But he wasn’t that guy. Maybe once. Not now.
He still couldn’t get over the fact that he’d sent those messages. Especially that last one. And to her of all people. He wished he could take it back.
He drew a deep breath. It didn’t calm him any. It felt more like the match that lit the detonating cord on a stick of dynamite. And he was that stick.
She called him Sir Stick. Well, Sir Stick Up His Ass.
What the hell is Ceci Rivers doing here?At a masquerade party in the English countryside? This isn’t an F1 event.
The season ended weeks ago.
At Silverstone.
My home turf. Where all my fans, friends, and family came to root for me. And once again I bombed. No win. No trophy.
But he couldn’t say the end to the season hadn’t been stunning. He’d flopped in glorious jaw-dropping fashion, via a crash with fucking Ian Anker, who’d gone on to win, not only the race, but the drivers’ trophy for the season. Everyone expected the wanker to do so again this upcoming season in what was stacking up to be a spectacular career.
That had been Leo Clarke. Once upon a time. In what now seemed like a galaxy far, far away.
It had been years since he’d hoisted that trophy, and he knew exactly whom to blame for it.
Right there. Ceci Rivers.
He felt a pinch in his gut at that thought. A vague and hazy image of a snow-covered mountain in Aspen took form in his brain, but he stubbornly shoved it aside, fixing his attention on the woman across the room.
No. His losing streak began when Ceci Rivers took control of rival team Blue Jet Lightning as team principal and signed up Anker, developing him into the hot young phenom Clarke had been when he’d first hit the F1 track.
Sometimes looking at her, he was reminded of those whimsical creatures in the fairy tales his mother had read to him as a child. The ones that played pranks and created chaos in the forest. Seemingly cute, sweet and endearing, they were anything but.
Why does she draw so much attention whenever she enters a room?
All the features of her face seemed out of alignment. There was no order, no harmony; a feature he considered necessary for beauty.
Maybe it’s the hair.
Every year it was a different color—auburn, blue, purple, even green.
When he’d last seen her at Silverstone, it was red. And what a shade of red. He only called it red because you had to call it something. Was there even a name for that color?
Now, she’d changed it again. It was blonde … sort of.
He shook his shoulders as if he were shaking off a shiver. Except he insisted to himself he had not shivered.
There was something disjointed, unsettling about her face. He might go so far as to say it disturbed him. But even he had to admit, he couldn’t find another one to compare.
The unexpected nature of it was only matched and possibly even surpassed by the unexpected nature of her behavior.
He never felt at ease in her presence.
She made sure of that.
The woman relished making him uncomfortable. Especially ever since he’d been knighted.
If it’d been up to me, I never would have gone through with it.
But it was hard to say no when his father had known the perfect card to play—Your mother would be so proud were she here to see it.
He sighed, watching Ceci Rivers laugh.
