Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
A touch on my knee makes me jump, and Carlos leans toward me, his face etched with concern. “Are you okay? I lost you there again.”
“I’m sorry,” I stammer, rubbing my hands over my face. “Just… memories, you know?”
“I’m sorry I brought it up,” he says, chastened. “Not my business.”
“No,” I exclaim, reaching out to grab his hand. “I appreciate your concern.”
“I care about you and Nash,” he says, and I nod in understanding. “I know he went through a lot. He lived through what every one of us drivers fear the most. It’s not dying, and it’s not broken bones or being paralyzed. It’s being burned because chances are if you’re in that situation, you’re going to end up like Matteo and not like Nash. He’s the lucky one.”
“I don’t even like to think about it,” I whisper, a painful admission.
“Then let’s talk about something happy, okay?”
I give a watery laugh, realizing for the first time my throat is clogged with emotion. “Okay. What should we talk about?”
Carlos’s eyes sparkle mischievously. “Have you met Lex Hamilton’s girlfriend, Posey?”
“No!” I exclaim, mad at myself I didn’t get more of the scandalous scoop from Harley when I had her in my clutches. And I haven’t seen Lex in a while. “I loved reading about it, though.”
It came out just a week and a half ago, after the Bahrain race, that an American romance author had lied her way into Crown Velocity, claiming to be a journalist. I don’t have all the details, but apparently Harley knew from the start exactly who she was and opened the door to her. And now, it looks like Lex has fallen for the wily little writer.
It’s just my type of romance story. I mean, if I still believed in romance.
Which I do not.
“I’ll introduce you tonight at the sponsor party. You’ll really like her.”
“Well, anyone who can tame Lex Hamilton is golden to me,” I quip. I glance at my watch and decide I should get going. I stand from the chair and Carlos mimics me. “We got our track walk I need to get ready for. It was great hanging with you.”
We hug and Carlos says, “Promise me we’ll hang tonight.”
“So I can bore you to death?” I ask with a grin.
“So I can have the prettiest girl by my side,” he says, taking my hand and kissing the back.
I appreciate the subtle flirtation, but Carlos doesn’t truly mean it that way and he knows I’m not getting involved with another driver. I’m staying away from anyone in this sport as a romantic potential.
“Thank you though,” I say, spontaneously giving him another hug. “It really means the world to be able to spill a bit of my guts to someone I know cares.”
“Anytime,” he says when we pull away and I flinch as I see Nash walking toward the Titans tent.
Carlos turns his head that way and neither of us miss the cold look Nash has leveled at us.
I feel a flush of guilt creep through me even though I have nothing to feel guilty about.
Carlos, however, laughs quietly. He nudges my shoulder. “I think someone still has feelings for you.”
“Yeah… hatred,” I murmur.
“That was pure jealousy, Bex,” Carlos says with another laugh. More like a cackle actually, as we watch Nash disappear into the tent.
No way. Nash would never consider me his in any shape, form or fashion. I’m nothing to him other than his chief race strategy engineer. And I’m not even sure we can get along in that capacity.
CHAPTER 7
Nash
The sponsor party is in the middle of the freaking desert, and I’ve never seen anything so ridiculously lavish in my life. The temperature has dipped to the low seventies, which is practically a cold wave. The moon is full, making the sky look like blue velvet studded with diamonds, and laid out before us are massive white tents. I count ten in all, each the breadth of a moderately sized house and interconnected by wooden walkways.
Along the walkways are massive urns with palm trees strung with fairy lights and small speakers are nestled within so the music drifts through the space. The tents themselves are open with no walls, but the edges are swathed in fabrics of rich golds, deep purples and shimmering silvers with translucent veils hanging down that ripple in the soft breeze. Through the hazy material I see men in custom suits or in the traditional Saudi thobes of flowing white. Women are in formal gowns but many, in deference to modesty, have long sleeves. Some have sheer capes or scarves over their shoulders. A few wear jewel-encrusted hijabs.
“This is fucking bananas,” Matthieu says as we make our way into the first tent. Tonight, we shared a car with Bernie to wherever we are. We were taken out of the city and into the dark desert for this event.