I flush. Saint’s always been a flirt.
His light green eyes twinkle with mischief and mirth. “I saved you a seat,” He pulls out the chair beside his.
Thankfully, Mia is on the other side of the empty spot.
With a glance over my shoulder and a slight grimace, he asks, “Youdon’t mind if I spend most of the night with my arm around you, do you?”
As he focuses on me again, he hits me with a saucy smirk. Yeah, he knows exactly what he’s doing.
It took Luca more than a year to publicly acknowledge that we were together, but that didn’t stop him from being an immature, jealous prick throughout the entirety of our relationship.
He hated when I so much as made eye contact with any of the other drivers, especially Saint. In a sport involving all kinds of flags, I can’t believe I didn’t recognize all the red-flag behaviors.
Saint Lavoy is the definition of confidence. He’s debonair, with his British accent and impeccable manners. The man’s covered in tattoos and fashion-forward, with a penchant for bold jewelry and rings. And he’s photographed out with different men and women in every city he visits. On top of being charming and damn near irresistible, he’s got a mysterious air. He’s one of the resident bad boys on the grid, right alongside his best friend Kenji.
I imagine most hot-blooded humans who follow Formula 1 have had a crush on Saint Lavoy at one point or another.
I tip my head to the side and motion toward Luca’s table. “Are they still watching?”
Saint cocks one brow and taps my chin with his tatted knuckles. “Let them look, gorgeous. I’ve got you.” He winks.
While his behavior is all a front, I can’t help but be grateful for a friend so willing to have my back. My defensive armor softens a touch as I glance around the table.
I blow out another breath, relief trickling in. If I have to share space with Luca, at least I’m in good company with my friends.
“Sit,” Mia demands, patting the cushion of my chair.
Saint pulls out the seat a bit farther and I lower into it.
Only once I’m seated do Lincoln, Flynn, and Stefan settle around the table as well.
“The gang’s all here.” I pick up the full water glass in front of me and take a long swig.
“Not quite,” Ren quips from across the table.
Eyes narrowed, I scan the familiar faces around me and quickly realize my error.
“Do you have an ETA on your brother?” I ask Ren.
Shelby snorts.
Kenji is notorious for being late. Like, really late. All the time.Regardless of the occasion. He almost missed qualis in Montreal last year.
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Ren shakes their head with a lighthearted laugh.
Flynn clinks a knife against his water glass and sits straighter. “We hate that we can’t have you all out to the house tonight,” he says, nodding at his sister. “Mum sends her love and demanded that I tell you all to expect a proper barbie next year, no excuses. Dinner’s on me tonight. Happy to be here with you all and to kick off the new season. Cheers, cobbers.”
Chuckles and groans ring out from around the table.
Flynn prolifically uses Australian slang, and we’ve learned all his favorite terms over the years.
No one argues over his offer to treat us. It’s pretty commonplace. The drivers take turns picking up the tab when we go out, although I doubt they’ll let Mia pay, considering it’s her rookie year.
Sinking back into my seat, I turn to my best friend. “How was your first day, rook?”
She hits me with a scowl that quickly transforms into a sheepish smile. “Pretty great, actually. I made content with the marketing team this morning, then I did a final fitting for my race suit. Then, after lunch, the drivers got together for the official season pictures.”
A light flush colors her cheeks, her voice animated.
