Page 11 of Heartbreaker

Panic courses through me, but in a moment, it transforms into something different, something familiar, turning the adrenaline into determination. I’ve always loved this part, the thrill of the endorphins, the way my mind clears, the excitement of wondering if I can manage it. I’ve only felt this particular thrill in two aspects of my life: one was as a kid, when I’d race with my brothers on a dirt bike, and the other is when I’m undercover, challenging myself to see if I can pull something off, to sell someone on this manufactured version of myself.

By the time I’m turning the corner toward Roman, head down, pretending I’m looking at my phone and not paying attention, I’m not nervous. I’m just excited. And when I time it perfectly to run into him—literally—I have to force back a grin.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” his deep voice says, hands on my hips to steady me. Because I played it a bit too well, didn’t calculate how hard his body would be, and nearly fell to my ass. The hand not holding my phone comes up to rest on his chest, and I try not to think about how good it feels.

“Shit, sorry,” I say.

“Must have been something really interesting on there,” he says, a cocky grin on his lips. I lift an eyebrow before stepping back.

“Actually—I, um,” I stutter, trying to sound natural, but for some reason, with him staring at me with that handsome smile, I can’t. It’s like I’ve lost all semblance of being cool, calm, and collected, and instead I blurt out the first idiotic thing that comes to mind. “I was actually looking for you.” His eyebrow lifts and his head tilts.

“Well, you found me, sweetheart.” My jaw tightens, and I glare at him, forgetting momentarily that I’m supposed to be distracting him, not arguing with him.

“Don’t call me that.”

He just grins at me in that annoying, cocky, hot way.

“No baby, no princess, no sweetheart. What can I call you?” he asks.

“My name,” I say through gritted teeth, then take in a breath, trying to center myself. Why does he make me feel so off kilter? “Anyway, I was…” I scan the area, trying to think of something to say, some explanation for why I would have been looking for him, and when a truck for a familiar chain restaurant passes, I jump on it. “I was helping out craft services. They wanted to know what kind of fruit everyone wants in their fruit salad for breakfast.” Idiot, idiot, idiot! An elite undercover investigator, and the best I can think of is freaking fruit salad?

“Fruit?”

“Yes. I said everyone likes grapes, but what color, you know? I’m a green grape girl myself, and I was asking everyone what color they prefer.” He looks at me skeptically, and I want to hide, but I need to sell this. I got myself into this idiotic mess; now I need to fake my way through it.

“What color… grape I prefer?”

“Yes,” I say, trying to seem as confident as possible, but it’s terribly clear he is not buying it. And why would he? I’m asking about fucking grapes. I sigh, deciding to go a different route. “Okay. You got me. I was headed into the arena to see if you were practicing, but it looks like I got the time wrong.” He tips his head, that smile turning from adorably confused to thoroughly entertained.

“You keeping tabs on my schedule?”

Not in the way you think, I don’t say. “No, I just—” My words trail off as he steps closer to me. “I just wanted to watch your practice when you weren’t on display for everyone. You’re different then, and I thought I might be able to… get some tips. You know, since you’re so…” I swallow, trying to push back the discomfort. “Good at this.”

“Bullshit,” he says, crossing his arms on his chest and looking down at me. He’s tall for a driver, six feet, and as a very average 5’4”, I have to look up at him.

“Why else would I come looking for you?” I ask, and his lips tilt as he takes a lock of my hair and brushes it past my shoulder, touching only that strand. Still, somehow I feel the graze everywhere.

With his next smile, a new feeling comes into play, one I almost mistake for that familiar adrenaline before my mind tells me what it really is: butterflies.

Butterflies dancing around my stomach.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

Cocky assholes like Roman DeLuca do not give me butterflies. Not at all.

“I don’t know. You tell me, honey,” he says, and with his word, the butterflies are gone, leaving irritation in their wake.

“My name is Lana.”

“Oh, I’m well aware. Just trying out other pet names, seeing which I like best.”

“God, you’re such a dick,” I say. That cocky grin returns, as do the butterflies. My pulse quickens, and my lips part as I try to draw air into my lungs, a task that suddenly feels difficult.

“And you like it,” he says low, eyes moving from my lips to my eyes.

“I’m not into assholes,” I say, though it’s a lie. He tips his head to the side, a thick curl falling into his face before his hand moves up to push it back. I can’t help but watch the way his muscles flex in his arm, stretching the thin T-shirt.

“Sure, you’re not. Just like I’m not into bossy blondes with an attitude problem who can drive better than half of the men here.”