“Ladies,” Stefan calls as he and Lincoln approach.
I give Mia one last knowing look. While I’d never break her trust and speak about this in front of our friends, we’re far from done with this conversation.
The boys lean in and kiss us both on each cheek in greeting.
“Hey. We were looking for you,” I tell them.
“We only just arrived,” Stefan grouses, thumbing over at Lincoln. “You would not believe how long it takes this one to do his hair.”
Lincoln smacks our friend’s chest with the back of his hand. “Me? I waited outside your room for nearly twenty minutes, you big cockwomble. I had to cancel two rideshares.”
Stefan smirks.
The guys have been best friends for years, despite never being teammates. They’re opposites in so many ways. Stefan is a cocky charmer. The media and the fans love him, and the armchair experts love to hate him. He’s had a streak of bad luck the last few years, but every few races, he pulls out a big win for his team, ensuring his place on the grid.
Lincoln is softspoken and shy. He hates attention. He’s in the wrong line of work for a man who likes his privacy, but he’s a really good driver. Sometimes even great. But he gets in his own head a lot, and he doesn’t handle media attention or external pressure very well.
“Ah yes, perhaps I was the holdup. It’s big night, though, is it not? I was determined to look my best.”
“You both look great,” I assure them.
They do, both dressed in dark tailored suits, with fancy watches fixed around their wrists.
“And you are both stunning,” Stefan replies, doing a quick assessment of Mia’s pink dress and my bold, formfitting red number.
Abrams-Rhea loves to play dress-up with Mia. She has yet to attend an event or interview without being attacked by a full glam squad first. She has a personal stylist who brings at least a dozen outfit options for each activity. This week she convinced her stylist to leave two dresses, claiming she wouldn’t make the decision until the day of.
So here I am, squeezed into an eight-thousand-dollar designer gown.
Mia regularly shares her wardrobe with me. It’s a major perk. Especially considering that most of my luggage is full of work equipment. Now that I’ll be attending more fancy events throughout the season, I’m even more thankful that we’re similar sizes, even if she’s much more toned than I am. My bigger boobs, wider hips, and thicker thighs made getting into this slinky red number a team effort. I’ve already mentally committed to not sitting down until I’m back in my hotel room.
“Did we miss anything exciting?” Lincoln props himself up against the bar, taking in the buzzing room around us.
“Nothing good,” I promise. “There were a few opening remarks, but otherwise it’s been the usual schmoozing and boozing.”
There’s no seated dinner tonight—just heavy hors d’oeuvres andcarving stations scattered throughout the ballroom to encourage people to mingle.
“And Luca hasn’t given you any trouble?” Lincoln asks, the words spoken under his breath.
Before I can start to form a reply, he straightens and his energy shifts.
“Oh, shit,” he says. “What the hell? Did I just manifest him?” There’s a hint of panic to his tone. “Heads up, Luca’s heading our way.”
My muscles go rigid, my body instantly on high alert. Three seconds later, calloused fingers grip my elbow.
“Evangeline.” My ex squeezes past, positioning himself at the bar and directly in my line of sight. “Surprised to see you here tonight,” he says without making eye contact. The second the last word is out, he turns, flagging down the bartender.
I glare at his back—at his perfectly styled hair and the broad expanse of his shoulders. God, if I didn’t know it was him, I might mistake him for Alaric.
Not that I’m thinking about my ex-boyfriend’s dad right now.
I’m not.
I can’t.
Focus, Evan.
This is the first time the two of us have interacted in weeks. Luckily, I haven’t seen Luca since that first dinner in Australia. I lift my chin, refusing to cower to him now that the universe has forced us together at a major event surrounded by all our friends and colleagues.
