Her face is turned toward the window, her profile illuminated by a streak of light where the blackout curtains split.
“Evangeline.”
She meets my gaze. I force myself to hold back my smile.
Her hair’s a rumpled mess, and her eyes are puffy from crying last night.
She’s so breathtakingly beautiful.
I want to tell her how lovely she is, inside and out.
But I resist. It’s not fair to send mixed messages. I just told her how what happened last night can never happen again. Indulging my attraction or even hinting at how badly I want her would be a shit thing to do.
“No one can know I was here,” I say softly. No one from the team, no one from the media, and none of her friends, many of whom are drivers on the grid and therefore my direct competition.
“I know what’s at stake,” she assures me with a sympathetic smile.
It’s not about her. Or me. Or Luca.
My job is to protect Granata’s reputation, and to do so, I must follow the highest moral standards, showing the world that I’m the antithesis of Bolton Reynold.
“Truly no one,” I emphasize.
She holds my gaze and nods again. The sad smile she offers lances through my chest. For the first time in my career, I resent my role and the level of responsibility that comes with it.
I trust her. Putting faith in her is easy. Because while we met only weeks ago, I feel as if I know Evangeline on a deeper level than I know almost anyone.
Despite her best efforts to hide from the world, she’s allowed me to see so many wonderful, brilliant facets of who she is. I know how she likes her rice prepared and how bright her smile can be when she’s genuinely excited. How proud she is of her business and the distinct scent of her sweet honeysuckle shampoo. I know she looks amazing in Granata red, and now I know what she looks like when she wakes up.
I know this woman, yet I’m desperate to know more.
But regardless, I can’t act on my attraction.
“Thank you for dinner,” she adds as I step out of the room. “Thank you for…” She trails off with a slight shake of her head. “Everything.”
Fuck.
I hate leaving her like this.
I don’t want to leave her at all.
But it’s for the best. For both of us. For the team.
Our interaction last night wasn’t okay. And because of my professional role, it’s my responsibility to ensure that nothing like this happens again.
The urge to stride back to the bed, take her face in my hands, and lean into whatever this is that’s growing between us washes over me.
Thankfully, my phone beeps at that moment—another message from Quinn, no doubt—and the distraction makes it easier to ignore my impulses.
“You’re welcome.”
As I’m forced to retreat from her room, dread fills me. Not because tomorrow will be a particularly grueling day or because I don’t love the work I do. But because the very nature of going about my day requires me to leave her. And all I want to do is stay.
Resentment blooms with each step. What I wouldn’t give to not have to walk away.
CHAPTER 23
EVANGELINE
