Maybe he just moved to the area. Maybe that’s why Luca’s never brought me by the house or introduced me to his dad.
“I’ve lived here for about ten years. Though I split my time between Austin and Monaco. I bought this place after I separated from Luca’s mom,” Alaric admits, focusing on his shiny shoes.
The hits just keep coming. Luca had ample time to introduce us over the last two years. He just didn’t want to.
“It’s weird that my apartment is less than an hour from here,” I say, “and Luca never brought me by or introduced me to his family.”
Alaric doesn’t respond to that, his attention still averted.
We’re silent for several seconds. His brow is creased, like he’s searching for an adequate response. I don’t mind the awkwardness. It gives me time to get my head on straight.
Here’s what I know for sure: Luca is a sleezy, lying, cheating rat bastard. He never mentioned me to his father who lives less than anhour from my apartment. Just like he probably didn’t mention me to any of the girls he was sleeping with behind my back.
On top of that, I have no other options for storage at this moment. Oh, and I also have no place to live, because I subleased my apartment for a full year.
Wringing my hands, I bite down on the inside of my cheek, working hard to hold it together. “I’m really sorry about all this,” I finally say, “but I don’t have anywhere else to store my belongings. Would it be okay if I kept the couch in your garage for a while? Just until I get things sorted?”
Alaric hits me with a stern, no-nonsense look. “Of course. It seems you already have a gate code, so let me give you my cell phone number in case an issue comes up.”
My nerves settle as relief floods my insides. It’s embarrassing, really. All this man is doing is being reasonable and decent. Am I seriously that starved for tenderness and care?
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “Do you mind if I make sure my other things are in there? I assume this is where Luca had all my stuff sent…”
Fresh shame sinks in, replacing my momentary relief. Why the hell did I trust him to take care of this? Why didn’t I ask questions?
“Of course not. I haven’t been home much lately, and admittedly I haven’t even been in the garage for a few months.” He reaches into his back pocket, flips open his wallet, and hands me a black and red card. “Here’s my number. I have a virtual meeting in ten minutes, but I’ll be around for the next few hours. Take all the time you need,” he encourages, tipping his chin toward the garage.
I mumble a “thanks,” then turn, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible.
“Evangeline.”
Still on edge, I whip around, my bright blond chin-length hair flying in my face. Smoothing it back behind my ears, I focus on Alaric, where I find glimmers of pity wading through the deep warmth of his dark brown irises.
“I really am sorry. For everything with Luca.” He clears his throat. “If there’s anything you need, or anything I can do?—”
I shake my head. “It’s okay,” I insist, dismissing the offer before he can even finish the sentence.
I’m done believing a word out of any man’s mouth. Especially men with the last name Steele.
CHAPTER 3
ALARIC
“The telemetry data shows the internal combustion engine can and will take on too much throttle when pushed. We need to be prepared for the car to feeltoopunchy when the battery is fully charged. It’ll take some getting used to, especially when our strategy calls for changing to hards.”
On screen, Ferris and Heath are nodding along and taking notes. My drivers don’t need my oversight to understand the importance of this issue. They’re exceptional at what they do. Veterans with proven records.
I trust this team. I hired many of them myself in the fourteen years I’ve been with Granata. And now I’ve been given the honor of leading them.
Sandro, Heath’s performance coach, speaks up. “Can we get a list of the races where this is likely to be an issue? Monaco, Monza, and Baku are a given. Where else do we need to be concerned?”
Monique, head of race strategy, clears her throat, so I settle back, letting her reply. She doesn’t need my input or interference anyway.
I have plenty of other issues to worry about.
Like what sort of shenanigans my son has been up to lately, moving someone else’s possessions into my garage without even mentioning it to me.
Then there’s the more pressing issue of the petite blonde hovering at the entrance of my garage, shifting her weight from one hip to the other and making those loose animal-print shorts she’s wearing swoosh in the most alluring of ways.
