It’s that thought that inspires me to plant my hands on my hips and scowl at the dark car.
It pulls up and parks beside my Honda Civic, and when the driver’s-side door lifts in a slow, sleek rise, I hold my breath.
Black loafers emerge first. Legs clad in tailored pants navigate around the suspended door, and a fitted red polo clings to the biceps of a guy who looks like Luca but most definitely is not my traitorous ex.
The man halts a few feet from the car, looking from me to the movers, then back to me again, his brow creased.
He scratches at the stubble on his sharp jawline, bewilderment etched into his expression as he takes us in.
He’s wearing a large watch, but it’s not the bling that catches my attention. It’s the sinewy definition of muscle under the dusting of dark hair on his arms that has my mouth going dry as I drink him in.
I drag my attention down to his hand. God, I’m a sucker for good hands. And this man hasreallygood hands. Each finger is thick but also long, with prominent veins between his knuckles. He has blunt, well-kept nails, and based on how he’s flexing his wrist, he’s got an impeccable grip.
When I look up, warm espresso eyes bore into me. I force myself to hold his gaze. Surprisingly, it’s not unpleasant like it often is when I come face to face with a stranger.
Though the sensation is foreign. The way my breath catches in my lungs as we size each other up is new.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Four.
He looks away first, giving me a quick assessment from head to toe. His attention makes me shiver involuntarily.
His focus shifts, and he locks in on the driveway behind me, and when I pivot, following his gaze, my mouth falls open into an O.
Less than a foot in front of the bumper of the Lamborghini is a small bottle of… shit. Is that lube?
Confusion rushes through me. Where the hell did that come from?
Oh. Right. Grandma Mae’s couch.
It makes sense that a random bottle of lube would present itself during this nightmare of a morning.
With that thought, I spring into action, lunging to snatch up the offending item.
Except by the time I’ve scurried over, mystery man has also closed the space.
I’m reaching forward, close enough to see my reflection in the glossy shine of his loafers, when he swoops down and scoops up the bottle first.
His quick movement sends me jolting back, hand on my chest.
Shit, shit, shit.
Eyes narrowed, he assesses the item in his hand. One side of his mouth tips up in the hint of a smirk, but he quickly schools his expression.
His stoic mask is all sharp angles. The rugged jaw and cheekbones contrast with the soft, wavy strands on his head. Streaks of gray pop against the dark tresses, their placement subtle and even. They look natural. He couldn’t pay to have highlights or lowlights so perfectly placed. He’s got a great head of hair; I’ll give him that. The color and texture remind me of Luca’s.
“Yours?” he asks, cocking one brow and holding up the bottle.
As soon as he opens his mouth and speaks, I place him. I’ve seen this man before. Many times. But always at a distance or online.
I’m talking to newly appointed Granata team principal Alaric Steele.
Also known as Mr. Steele, a.k.a. Luca’sdad.
Luca always kept a healthy distance from his dad and all things Granata when we were at a grand prix or fundraising event. He insisted it was important the world knew he’d earned his position on the grid on his own merit. That there was no nepotism or shoulder rubbing involved.
That and Luca was a salty loser and a little butt-hurt because his team, Waytrek Racing, has consistently lost places in the Constructor’s Cup over the last three years, while his dad’s team has been on the rise.
Now that I’ve made the connection, I can’t unsee it.
