“Sorry, Maeve.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Stella and I got a little caught up. Lost track of time.”
Emerald eyes flick to me before returning their venom to Thomas. “What you’re not going to do is place any blame on your beautiful wife. I already know you can’t tell time.”
I’m both flattered and taken aback. And yet Thomas looks perfectly content with her ribbing, his smile genuine as he peers down at her. Jesus, I think helikesit. No wonder he understands my humor.
“No one tell the watch brand that sponsors the team,” he says cheerily. “Anyway, I should run. Would you mind escorting Stella up to the suite and getting her settled?”
Maeve scowls. “She’s a perfectly capable woman, Thomas. Don’t act like she’s some child who needs her hand held.”
“I’m not—”
“But yes, Stella,” she continues on, turning to me. There’s asparkle in her eyes that tells me this is the typical dynamic between them, and she enjoys it as much as he does. “I’d be happy to take you up. I’ll give you a moment with your husband to wish him luck. He’s going to need it.”
With a little wave, she saunters off, and I glance up at Thomas in near disbelief. “Well, she’s…something.”
He nods. “I’m sure you’ll get along fine. She also thinks the English are a bunch of twats.”
“I never said that.”
“You’re American, it’s ingrained in your DNA.”
I snort, and it gains me a glimpse of satisfaction on Thomas’s face, as if making me laugh is his new favorite thing.
I’m acutely aware of his arm around me, the heat of his body seeping into mine. Last Friday night’s shenanigans flicker on the edges of my memory—the soft press of his mouth over mine, his broad palm under my dress, his sturdy chest to my back, our hearts racing in tandem. It was all so reckless, and yet the flashback has me wrapping my arm around his waist in return, not fighting the desire to hold him closer. I’d be breaking my own rules if we weren’t in public. If he questions me, I’ll give that as an excuse, even if my reasoning is simply that I crave the comfort the contact brings. It doesn’t have to be more than that, does it?
Thomas must be able to read my mind, or maybe my thoughts are just written on my face, because his gaze drops to my lips. In my black pumps, I’m once again not much shorter than him. It’s the perfect distance for a kiss. For me to tilt my chin up a little and for him to dip his head. So easy. Too easy.
A camera flash has me blinking, snapping me out of thoughts that were quickly growing dangerous. I start to turn my head to see where it came from—and to give myself somemuch-needed distance from my husband—but Thomas’s fingers on my jaw stop me.
His eyes are darker in the paddock’s floodlights but no less blue. Still easy to sink into. To drown in.
“Should we give our onlookers a show?” he asks softly.
The ground is unsteady beneath me as his mouth lifts in a knowing smile. I’m struggling to find my footing, desperate to grasp the upper hand again. One look shouldn’t be enough to practically knock me on my ass.Ishould be doing that tohim.
“Are you asking me for a good luck kiss, Thomas?” I finally volley back, batting my lashes. Really, though, it’s to clear away the hearts that have descended over my vision.
“Mm, I think I need it,” he says, tugging me against him until our chests are flush.
It’s bold as hell, far more than I was expecting from Mr. Buttoned-Up while sober. We do have a show to put on, though, and there are plenty of cameras catching this, but it doesn’t feel as fake as it should.
“I’m addingno flirtingto our list of rules,” I muse as his hand moves to cup the back of my neck.
“Come on, Stella. Where’s the fun in that?”
His mouth is on mine before I can answer, stealing away my words and my breath. Compared to our past kisses, this is chaste. It’s even tender. There’s no brush of tongues or biting of lips. Nothing fierce or commanding about it. This is the quick, casual touch that a couple in love would share without a second thought. It’s the exact thing we need in this moment. It’s us saying,Of course we’re the real deal, can’t you see?
Or at least that’s what it’s meant to be until I make the mistake of curling my fingers into his shirt as he starts to draw away. I don’t mean to do it. I think. Okay, maybe I do mean to,but this is just sonicethat I don’t want it to be over so soon. Is that such a crime?
And clearly Thomas doesn’t mind, because he draws me closer and kisses me again like it’s his absolute pleasure.
But it’s over almost as fast as it happened, our lips parting slowly. I know I need to bring back my practiced smile and act like that kind of kiss is something we share on a regular basis, but I’m blinking up at him like my whole world’s been rocked. All over an innocent kiss. I’m losing it.
I clear my throat and release his shirt from my grasp, focusing my attention on smoothing out the wrinkles I made. Doting wife, am I right?
“That should be enough luck to get you on the podium,” I quip, amazed I can even find my voice.
“I think that’s enough to get me the win.”
