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Luckily, I’m saved by the waiter, who appears with perfect timing. Our plates are set down in front of us, and just as I’m about to tuck in to my lobster tacos, Mason says, “Catherine?”

I pause, holding my taco in mid-air. “Yeah?”

“I like that you remember things about me,” he tells me in a low, sexy rumble.

My pulse leaps, and I put my taco down before I drop it. “You do?” I ask, needing him to repeat this. I half wonder if he’ll take it back or make some witty comment to brush it off.

“Yeah,” he says, his eyes on mine. “I do.”

The current shifts between us with his words. His voice. The way his eyes are locked on mine. I feel it with every cell of my being. Mason likes that I think about him. Remember the little details of who he is.

That has to mean something, I think, my heart racing. It has to.

Somehow, I manage to eat dinner, but it’s really hard when this nervous energy is running through me. What’s interesting is we don’t talk about fashion, which is the whole reason we’re getting together in the first place, or racing, which is the lifeblood that runs between us.

The lifeblood that will keep you separated, a voice inside me whispers.

I tell that voice to shut up and enjoy the rest of our evening, learning new things about each other. Mason loves living in Monaco and spends all his time here, unless he’s on holiday. When he does go on holiday, it’s Sardinia. I love Sardinia, too, and we talk about our experiences there. Usually, his time in England is limited to testing and visits to the Collings Motors headquarters in Surrey. He loves snowboarding in the French Alps, too.

I confess I’ve never been snowboarding, and he says that makes him terribly sad for me, which makes me laugh. I tell him I’m not nearly as adventurous as he is, and my downtime is spent at home, doing simple things. I like listening to audiobooks. I scroll fashion feeds and see what the new trends are. I love learning new things, and right now, I’m obsessed with making sourdough bread.

“You make your own bread?” Mason asks. “Impressive.”

“I’m still perfecting things, but I love eating fresh sourdough toast in the morning with butter and good jam.”

“Who wouldn’t?” he says.

When dinner is done, we both decline dessert, as I’m so full that even the idea of another bite practically makes me feel sick. Mason pays the bill, and then we leave the restaurant, with his fingertips once again finding the low spot on my back as I walk ahead of him, and a shiver races through me the second I feel his touch.

We talk easily during the drive home, and when we arrive in front of my building, Mason pulls his car into a visitor spot.

“Mason. You do not have to escort me inside,” I insist.

“You say you remember things about me. Did you lie?” He’s rubbing his fingertips over his bottom lip slowly, teasingly, and heat courses through me as I watch him. “Because I told you earlier this evening that I’m not a wanker,” he says slowly. “And I’m not letting you go back to the penthouse by yourself.”

Mason slips out of the car before I can argue with him and comes around to my side to open the door. I get out and lead him through the lobby to the private lift reserved for my family’s penthouse.

He ushers me inside, and we each stand on opposite sides of the lift. My heart is beating so loud I’m afraid he can hear it, because I swear I sure can.

“I like the bench,” he says, inclining his head to the plush bench seat along one wall of the lift. “Is that in case you can’t bear standing for a minute?”

I laugh, and he does, too. “I’ve never used that.”

“You’re a strong woman.”

“Although it’s tempting when you wear heels all night.”

Suddenly his gaze flicks down to my stilettos and slowly travels back up my legs, sending a shiver rippling through me as his eyes rake over every inch of me. “I bet it is,” he finally says, his eyes meeting mine.

I think I’m starting to sweat.

Ding! The doors chime open, and we find ourselves stepping into the space between the lift and the entrance to the penthouse. I put my security card to the door and push it open.

“You’ve officially escorted me home now,” I say, smiling at him.

Mason puts his hands in his pockets, and it reminds me of our places. He works for my family. Yes, he flirted during dinner, but that one small movement—putting his hands away, out of sight—shows me in no uncertain terms how he views me.

I’m out of reach. Whether he has feelings for me beyond flirting, he’s telling me, even if it’s subconsciously, that he’s not making any kind of a move on me.