They shook hands.
Celeste’s eyes were gleaming. “Oh, you and I are going to be good friends! I’ve been looking at clips of some of your races. Damn impressive.”
Nico smiled. “Thank you. That’s nice of you to say.”
“Nice has nothing to do with it,” Celeste scoffed. “I only speak the truth. Ask Dario. He’ll tell you. He’s usually the one who catches smoke as a result.”
They laughed, and the rest of what was said got drowned out by everyone around them.
Hank, the controls engineer, winked at Nico. “You’re okay, kid.”
Laura, the engine systems engineer, gave her a thumbs-up.
Rocco folded his arms, his temples throbbing.
Why the hell did you send that tweet?
He watched as the mechanics expressed their approval by slapping her on the shoulder, giving her a bro-hug or a high-five. Some welcomed her to the team and said they were looking forward to working with her.
Leave it alone. Leave. It. Alone.
But that part of him that lurked in the deeper, darker depths of him couldn’t.
Wouldn’t.
“Oh, miss,” Rocco called out. He raised one eyebrow when she turned and met his gaze. “May I have some sugar?”
She pasted a saccharine sweet smile laced with arsenic on her face and picked up a small box of sugar cubes.
He scanned the room. Most of the team had ventured off. Only a few remained and, like Dario and Celeste, were focused on the coffee and pastries.
He quickly hooked his foot around a nearby chair, dragging it up behind him, and sat down.
Her hair was even darker than he remembered. It wasn’t groomed like he was used to seeing on women. It wasn’t straight, but it wasn’t exactly wavy either. It was wild. He wondered if he were to put his handin it whether he’d be able to get it out. It looked like it might ensnare a man. She had on sunglasses. Again. He couldn’t get even a glimpse of her eyes.
Once she was opposite him, she stood still—real still. She had bold bone structure, a strong jaw and cheekbones, like that actress his grandmother loved, Anna Magnani.
She must have some Italian in her.Of course she does with that name.
She offered him the box, but he didn’t take it.
She wasn’t wearing the white T-shirt. Why wasn’t she wearing the white T-shirt?
That got him thinking about jelly doughnuts. Tracing circles. And nipples. Her nipples.
He crooked his finger for her to come closer.
She bent over, and that thick mane of hers fell forward, some strands brushing against his cheek. What was that scent? Was she wearing perfume?
A sudden jolt of electricity shot straight to the south pole.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, annoyed at the sound of his husky voice.
She tilted her head. “I should have thought it was obvious.”
“It’s what you’ve got those guys wearing that’s obvious.”
“You’ve never seen a French maid’s uniform?”
