Page 4 of Heartbreaker

“Why would it be from an ex?”

“It’s five sizes too big on you, and you don’t really seem like the Atlas Oaks type,” I say, referring to the popular rock band emblazoned across her chest.

Ding, ding, ding—frustration spreads over her face, telling me I hit my intended mark. But instead of calling me an asshole like I deserve or expect, she just tilts her head. Her light hair cascades over her shoulder, and I fight myself not to look at it, much less wonder what it would feel like between my fingers.

“What type do I seem like?” she asks, putting her hands on her hips, making the fabric dip to show off her curves. I smile at her, the one I know screams total dickwad.

“Willa Stone. Something light and fluffy with no real context.” She rolls her eyes in a way I find much more attractive than I should.

“I like a lot of music. I like Willa Stone, but I also enjoy Atlas Oaks.”

“Yeah? Name five songs by them.” Her eyes widen, and I get a spark of joy, knowing I’ve caught her. That is, until her expression changes, that smile going lazy, her eyes going almost pitying.

“Sure, right after you name five women who trust you around their drink.”

I splutter out an unexpected laugh.

There aren’t many people on this earth who can meet me line for line, but I wonder if I may have met my match. The idea is both thrilling and terrifying.

“Touche,” I say, then, despite myself, I lean on the barrier, resting my arms on the concrete ledge and look up at her. “What are you really doing here?”

“Wanted to come in, take in the place before it’s filled with fans tomorrow,” she says, confirming my thoughts. “Lucky me, I also got a show out of it. Looking pretty good out there.”

I looked like shit out there, which she would know if she were actually part of the scene for even a minute.

“Where did you say you were from, again?” I ask. I haven’t paid too much attention to the circuit since I left, but I think I would have noticed a woman rising the ranks.

“I didn’t,” she says, popping that bubble again, her eyes locked on me.

My cock twitches at the fierce, challenging look in her eyes.

I get a lot of looks from women.

Desire.

Want.

Need.

But very rarely challenge.

It’s refreshing.

“I haven’t raced in years,” she explains, lifting a shoulder. “But a friend of a friend told me they wanted to bring in a larger female base, and I was tapped.”

“You were tapped?” While it’s not unheard of for a driver to be pulled from drag or dirt bike racing, it’s never someone completely unknown.

“As I said, they want to bring in a larger female base. Get girls into the sport more. Sell more tickets.”

“I—” I start, but before I can finish my thought, we’re interrupted, and she straightens.

“Rome, you’re looking fantastic out there,” Phil calls, appearing out of nowhere. “And Lana! Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I heard a truck running and thought I’d watch, see if I can get any pointers,” she says.

“Well, our Roman would definitely be the person to learn from. You know, he used to be my biggest star before he got pulled away to Indy. Is he treating you well?”

“Very hospitable,” she says with a beaming grin.