Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
She picked up her glass of wine, considered my statement, and a pleased smile warmed her lips. “Do you think he’ll get the subtext?”
“I do.”
After practice concluded, we went back to our room and changed for the launch party, and I was irritated when Royce called to check in. I had limited time alone with Emery, and my brother’s call used nearly all of it. By the time it was over, she was already dressed, and I had to rush to catch up.
As much as she tried to hide it, I could tell Emery was unfamiliar and uncomfortable with the lifestyle I had. When it came to buying things, my only concern was the quality, never the price, and that always surprised her when I bought something.
I knew she was enjoying this week because she’d told me so, but during the ride home from the launch party she made the comment she expected the Mercedes to turn into a pumpkin at any moment.
Like Cinderella, because none of this felt real to her. I hoped that wasn’t true. What we had felt real to me.
After my ‘great work, team’ speech, we’d spent the evening being far more affectionate in public than my father would have tolerated if he were here. Thankfully, he wasn’t.
That night, after we climbed into bed, rather than fool around, she wanted to talk. She asked about my time in college and law school. If I’d passed my bar exam on the first try, which I had. We talked about sailing and how she’d become a safe technician apprentice right after high school.
There were topics that neither of us wanted to touch. We didn’t discuss Jillian or Wayne Lambert, or talk about our parents. It was like she wanted the conversation to be happy and simple, and I was pleased—it was exactly how I wanted it, too. Plus, we couldn’t do anything about the Lambert situation right now, anyway.
As it got later and we were both tired, it seemed to have lowered her inhibitions enough to talk about it.
“So, about last night . . .”
“Yeah?” I asked.
She pressed her lips together, like she wasn’t sure where she was going with it. “You didn’t come.”
“You noticed that, huh?”
She wasn’t distracted by my attempt at a joke. “Why not?”
“Because if you’d touched me, I would have given up right then on my vow and asked if we could do more.” I gave her a sheepish look. “I might have begged.” I mashed the pillow under my head, and my tone turned serious. “I was thinking, if I’m going to have a shot at getting across the finish line, maybe it’d be better if we, like, pace ourselves.”
“Meaning, what? You don’t want me to touch you?”
“Just for a little while,” I said quickly. “I’m sure I’ll regret it immediately. You’re so hot, I kind of need to build up a tolerance to you.”
She laughed and peered at me as if she thought I was kidding, but perhaps she recognized the sincerity in my expression, because she sobered. There was a gravity to her words. “Okay. We can do that.”
Friday was the final day of practice for the drivers, and as VIPs, we got to spend it with the team in pit row. We sat on folding chairs with the rest of the crew, watching the monitors and listening to the radio as the two Mercedes drivers negotiated the turns and evaluated their cars.
Tomorrow was qualifying, and it was the most important one of the season. Since overtaking was nearly impossible at this grand prix, the only way to move up was if a competitor made a mistake, so starting position on the grid was everything.
When practice was over, we went to the yacht show, followed by a cocktail reception with the drivers. Leitner was there, but he steered clear of both Emery and me. The watch was back on his wrist, so our message had been received.
That night when we returned to our hotel room, she let me help her out of her dress, but then admitted she’d had a lot to drink—way more than she had intended. So rather than spending the evening exploring her body, I pulled a bottle of water from the beverage station, scooped ice into a glass, and told her to drink the whole thing.
“Two years ago, I spent race day hungover, and let me tell you—it fucking sucked.”
“I’m sorry,” she said feebly. “I didn’t realize how much I’d had until it was too late.”
I gave her an easy smile. “Don’t worry about it. The alcohol is always flowing at these things.” Usually because it made the money flow. Donors were more willing to write checks, or sponsors considered extending contracts. “Do you need anything else?”
She shook her head, fighting her embarrassment, but it was unnecessary. She wasn’t used to the weeklong, nonstop cocktail parties that was typical for Monaco. If anything, I was impressed she’d made it this long without issue, and I told her so.