That quip about the two-legged vs four-legged variety? Maybe he’d said it thinking he would insult her. Loom over her with that morally righteous stick up his ass. But his tone hadn’t suggested that. And the expression in his eyes definitely hadn’t.
Even now as she approached him, she couldn’t read the look in his eyes.
Once she’d reached him, she placed her hands on her hips, lifted her chin, and smiled, triumphant.
Without a word and hardly a passing glance, he walked past her and mounted the bull.
The guy at the switch had brought it back down, and Clarke was quick to tell him to bring it back up. She couldn’t tell what surprised her more. Was it the fact that he was still on once the bull was only a few levels below the level that had thrown her? Or was it the fact that, even on a bucking bull, he didn’t lose that silky-smooth elegance like that single malt scotch he liked.
From his chest to his extended arms to the tips of his fingers as he held that arm up, there was nothing rough or jerky about his movement. He didn’t bolt against the air but swam through it as though it were liquid. Every square inch of him was fluid and flexible—which seemed like a contradiction for a man so inflexible when it came to living. But then she remembered the way he’d danced at that party.
Her eyes drifted to his thighs gripping the bull. She wondered what it would feel like if those thighs were gripping her.
In a flash, she was brought back to the present, and her eyes met his just before he was thrown.
Damn,even the way the man falls and gets up is some kind of graceful dance.
“Don’t you want to know?” he asked once they were standing at the bar and the bartender had brought their drinks.
“Want to know what?”
Her phone buzzed. It was a text from her father’s assistant.
The party starts tomorrow at 3:00 p.m. Please wear appropriate attire.
So he knows I’m thinking of coming.
Aunt Delilah must have unwittingly tipped him off. Either that or Tiffany, his wife and Ceci’s stepmother, did.
“He won’t say more than ten words to me the entire time. A few more than that if I wear something inappropriate.”
“What?”
She looked up from her phone. She hadn’t meant to say that aloud.
“Nothing,” she said, tossing her phone in her purse.
Did she want to go? Not really. But Aunt Delilah was going. The woman never made idle threats. If she said she was going to do something, she did it.Like someone else I know, Ceci thought, casting a sidelong glance at Clarke.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?” She lifted her glass and finished her bourbon, signaling the bartender for another.
Was her father really seriously thinking of putting together a new F2 team? He still had part ownership in an F3 team, a team she’d driven for, just before quitting driving altogether. It had been a mistake to join her father’s team. How would driving for him now be any different?
Her heart skipped in that offbeat way it always did before a race. She never felt more alive than she did when she was behind the wheel. Did she relish the idea of driving for a team her father had part ownership in? No. But driving? And possibly at the F2 level? Just one level away from F1?
It wasn’t just that she missed driving.Shewas missing without it.
She stared at the birthmark and tattoo on her wrist.I am flesh and blood, she told herself, staring at it.
You’re here. Your heart is beating. You’re breathing. You are not invisible.
The bartender came back with her second bourbon. She ordered a third before he could place the glass on the counter. She slammed this one back as quickly as she had the first.
He placed his hand on hers.
“Maybe you should slow down.”
