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“You only have Santiago and Noah ahead of you. Show them who’s their daddy.”
I bark out a laugh. Bandini’s red cars shine, looking glossy as fuck under the hot sun. My car pulls up next to Santi’s at one of the turns, but he pushes me down again into third place. His car takes up the center of the road, but I inch up behind him, my front wing creeping up. At the next turn, I drive up to the side of his car before I push in front. His tires squeal at his sudden braking.
“Nice work. Your move will be an interesting topic at my press conference. James Mitchell will have a fucking field day if you beat his boys.”
Last but not least, Noah Slade. F1’s four-time World Champion and newly elected President of the Pussy-whipped Squad. He brake-checks me before the next turn.
I fucking want this win. For myself, for the team, for my damn sanity. Winning means pushing past my self-doubts. Placing first means I’m worthy of the fans who care enough about me to wear my race-car number. A podium finish sets a bar and makes my time away from my mum worth it.
Noah doesn’t make it easy for me. He meets my moves with resistance, giving me limited opportunities to push him out of first place.
“Bloody hell,” I mumble under my breath.
Chris unmutes himself. “Please show this man what McCoy cars can do.”
Noah has won enough Championships to last a lifetime. It’s time for someone else to beat him down a peg…or ten. I don’t know how Maya deals with his ego.
Tires rotate, car gears change, and my heart races to the thrum of the engine. I make it around Noah’s car at one of the last turns, pulling in front of him when it matters most. The crowd goes wild when I pass the checkered line. A shit-eating smile tugs at my lips because I fucking did it.
7
Elena
I exit my room to find Jax sitting on the couch, bouncing his knee in agitation. He looks handsome and ready for the Shanghai gala in his black button-down shirt and pants. As if dressing up means conforming to society’s expectations, he ditched the bowtie. His muscles bulge against the expensive material of his shirt.
Basically, Jax is the worst kind of temptation. For my job. For my mental health. For the insane, lusty feeling inside of me that wouldn’t mind taking him up on his offer to hook up. But good thing I value my job more than a quick fuck with Britain’s baddest bachelor.
“Well, you don’t look half bad.” His lip twitches at the corner before settling on a scowl instead.
I snort. “Your compliments suck.”
“I’m the last person you want to compliment you.”
&nb
sp; “Because you lack any tact?”
“Tact isn’t our issue.” His British accent enunciates his words.
“It’s my issue with you.” I tap my pointer finger to my chest.
“What would you like me to do about it?”
“Would it kill you to be nicer to me? Hell, how about less moody?”
He runs a hand across his stubbled chin. “You want the honest answer?”
“Sure?” Except my voice sounds anything but sure.
“We aren’t cut out for sweet moments and special words.” His eyes scan my body again as he closes the distance between us.
I ignore the rush of energy coursing through me at his perusal. “Okay then. What kind of moments are we meant for?”
His hand brushes across my face, eliciting the slightest shiver from me. He grabs a strand of my hair and rubs it between his fingers, analyzing it as if it holds all the answers. “The kind that only end in disappointment.”
“I’m proud of you. Not all men can own up to their faults in the bedroom.” I tap his chest, hiding how much my heart races at his proximity. My hand warms as it trails down the buttons of his shirt to flatten a wrinkle.
“Disappointing is the last word you’d use to describe me in the bedroom.” His voice drops low with a rasp.
