I smile on cue, playing my part like I’ve been doing all weekend.
Except it doesn’t feel like playing anymore. That’s the problem.
I’ve been watching him all morning, hell all weekend really, and this is where he belongs. Completely in his element. He’s confident without being arrogant, handling questions about his comeback with the kind of grace that only comes from years of practice and media training. This isn’t the party boy from the tabloids or the reckless kid who made headlines for all the wrong reasons.
This is a professional. A fighter. Someone who’s clawed his way to the top of one of the most competitive sports in the world and is now fighting like hell to reclaim what he lost.
The dedication is obvious in every answer he gives, every composed smile, every careful word choice. And it’s attractive. Really attractive.
It’s pretty fucking hot, if I’m being completely honest with myself.
Which I’m trying very hard not to be. Not out loud, anyway. Not even in my own head if I can help it.
But the truth is sitting heavy in my chest: part of me doesn’t want to go home tomorrow. This trip has been amazing. Exhausting, yes, but also exciting in a way I haven’t felt in years. Maybe ever. I get it now, why he loves this world so much. The speed, the constant adrenaline rush. The way everything moves so fast you don’t have time to overthink or second-guess yourself.
But it’s not really the world, it’s him. The way he makes everything feel like an adventure, and the way he looks at me like I’m the most interesting person in the room even when we’re surrounded by celebrities and racing legends. The way I feel when I’m with him—adventurous and vibrant and like someone who doesn’t have to shrink herself down.
“And that’s a wrap!” the interviewer says cheerfully, his voice cutting through my thoughts. “Thank you so much for your time, Jack. Best of luck with the contract negotiations. We’re all rooting for you.”
“Thanks, mate. Really appreciate it,” Jack says, shaking his hand with that million-dollar smile still perfectly in place. Then he turns to me, and his expression changes immediately, softens in a way that makes my stomach flip. Like he can finally drop the performance now that the cameras are off. “Ready to get out of here?”
“Sure,” I tell him, trying not to sound as affected as I feel by the way he’s looking at me. “Where to next? Please tell me somewhere with air conditioning.”
“We’re free the rest of the day,” he says, reaching for my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “How about lunch? I’m starving and I know a place that’s not too far.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, and my stomach chooses that exact moment to growl loudly enough that he definitely hears it.
He grins, clearly amused. “Guess you’re hungry too.”
“Traitor,” I mutter at my stomach, and he laughs.
We start walking through the crowd, Jack’s hand still holding mine. A few people stop him for autographs and photos, and he’s gracious about it, signing hats and posing for selfies while I stand off to the side trying not to photobomb anyone.
It’s kind of sweet, actually, watching how patient he is with the fans. A little kid in a Ferrari shirt asks for a high five, and Jack crouches down to the kid’s level, giving him his fullattention and making him feel like the most important person in the world for those few seconds.
He’s really good at this part. Better than I expected.
But then more people start to notice him. The crowd grows, pressing closer with that excited energy that borders on aggressive. Suddenly there are at least forty people surrounding us, all calling his name, waving Ferrari merchandise, holding out phones to capture the moment.
“Jack! Jack, over here!”
“Can I get a picture? Please?”
“Is that really Lark Reyes? From Instagram?”
“Jack, sign my hat!”
Security personnel start moving toward us, trying to create some breathing room, but the crowd keeps swelling. Not just fans anymore, now I can see paparazzi too, pushing through the crowd with a predatory energy. The energy shifts completely, becomes aggressive and invasive. Security is trying to push through to us, but they’re caught in the crush of people. This is different from the controlled events we’ve been attending all weekend. This is chaos. Actual chaos.
Jack looks down at me, and his hand tightens protectively around mine. Then he’s leaning close enough that I can hear him over the noise, his breath warm against my ear. “You trust me?”
“What?” I manage, my voice coming out higher than normal.
“Do you trust me?” he asks again, pulling back just enough to look me in the eye, and there’s something wild there.
“Yes,” I say without thinking, even though I have no idea what he’s planning.
His grin is wicked, the kind that should come with a warning label. “Then run.”
