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“So that’s where you learned it from,” I said, not missing an opportunity to take a jab.
“I’ll admit that I like the company of women, but I haven’t even looked at another woman in the last four months.”
I didn’t believe that. While he may not have touched, he’d definitely looked. I took my book and sat on the plush chair in the corner of the room. The hotel was only a few short blocks from the track, and during practice sessions and the race itself, you could hear the cars like they were right outside the window. I would have preferred a quieter room.
“Do you know what I find amazing about Carlton?”
“He’s better looking?” I said, without glancing up from my book.
“No, he … You think he’s better looking?”
“What do you find amazing about Carlton?” I asked, bringing him back to his original thought.
“The bastard is very careful who he associates with. If you don’t come from money, he doesn’t give a shit about you.”
I raised my brows but said nothing.
“When I think about it, he chums around with only two people: Riedl and your brother. Now he’s latching on to you. It’s like he can smell the money, and he gravitates toward it.”
“That’s profound,” I said, only half listening. But then something caught my attention. “Has he always been friendly with Rafe?”
Devin chuckled. “Oh yeah. They chat all the time. Your brother’s always kissing Carlton’s ass. I’m sure Carlton doesn’t want to be associated with a lesser team, so Rafe has to go sniff around him. But Carlton allows it, even likes it.”
If only Devin knew about Carlton’s interest in the team, but I couldn’t say a word. “Interesting.”
A long silence followed as I flipped the pages of my book. I could feel Devin’s eyes on me.
“Are you going to read?” he asked with disappointment.
“It sure looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“I had other things in mind.”
“That’s nice,” I said, flipping another page.
Devin got off the bed and knelt down beside me. He ran his hands up and down my thighs, hoping for a reaction. I casually pushed his hand away, but he didn’t get the obvious hint. He kissed my inner thigh, something he knew normally drove me wild.
“Stop,” I said.
“What is wrong with you?” he asked, shooting to his feet, offended that he was rebuffed.
“Do we have to screw around every night?”
“You’re usually begging me for it.”
“Oh, please,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Fine, if you’re going to be that way, I’m going to bed.”
I waved him off, and he stormed toward the bed. He settled himself under the covers and turned to face me in an attempt to distract me. I was unfazed. He then began to make noise, constantly turning over, coughing, and clearing his throat, anything at all to get my attention. Finally, I put my book down and stared at him. He looked back at me, absolutely no expression on his face.
“Who is Charlotte Simpson?” I asked firmly.
He sat up quickly but kept his expression neutral. “Someone I went out with a couple of times. How do you even know about her?”
I’d listened to his answer carefully, noting any change of tone or pitch, but he seemed unperturbed by the question.
“Someone told me you dated her.”
