“Yes, that too!” she exclaims, pointing a second truffle at me. “What even is the point of fake pockets? Just cruel fashion trickery.”
We say our goodbyes to Bernard and make the rounds one last time. The night air hits us as we step through the mansion’s massive doors, warm and heavy with the scent of the ocean.
The Ferrari is waiting, engine already running. I hold her door, watch her slide into the seat, that dress riding up slightly on her thigh. Good God. I close the door before I can think about it too long.
I slide into the driver’s seat and pull out of the circular drive. The engine purrs as we ease onto the main road, Miami’s nightlife glowing around us. Clubs with lines around the block, restaurants with outdoor seating packed with people, the energy of the city humming even at this hour.
Lark leans her head back against the seat, eyes half-closed. She looks tired but content, a small smile on her lips.
At the hotel, the elevator carries us to our floor. Lark steps out first when the doors open, heels clicking against marble. Inside the suite, she kicks off her shoes immediately, groaning with relief as she stretches her toes.
“I know I already complained, but man, they’re killers,” she says, holding one shoe up and examining it with a mixture of admiration and betrayal. “Though I still love them. Beauty and pain, the ultimate toxic relationship.”
I can’t help but smile as I loosen my tie. “You handled tonight like a pro. Everyone loved you.”
“Even the woman in the red dress who kept calling me ‘Jack’s little musician friend’?” Lark asks, reaching behind her neck to massage a sore spot.
“Especially her. I saw her asking for your Instagram before she left,” I say, tossing my tie over the back of a chair. “She probably wants her daughter to take lessons or something.”
Lark snorts, reaching up to pull pins from her hair one by one. Each pin releases another strand, her hair falling in waves around her shoulders. My fingers itch to touch it, to bury my hands in it, to feel if it’s as soft as it looks.
“Probably wants to make sure I’m good enough for racing royalty Jack Midnight.”
“You’re way too good for me, Lark,” I say, the words coming out before I can stop them.
She looks up, something flickering across her face that I can’t quite read. The moment hangs between us, charged with all the things we aren’t saying. The suite suddenly feels too small, the distance between us both too much and not enough.
“We should probably get some sleep,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “Big day tomorrow.”
She looks at me for a long moment. “Right, of course.”
We move around each other carefully, taking turns in the bathroom, maintaining that careful distance. But when I come out she’s standing at the window in her sleep shorts and t-shirt, looking out at the Miami skyline. I could cross the room. Turn her around, finally do what I’ve been wanting to do for weeks.
Instead I get into bed.
The fake dating plan is working perfectly. Too perfectly, maybe. Everyone’s bought the story—sponsors, teams, fans. My image rehab is right on track. Her music is getting attention. Everything going according to plan.
Except for one thing. I’m falling for her.
Have been for fucking weeks now, well before the kiss. But this can’t go anywhere. The plan has an expiration date—September—for a reason. By then, if things keep going like today, I’ll be back in a race car, back to flying around the world, living out of hotel rooms between races.
I fuck things up. I always do. Can’t stay in one place. Can’t commit to one person. I get restless, then reckless, then I bolt. It’s what I’ve done with every relationship I’ve ever had. Racing is the only constant, and even that I managed to jeopardize.
And Lark deserves better than that. She’s finally building something real with her music after Brandon spent years making her feel small. She’s got label interest, a growing platform, actual momentum. The last thing she needs is me fucking it up because I can’t keep my hands to myself.
Because I’ll only end up hurting her. And that’s the one thing I can’t do.
CHAPTER 16
LARK
The media staging area buzzes with activity, cameras trained on Jack while I hang back in the wings where the PR team told me to wait. Miami humidity has turned my hair into something that belongs in a before photo for anti-frizz products. Jack rented a motorcycle here after getting sick of being chauffeured everywhere, and while the wind on the ride over was refreshing, the helmet definitely didn’t do my styling any favors, but at least I’m not on camera.
It’s our last full day in Miami, and the International Motorsport Festival is still in full swing around us. Press everywhere, their equipment creating a maze of cables and light stands that I’m trying not to trip over. Fans cluster behind barriers with phones held high, hoping for glimpses of their favorite drivers. Team personnel rush between obligations with clipboards and headsets.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, feeling the sticky Miami heat press against my skin. My jeans are practically glued to my legs at this point, and I’m already fantasizing about the breeze we’ll get on the ride back to the hotel.
Jack catches my eye mid-answer to some question about his training regimen and throws me a quick wink. The interviewer notices, follows his gaze to me with interest, and Jack smoothly pivots to answering a question about his “incredibly supportive girlfriend” without missing a beat.
