed upon. “Just surprised.”

Her hand slips to my neck, fingers cool against my heated skin. “So…you still want to help me with proving that?”

I’m sure she can feel the way my pulse thuds at the base of my throat. That should be answer enough. I have questions, though. “That depends. Are you trying to prove it for real or just for appearances?”

Her touch stills, but her eyes stay locked on mine, searching for something, like maybe they hold the answer she’s looking for. The truth is, I don’t even know what answer I’m hoping for. But with each drink and every second I spend with her, I’m starting to think I want to invite a little trouble into my life. Besides, it would only be for tonight. I don’t get the feeling she’d want more than that, and I’m not looking for it either.

“I haven’t quite decided yet,” she finally says.

I nod, free hand sliding over her thighs, skimming the feathered hem of her dress. I swear the woman across from us is about to explode with rage. “I can work with that.”

Stella’s brows rise, her eyes still not looking away. It’s almost a staring contest at this point, the prequel to more challenges I’m sure are to come. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I repeat, gently stroking her leg. She has the softest skin I’ve ever touched. If I were to slide my hand higher, would the rest of her be just as soft? “But you call the shots. You tell me how far we take this. You tell me to stop, I stop. No questions.”

“What a gentleman,” she drawls, reminding me of the women from earlier, and I have to wonder if she saw that interaction—if that’s when she first set her sights on me. “But okay. I think you and I could have some fun tonight.”

“We haven’t already?”

Her grin tells me everything so far has only been a warm-up.

“Then I guess I’m in for—” I cut short when my phone buzzes in the pocket of my trousers. “One second,” I tell Stella as I reluctantly pull my hand away from her thighs to grab it. When I see who’s calling, I can’t hold back an eye roll. It’s like she knows when I’m paying attention to another woman.

Sending the call to voicemail, I move to put the device back in my pocket so I can return to my conversation with Stella. Before I can, it rings again, Figgy’s name and picture—one that she programmed in my phone herself—reappearing. I decline it even faster this time.

“Someone you don’t want to talk to?”

I glance at Stella, expecting her to be staring at the bubbly blonde who pops up on my screen once more, but she’s looking at me. There’s no judgment in her tone or her eyes, just calm curiosity.

So that’s probably why I confess, “It’s the girl my parents want me to marry.”

She’s surprised by my honesty, blinking rapidly a few times, but she’s grinning sharply a split second later, like her choice to talk to me has really paid off. I’m fascinating after all.

“I’m guessing you’re not interested in that,” she surmises.

“No, not in the slightest.” It’s easy to admit this to someone who doesn’t know me, who doesn’t know Figgy or our history or our families. Or maybe it’s just easy admitting things to Stella. Feels only fair after she confessed to her failed wedding. “She’s never been my type.”

Stella lifts her chin, neck on perfect display, tempting me to lean in and press my lips to the space where it meets her jaw. “What’s your type, Thomas?”

You. “Not her.”

Stella takes that in. I don’t miss the way her eyes flick to my mouth, like she was imagining the same thing I was. She recovers better, back to looking up at me through her lashes as her fingers find the hair that brushes my collar, playfully twisting the strands. Not even the woman huffing loudly across the bus can get me to look away.

“I’ve told you my story,” Stella says. “Time to tell me yours.”

Mine isn’t nearly as interesting, but I always reciprocate.

“Born and raised in London,” I begin, phone in my hand still flashing with Figgy’s face. “Middle child—one older brother, one older sister, and two younger sisters. Started kart racing when I was five because my brother was doing it and I wanted to be just like him. He eventually gave it up, went to university instead, but I stuck with it. I won championships in the UK and then around the world. Left school at fourteen. Moved to single-seaters and worked my way up through the Formulas.” There’s a hell of a lot more that happened over those years, but this is only supposed to be an overview. “Now here I am at the pinnacle of motorsport, driving for the team I was obsessed with as a kid.”

She makes a thoughtful sound. “Living the dream, are you?”

What gets me is how she doesn’t seem particularly impressed. Like all of this is routine. Like she’s met far more accomplished people in her life. I wouldn’t doubt that she has, and something about that—the lack of fawning, the acceptance of my story as completely normal—makes me like her even more.

But her question…Does she realize how loaded it is? Sure, five years in Formula 1 and a handful of wins under my belt should constitute living the dream . But is it, when you really look underneath it all? When I’ve never won a championship and likely never will? When I’m loathed by a broad majority? When my family is pushing for me to settle down so I can have something to focus on when the dream ultimately ends? An end that could come at any time in a sport like this?

“Not really, no,” I hear myself say through the familiar spiral.

I don’t mean to confess it. I’m all about honesty, but this…this isn’t something I’ve even been completely honest with myself about yet. Of course I’m living the dream. It shouldn’t even be a doubt in my mind.

Yet it is.

The question is in her expression before her lips can form the words. But she doesn’t get a chance to ask it, because the bus comes to a hard stop that would have had her toppling to the floor if I hadn’t grabbed her legs again.

“Thanks, Prince Charming,” she chirps, shooting me a wink. It lightens the weight that’s settled on my chest, the one that always comes when I start thinking a little too hard about my life and career.

I even welcome the distraction of Ron grabbing the microphone and announcing that we’ve arrived at our next stop, as if we couldn’t already tell by the most aggressive braking I’ve ever experienced, even as a professional driver.

Stella taps my knuckles, prompting me to let her go so she can put her feet on the ground. I’m a little more reluctant to slip my arm from around her shoulders, but the lack of contact is brief, since she’s quick to lift her lips to my ear and grab my hand.

“I won’t abandon you, I promise,” she murmurs. I can’t see her smirk, but I can feel it. “Besides, the look on Daphne’s face is just too good.”

My eyes rise from our hands to the woman across from us who’s just stood up. Her mouth is puckered like she’s taken a hard suck on a lemon, hands fluttering over her white dress as she roughly brushes out nonexistent wrinkles in the fabric. I don’t understand what her problem with Stella is, but she’s not doing anything to endear herself to me.

And because sometimes I can’t resist the urge to stir a little shit, I lift the back of Stella’s hand to my mouth and press a lingering kiss to her skin.

“Shall we head inside, darling?” I ask, loud enough to be heard over the music—and by Daphne.

Delight flashes across Stella’s face as I stand and help her up. Does the action force Daphne to take a stumbling step back to avoid getting trampled by Stella’s stilettos? Perhaps. Do I care? Not in the slightest.

“You’re going to have to tell me the whole story about what’s going on with you and that woman,” I murmur to Stella as she slips past me in the aisle, making me the buffer between her and Daphne.

She snickers and tosses her hair, the black silk curtain tumbling across her shoulders. I get another hit of her scent when she does, tart and fresh. It suits her perfectly. “All you need to know is that she’s another one of my cousins and a judgmental monster,” she whispers back. “And I’m pretty sure she sold the story about my wedding to the press.”

“In that case, she’s public enemy number one in my book.”

Stella’s laugh brushes over me like a caress. “Glad you’re on my team.”

Our linked fingers rest just above the lush curve of her ass as she leads me off the bus and through the doors of another hotel on the Strip. The familiar anxiety of being spotted creeps into my stomach, but it fades a little when Stella glances back at me, almost like she can sense my hesitance. Still, I’m tempted to let go of her hand; the last thing I need is to be publicly linked to anyone in the midst of the Lorenzo Castellucci drama. Stella doesn’t deserve it either.

Thankfully, the raucous crowd surrounding us acts as a shield, and any photographers would have to work hard to spot us through it, so I hold tight to her as our party is herded through the expansive lobby.

As we walk, I press close to her, wanting to pick up our conversation again. “Why is your cousin so rude to you?” I ask as we turn down a wide, shop-lined corridor.

Stella easily keeps up with my long strides, even in those wild heels that make her nearly as tall as me. “Daphne’s always been like that. One of those people who thinks if you don’t live life exactly like her, you’re doing it wrong. We’ve never gotten along, but Janelle keeps trying to convince me to give her a chance since we’re family.”

I almost snort. I know damn well blood can mean nothing, but I keep the comment to myself. “Janelle seems very kind,” I say instead.

And Ron’s a lucky man to have swung a woman like that, because the more I learn about her, the less I understand how he pulled it off. The guy I knew growing up was practically a bully—but then again, so was my older brother, and now he just ignores me. Maybe some people do change.

“She is,” Stella confirms. “She’s sweet and softhearted. Biggest romantic you’ll ever meet. But she’s a shark in the courtroom. If you ever need a defense attorney in Georgia, she’s your woman.” There’s a pause before she hesitantly says, “Well, I…guess not anymore, considering she’s moving to London with Ron after their honeymoon.”

I can feel the dip in her mood, though she’s quick to beam up at me again, trying to mask it. Underneath it all, she’s not happy about Janelle giving up her career or moving to another country. Maybe both.

Or maybe it’s about something else entirely. I won’t pretend I know her—I met the woman barely two hours ago, even if being around her feels entirely too comfortable.

“Has she not already been living there?” I ask. I couldn’t say why I’m curious, but Stella and Janelle’s dynamic is unfamiliar to me. I have cousins, sure, but we barely know each other.

“She’s been splitting her time between there and Atlanta,” Stella explains. “And I live in DC, so it’s not like we see each other all that often, but…it’s going to be harder once she’s permanently across an ocean.”

“Planes exist,” I point out, flashing her a cheeky smile as I bump her elbow, compelled to cheer her up for some reason.

This time, her grin is far more authentic. “ And I’m rich enough to fly private.” She then sobers some. “But I won’t. Because I care about the environment.”

“Wow, someone better get you the Nobel Prize.”

“Thank you, I’m very deserving.”

As I stifle a laugh, we’re guided into a dimly lit restaurant. I keep my head down as we’re led past tables of other patrons until we reach a private room. There’s a crystal chandelier hanging low over a long table, which is outfitted with lavish place settings—and, unfortunately, place cards with names on them.

“Damn. Assigned seating,” I mumble, spotting Stella’s name at the end of the table, but mine is nowhere near it. “Think they’d notice if we switched around the cards?”

“Janelle absolutely would. She probably spent hours figuring out this seating plan.” Stella lets out a soft huff of fond amusement, and then her eyes swing up to mine again. “Can you bear being separated from me for eight courses?”

I heave a sigh, reluctantly letting her hand slip from mine. “It’ll be a struggle, but I’ll try.”

Her laugh draws eyes. Several sets of them linger, even from the men I know are married or in committed relationships, but I can’t blame them.

It’s unreal how beautiful she is. If she hadn’t already told me she’d modeled in the past, I would have guessed as much. With legs that long and bone structure that perfect, it would have been a waste if she’d never been in front of a camera. Even now, the fact that she doesn’t plaster her face across her storefronts around the world is a shame. This is a woman who deserves to be on billboards.

But a still photo couldn’t capture what she’s like in motion. It’s the way her full lips pull into a smile, or how her nearly black irises catch the light in such a way that it makes me wonder if there are actual sparkles in them. And I can’t deny that the way the silk of her dress clings to the curves of her hips when she moves just right has my trousers feeling a little tighter. She’s a dream come to life.

“Looks like she’s put me between those two,” Stella says, either unaware of the handful of men still staring at her or choosing to ignore them. She nods to the footballers standing behind their chairs. “I think they’re Ron’s former teammates.”

She’s right, and my stomach sours over the idea of them being near her. It’s uncalled-for and frankly ridiculous, considering I have absolutely no claim to her, but I’m dismayed nonetheless. I don’t want Stella to move on to a different target—I was perfectly happy to see where being her chosen prey would lead. Even if it was just hours of conversation, even if all I got were a few stolen touches, it would have been better than anything else this night could have brought.

I can’t help the sudden wave of possessiveness that crashes over me. Without thinking twice, I slip a hand behind her neck, my thumb brushing against her racing pulse. I want to press against it. Want to hear her gasp in surprise. Want to feel her give in to it.

As it is, I enjoy the way she tilts her head back, relaxing into my touch, waiting for me to explain the move. But I can’t explain any of this. Not my actions or this desire to make her want to remember me.

“Don’t forget about me in the meantime, yeah?” I murmur, resisting the urge to grip her a little tighter, to drag her to me. To taste that smirk on her lips.

“Oh, Thomas,” she chides, but her dark eyes are wickedly alight. “You’re unforgettable.”