Stella’s brows rise, her eyes still not looking away. It’s almost a staring contest at this point, the prequel to more challenges I’m sure are to come. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I repeat, gently stroking her leg. She has the softest skin I’ve ever touched. If I were to slide my hand higher, would the rest of her be just as soft? “But you call the shots. You tell me how far we take this. You tell me to stop, I stop. No questions.”
“What a gentleman,” she drawls, reminding me of the women from earlier, and I have to wonder if she saw that interaction—if that’s when she first set her sights on me. “But okay. I think you and I could have some fun tonight.”
“We haven’t already?”
Her grin tells me everything so far has only been a warm-up.
“Then I guess I’m in for—” I cut short when my phone buzzes in the pocket of my trousers. “One second,” I tell Stella as I reluctantly pull my hand away from her thighs to grab it. When I see who’s calling, I can’t hold back an eye roll. It’s like she knows when I’m paying attention to another woman.
Sending the call to voicemail, I move to put the device back in my pocket so I can return to my conversation with Stella. Before I can, it rings again, Figgy’s name and picture—one that she programmed in my phone herself—reappearing. I decline it even faster this time.
“Someone you don’t want to talk to?”
I glance at Stella, expecting her to be staring at the bubbly blonde who pops up on my screen once more, but she’s looking at me. There’s no judgment in her tone or her eyes, just calm curiosity.
So that’s probably why I confess, “It’s the girl my parents want me to marry.”
She’s surprised by my honesty, blinking rapidly a few times,but she’s grinning sharply a split second later, like her choice to talk to me has really paid off. I’m fascinating after all.
“I’m guessing you’re not interested in that,” she surmises.
“No, not in the slightest.” It’s easy to admit this to someone who doesn’t know me, who doesn’t know Figgy or our history or our families. Or maybe it’s just easy admitting things to Stella. Feels only fair after she confessed to her failed wedding. “She’s never been my type.”
Stella lifts her chin, neck on perfect display, tempting me to lean in and press my lips to the space where it meets her jaw. “What’s your type, Thomas?”
You.“Not her.”
Stella takes that in. I don’t miss the way her eyes flick to my mouth, like she was imagining the same thing I was. She recovers better, back to looking up at me through her lashes as her fingers find the hair that brushes my collar, playfully twisting the strands. Not even the woman huffing loudly across the bus can get me to look away.
“I’ve told you my story,” Stella says. “Time to tell me yours.”
Mine isn’t nearly as interesting, but I always reciprocate.
“Born and raised in London,” I begin, phone in my hand still flashing with Figgy’s face. “Middle child—one older brother, one older sister, and two younger sisters. Started kart racing when I was five because my brother was doing it and I wanted to be just like him. He eventually gave it up, went to university instead, but I stuck with it. I won championships in the UK and then around the world. Left school at fourteen. Moved to single-seaters and worked my way up through the Formulas.” There’s a hell of a lot more that happened over those years, but this is only supposed to be an overview. “Now here I am at the pinnacle of motorsport, driving for the team I was obsessed with as a kid.”
She makes a thoughtful sound. “Living the dream, are you?”
What gets me is how she doesn’t seem particularly impressed. Like all of this is routine. Like she’s met far more accomplished people in her life. I wouldn’t doubt that she has, and something about that—the lack of fawning, the acceptance of my story as completely normal—makes me like her even more.
But her question…Does she realize how loaded it is? Sure, five years in Formula 1 and a handful of wins under my belt should constituteliving the dream. But is it, when you really look underneath it all? When I’ve never won a championship and likely never will? When I’m loathed by a broad majority? When my family is pushing for me to settle down so I can have something to focus on whenthe dreamultimately ends? An end that could come at any time in a sport like this?
“Not really, no,” I hear myself say through the familiar spiral.
I don’t mean to confess it. I’m all about honesty, but this…this isn’t something I’ve even been completely honest with myself about yet.Of courseI’m living the dream. It shouldn’t even be a doubt in my mind.
Yet it is.
The question is in her expression before her lips can form the words. But she doesn’t get a chance to ask it, because the bus comes to a hard stop that would have had her toppling to the floor if I hadn’t grabbed her legs again.
“Thanks, Prince Charming,” she chirps, shooting me a wink. It lightens the weight that’s settled on my chest, the one that always comes when I start thinking a little too hard about my life and career.
I even welcome the distraction of Ron grabbing the microphone and announcing that we’ve arrived at our next stop, as ifwe couldn’t already tell by the most aggressive braking I’ve ever experienced, even as a professional driver.
Stella taps my knuckles, prompting me to let her go so she can put her feet on the ground. I’m a little more reluctant to slip my arm from around her shoulders, but the lack of contact is brief, since she’s quick to lift her lips to my ear and grab my hand.
“I won’t abandon you, I promise,” she murmurs. I can’t see her smirk, but I can feel it. “Besides, the look on Daphne’s face is just too good.”
