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“I’m sorry. I got distracted.” I bring my drink up to my lips because I have to keep my hands busy. If not, my nervousness will give me away.
“You’ve been more than that lately. I’ll have to talk to Sophie because she takes up too much of your time, making me feel needy and jealous.”
He fails to notice me choking on my drink.
Way to keep it cool, Maya.
He continues, oblivious to my internal struggle. “It’s getting out of hand. Give me my sister back already. We only have two races left and I barely see you anymore. Not even at the press conferences.”
“Well, those get boring. I almost fell asleep at one…standing up, I might add.” I don’t include how Noah had kept me up for hours the night before.
His cold gaze assesses me while he remains silent.
“I’ll spend the rest of the night by your side. I’ll even help you avoid Charles; I don’t think he likes me very much anyway.” I link my arm in his, ignoring how my throat feels like I chugged sand.
“You better. He hugged me twice, his sweaty face rubbing against mine. Feel pity for your older brother.” Santi winces.
I rub his arm in assurance. “Aw, poor baby. I’m here now and I’ll keep an eye out for him.”
Not soon after, Noah finds me again. But this time he frowns when his eyes land on Santi next to me. His eyes scream trouble. The delicious kind of trouble, but trouble nonetheless with my brother here. I subtly shake my head from side to side in hopes of discouraging his advances. His lips tip up at the corners.
“Noah, good to see you, man. It feels like you barely hang around these things. You missed Charles today. He hugged me.” My brother gives Noah the usual guy hello: hands shaking, backs being clapped.
Guilt eats me alive like a corroded battery in the pit of my stomach. How does Noah keep his face neutral all the time? I need to set up a meeting with
Bandini’s PR manager because I can use some insider tips.
“Yeah, these events haven’t been doing it for me lately. Especially Charles. He’s a nice guy, but a bit touchy.” He smirks at my brother.
We both know what has been doing it for him lately.
Spoiler: it isn’t Charles or winning races.
Even though Noah wins most of the races anyway. Commentators think Noah may be the best of our generation and F1 history. Fans obsess over him, attending races with huge posters, some including women’s numbers. They line up for hours to get him to sign their stuff. Boobs not included.
My brother and Noah chat while I insert random comments that come off half-assed at best. Noah and his nearness distract me. His tux makes me lightheaded, the look of his roguish smile muddles up my insides. Thankfully Santi doesn’t notice anything. I’ll tell him soon enough because I can’t take the lying anymore.
Soon after, Santi and I call it an early night, wanting to get extra sleep before the qualifiers.
For the first time in a while, I stay with Santi because of his admission about being lonely. He does so much for me, and I lie to him, keeping a secret hidden that he should be aware of.
I don’t sleep a wink. Instead, I end up tossing and turning, never finding a comfortable position. Turns out sleep is for the innocent.
“I don’t like the way he looks at you,” my brother growls before taking another sip of his beer. Noah stares at us across the pit lane, smiling before turning back toward a man he’s talking to.
Noah sucks at keeping his cool. He’s already talked to us twice at this kid’s event, a kart race fundraiser for children with cancer. When Santi and I hopped in two karts, Noah decided to join, claiming he wanted to spend time with his teammate.
Preferably the teammate he spends his nights with.
And damn him for making my heart melt onto the pavement as he played with kids, throwing them in the air and catching them. A total dad move that makes my ovaries happy.
My brother stares at him, dark eyebrows tipped down as his fingers clench around his beer bottle.
He glances over at me. Crap. I forgot he said something in the first place.
“He looks at everyone that way. Don’t bother getting annoyed.” I take a sip of my water, wishing to chug Santi’s beer instead.
“No, he doesn’t. His eyes stay on you too long. I might tell him something because you’re my sister, and he’s a manwhore who needs to keep his hands to himself.”
