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 an idiot,” I mumble, ducking my head.
“No, you’re not,” he says and pulls me into a gentle hug. “We all have those one-night-stand regrets, and you’re an adult. You’re allowed to sleep with who you want and for whatever reason you want.”
“You don’t think less of me?” I ask, my voice pitifully small.
“Never,” he vows and puts his hands on my shoulders. “You’re a daring, badass formula race car driver. You play by whatever rules you want, and you keep that chin up high, sí?”
I nod as warmth floods my body, my fondness for Carlos and his reassurances making me forget the terrible feelings.
“Now, do you want me to kick his ass for you?” he asks, his handsome face earnest as he ducks to look me in the eye.
I laugh, shaking my head. “No… he didn’t do anything wrong. He did exactly as I should have expected.”
I don’t tell Carlos that it was the best sex of my life and I’ll live on those memories, so at least I’ll get something out of it. I don’t tell him that I thought we had a connection that went beyond lust. Instead, I nod over to where Lex, Posey, Nash and Bex are still laughing. “Come on… let’s go hang with our friends and have some fun.”
We weave back through the crowd, the air warm with too many bodies and the faint tang of champagne. Carlos steps into conversation with Lex and Nash, while Bex turns to me. “Posey and I were watching you at the bar and we swear the back of your gown makes you the biggest sexpot here tonight.”
I snort. “Every once in a while, I do enjoy pretending I’m not a race car driver.”
Posey laughs. “Well, you definitely look like you strut the catwalks of Milan. Seriously, if this whole racing thing doesn’t pan out, you’ll make a killing as a model.”
The conversation flows effortlessly, and for a few minutes, I’m lulled by it—the hum of voices, the clink of glassware, the occasional flash of a camera from somewhere near the entrance.
But my eyes keep straying.
Across the ballroom, Ronan stands near the champagne tower with the blond on his arm. They’re surrounded by a swarm of people, all angled toward them like planets around a sun. He’s nodding at something someone says, glass in hand, but his shoulders are a touch too square.
And then, as if conjured from my own worst imagination, Ronan takes the woman’s hand and heads straight toward us.
The crowd seems to part without effort—Ronan moving with that casual, unhurried confidence he wears like a bespoke suit. The iced blond beauty follows with a natural grace that makes me feel cloddish. My pulse spikes, and I have to remind myself not to fidget with my gown, not to touch my hair, not to look like I’m bracing for impact.
But that’s exactly what it feels like—impact.
I’m surprised when Lex offers him an easy smile, although Posey does not. The two shake hands and Ronan looks to Carlos, who gives him a cool nod. Ronan looks around and says, “Everyone, Lady Amelia Fairfax.”
Lady. Of course she’s a Lady.
Her head tips in a perfect nod, her smile symmetrical, her accent the kind of crisp British that belongs in drawing rooms and BBC period dramas. “It’s lovely to meet Ronan’s friends,” she says, and somehow makes it sound like we’ve been granted an audience with her. I have to suppress my curtsy.
She’s friendly enough, charming even, but within two minutes of polite chatter about the weather in London and the “divine” champagne selection, I can tell she’s about as deep as a champagne flute—sparkling, light and gone in one gulp.
I keep my smile fixed, my interactions warm, but inside, my stomach is in knots. Ronan isn’t even pretending to focus on her—his eyes keep sliding to me, watching me like there’s something he’s waiting for. It’s infuriating. If you’re going to show up with a date, fine. But don’t look at me like that. Like last night’s still running through your head.
I pivot sharply to Carlos. “Dance with me?”
His eyebrows jump, but his grin follows quickly because he knows what’s going on. He takes my hand with a courtly flourish. “It would be my honor.”
The dance floor is a swirl of movement—sequins catching light, perfume lingering, the band playing a melody that is smooth and unhurried. Carlos slides an arm around my waist, leading with an easy confidence, and for a moment I let him guide me through the slow arcs.
But as we move around the perimeter of the floor, the heat of Ronan’s stare is tangible, and it only winds me tighter. Carlos is trying to talk—some comment about how Lex’s tux must have been tailored by angels—but my replies are short as my irritation grows.
I dare a glance over at the group and sure enough, Ronan is watching me with eyes like a hawk. I avert my eyes until Carlos spins me around in a full circle, and yes… he’s still watching.