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)
“Right, then,” Carlos says finally, pushing back his chair. He pulls a few notes from his wallet and tucks them under the bill before I can reach for mine. “My treat. Since I invited her first.”
“I’ll get the next,” I say as I rise from my chair. Francesca does the same.
“Yes, you will,” Carlos quips before looking between us with a glint that’s admittedly quite brotherly. “And you’ll both behave yourselves at Silvercrest. Save the fireworks for the track.”
Francesca laughs softly and I suppress a smile. Carlos is in the know now, and it’s not as bad as I thought it would be.
Outside the restaurant, the night breathes cool against my face. Carlos hugs Francesca quick and clean, then offers me his hand again. We shake like friends. No point-scoring. No posturing. Just agreeable terms we both can live with.
“Good night, Barnes.”
“Night,” I say, and mean it.
Carlos heads for the Tube, hands in pockets, shoulders easy.
Francesca and I stand there a second. She looks up at me, mouth tilted like she’s holding back a verdict.
“Well?” she asks.
I huff. “I still don’t like him looking at you.”
“You mean anyone,” she says, smiling.
“Anyone,” I concede, then add, begrudging, “He’s… fine.”
Her brows climb. “High praise.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
She steps closer, slipping her hand into mine like it belongs there. My chest does that tight thing I’m pretending is indigestion. “Thank you for coming.”
“I said I would.”
“I know,” she says softly. “But thank you anyway.”
There are a hundred things I could say that would be true to some of my innermost feelings. I don’t do this dating thing. I don’t meet the best friend. I don’t sit at tables and act civil while someone knows you better than I do. But none of these thoughts make it past my teeth because I’m not sure they’re true anymore.
“Want to do anything else tonight?” I ask her.
She shakes her head, tucking her hand into the crook of my arm. “I believe you said something about staying at your flat?”
A slow grin pulls at my mouth. “We won’t get much sleep.”
It’s meant to sound cheeky—and it does—but underneath, there’s a jolt of electricity.
Before I can think too much about it, I lean down and kiss her. Not hurried, not careless.
Just enough to hold me over until we get home.
CHAPTER 20
Francesca
London knows how to put on a show.
The red carpet at the entrance of The Ritz is crowded with photographers on one side and a legion of fans on the other, hoping to catch glimpses of the celebrities at this pre-race sponsor party. Nash and I arrive together in a Rolls-Royce Phantom, our driver looping us right up to the rope line.
I’m in a fitted, floor-length gown of midnight blue silk that hugs my hips before pooling at my heels. The high slit up my left leg gives me enough room to walk without tripping and enough to make the photographers work for their angles. The stylist paired it with delicate silver chains at my throat. my hair swept into a loose knot with a few curls framing my face. She tried to add a matching bracelet but I declined, instead choosing to wear the charm bracelet my mamma gave me.
Nash, in a tailored charcoal suit and open-collared white shirt, grins for the cameras like he’s on a movie poster.
When we stop to pose in front of a Titans backdrop, a new ripple of flashbulbs start popping. I turn to see Lex stepping out of a limo and my heartbeat picks up because I know Ronan will be right behind him.
I have to say, Ronan does not disappoint. His black suit is impeccably cut, his hair perfectly tousled. He fastens a button on his jacket, flashing a smile at the photographers, and then his eyes land on me at the end of the carpet.
And the heat behind them as he takes in my dress… I almost incinerate.
“Smile for the cameras,” Nash says beside me, and I jolt out of my daze. My head swivels and I beam a smile, trying to force myself not to look back at Ronan.
I follow Nash inside the hotel and we’re led past the grand staircase to The Music Room, where gold-leaf moldings gleam under crystal chandeliers and the vaulted ceiling catches every ripple of light from the sconces. Waiters in white gloves move through the press of evening wear, silver trays balanced like extensions of their hands.
The party is hosted by one of Silvercrest’s headline sponsors, and it’s as much about being seen as it is about the actual race weekend. It’s mandatory that the drivers attend and we were expected to arrive together for the media opportunity. Not that I could have arrived with Ronan had I wanted to. We’re still flying under the radar, not advertising that we’re together.
Across the room, I spot Bex standing in the corner with Posey. Both women are angled toward each other, champagne flutes in hand, laughing. They look effortlessly elegant and Nash notices them at the same time I do. “C’mon.”