Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
I’m not usually the bombshell type, but tonight I glammed up in all the ways a woman can. I’m wearing a slinky, curve-hugging gown, made of deep emerald silk that clings in all the right places and drapes low in the back. My hair is in a glossy wave over one shoulder, my makeup smoky and sharp. As an athlete, most of my days are spent with a fresh face and my hair in a ponytail, so it’s always a bit of a shock when I see the made-up version of myself in a mirror. I swear I look like someone else entirely.
Hopefully, someone who belongs here.
Bex leans forward to look at me. “Smile for the cameras, rookie.”
I lift my chin, managing a cross between a smirk and a pose. “Feels like a firing squad.”
“You get used to it,” Nash says, and like a true gentleman tucks my hand into the arm opposite Bex as we walk the carpet. “Or you fake it well enough that people think you have.”
Inside, the noise dulls to a low hum of cultured conversation. I should be thinking about sponsors and small talk, but instead, my mind drifts to Ronan—specifically, to the way he slipped out of my bed in the dead of night without so much as a note.
It shouldn’t sting. We agreed—no strings, just sex. And yet… here I am, pretending that my heart didn’t notice the empty space beside me this morning.
So tonight, I’ll be cordial. Aloof, even. Best way to keep him from getting any deeper under my skin. And if my sexy gown just happens to drive him slightly crazy, that’s a bonus.
The first familiar face we spot is Carlos, already nursing a whiskey and checking out the scene. He’s in a charcoal suit with a black shirt, no tie, looking as if he stepped off a magazine cover.
Nash and Carlos give backslaps and he kisses Bex’s cheek. They move off with the promise to return after they get cocktails at the bar.
“Look at you.” Carlos grins, pulling me into a hug. “And here I thought I’d have the most heads turning tonight.”
As if by magic, a waiter appears with a tray of champagne flutes. I take one, intent to stick with this and nothing heavier since I’m not a big drinker.
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say, taking a small sip.
“Please, I’ll allow it,” Carlos says, clinking his glass lightly against mine.
We chat for a bit, Carlos pointing out the who’s who in FI sponsors. We spot Lex and Posey walking down the carpet and through the wide-open doors into the lobby reception. He’s all clean lines in classic black tie and she’s stunning in a pale gold gown that catches the light with every step. We wave, and they head toward us.
“Francesca,” Lex says with a wide smile. “This is my Posey.”
My heart melts at the tenderness in his voice and the way he called her “my Posey.” I’ve been quite eager to meet the American romance author. She offers her hand, her smile genuine and bright. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m very excited about your debut in FI. First Harley Patrick as a team principal, Brienne Norcross as a team owner, and now you as a driver. Women are going to rule the world one day.”
“You are my soul sister,” I joke, and she laughs softly, her grip firm and confident.
Carlos gestures subtly toward a tall, silver-haired man across the lobby. “There’s Charles Hadden.”
“Making a splash,” Lex snorts.
“Who’s Charles Hadden?” I ask.
“CEO of Brenwick Aviation. See the woman with him?”
Posey and I look that way. She’s young, barely looks eighteen. “His daughter?”
Lex chuckles. “His third wife. The second was barely twenty-five.”
Carlos shakes his head. “The first one left him for a yacht captain.”
“Guess that’s one way to keep things interesting,” I say, and we all laugh quietly before the conversation drifts back to the room around us.
Nash and Bex join us again and we lapse into talk about racing, because… that’s what we do. I’m laughing at a joke Carlos made when movement through the open doors catches my eye. A sleek black limo has pulled up and Ronan is stepping out. I see glimpses of him as other people circulate around the grand lobby and my breath catches. His tux is perfectly cut, crisp white shirt open at the collar just enough to look dangerous. His hair is swept back, face clean-shaven, the whole effect so effortlessly male it’s almost obscene. The cameras pop like gunfire.
Then he turns back to the car and offers a hand.
A tall, impossibly polished blond steps out—silvery gown, legs for days, the kind of beauty that looks like she has a filter over her. She tucks herself neatly against his side, his arm goes around her waist, and they smile in perfect sync for the cameras. The photographers surge forward, shouting his name.