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Prologue — Sophie
Three Years Ago
Do you know what happens when people turn eighteen? They have nights filled with freedom, exploration, and boxed wine.
For me, eighteen doesn’t look the same—at least not yet.
James Mitchell smells trouble a mile away with his exposure to Formula 1’s bad-boy racers teaching him a thing or two about handling a daughter. Ever since we moved from California to Italy when I was five years old, I get the same treatment as the Bandini drivers he manages. In his house, I adhere to his three Rs: respect, rules, and responsibilities.
My dad let me join him for one Grand Prix this summer before starting my university classes. A rare occasion, seeing how he has kept me away from the race scene ever since I grew boobs and learned what clothes flatter my body shape.
This morning, I trudged my feet through our hotel room, arms crossed over my chest, and bottom lip fully displayed in a pout. My dad kept his face neutral with not a single gray hair out of place, unblinking and unwavering as I protested his plan.
Guess who won that battle? Not me, in case you were wondering, but thanks for the moral support.
Instead of hanging out in Bandini’s pit garage, my dad volunteered me to dress like a princess for a kid’s birthday party while I paint kids’ faces. Don’t let looks deceive you, I may be the same height as the eight-year-olds running around, but my brains, wit, and sass make up for my small stature.
I’m kind of like a lemon Starburst—sweet but packs a punch.
I run my hands down my ridiculous Rapunzel costume my dad bought. Joke’s on him this time because he didn’t realize he grabbed me a kid’s size. Velvet material barely contains my breasts, suggesting I want to offer way more than candy and face painting to unsuspecting partygoers. The skirt rests above my mid-thigh, revealing tan legs and white Converse because this princess wears comfortable shoes. Screw heels and being a royal pain in the ass who needs to be protected by a pretty prince.
No thank you. I’d rather save the day in sneakers.
I ditch the sour attitude once I arrive at the party. Face painting can be a cool gig, letting me show off artistic talents I tamper down into nothing nowadays.
See, I’ve loved art ever since I picked up a paintbrush at two years old and decided to paint all over the canvas stools in our kitchen while under the influence of too many Bob Ross episodes. My dad wasn’t amused when he sat on wet paint and rocked an imprint of a sunflower on his ass. I’d love to say an artist was born that day, but my dad didn’t support my creativity as anything more than a hobby.
So now, instead of pursuing a degree in anything art related, I’m forced to attend a college tailored toward business degrees.
I almost fall asleep thinking about it.
But I want to make my dad happy because he never lets me down. Blame the daddy’s girl in me. He does so much, playing both a mother and father, no matter how awkward or uncomfortable it makes him.
At least I can create mini masterpieces on everyone’s faces today. I choose different themes for each person because I’m not a basic bitch. I’ve never been wired that way, ever since my dad bought me a Star Wars backpack instead of a princess one because no daughter of his believes in fairy tales.
I scroll through my phone to pass the time. Kids move on to the bounce houses, no longer amused with the clown or me. Said party entertainment sends me sly grins across the lawn, weirdly making phallic motions with his balloon animals while mouthing for me to call him.
Someone leans against the table where I spread out my art supplies. My eyes trail his jean-clad legs before they land on golden arms crossed over a firm torso. Tense muscles pull against the black fabric. I hold my breath as my eyes meet two icy blue ones, the color of melting glaciers in the Arctic.
I’m an artist, not a poet.
“Blink twice if they’re holding you against your will.” He smirks at me. His voice has a hint of an accent I can’t place, the English smooth yet different at the same time.
My mouth opens before closing again. Because holy shit. This guy looks like he belongs surfing on the beach somewhere, all blonde hair and skin with a summer glow. I look around to make sure I’m at a kid’s birthday rather than daydreaming. The bounce house bumps up and down, roars of screaming children a reminder of how this is all very real.
“Oh, shit. I knew there was something weird about Evan. Who knew he liked holding beautiful girls hostage, dressed up like fucked-up Disney porno characters?” The stranger’s eyes roam up and down my body.
My cheeks uncontrollably flush under his gaze, new reactions sparking inside of me around this man. “Oh my God. No. Evan has been nothing but nice to me. And he’s very married. I’m here for the kids’ face painting and stuff. His daughter thinks I’m Rapunzel.” I fumble with paint tubes while I ramble, knocking a few to the ground.
I bend over to grab the tubes. The stranger beats me to it, our fingers brushing against each other, warmth radiating from his touch. My heart jolts at the contact.
Um. Okay.
The stranger gets a look at my chest when I pull myself back up along with the paints. My blonde hair whips to the side as I turn toward the table, wanting to hide my flustered state. This whole meeting is going terribly wrong, making me look like I don’t know how to act around someone unfairly attractive.
Can I blame the fact that I went to an all-girls Catholic school my whole life? Sounds plausible.
“Ah, she has a voice.” He lets out a rough laugh, his chest shaking before he controls himself.
