“Nicky sent his bodyguard to watch over you?” Serena asks in a loud whisper. So loud she may as well have screamed it.
I tug her along, not sure what to make of the whole thing. On the one hand, it’s sweet that Nicky wants to make sure I’m safe. On the other, it’s annoying. And overbearing. And suffocating.
“That’s so sweet,” she says, fluttering her eyelashes in a dreamy expression.
I look back at James, watching over the two of us, and give in to the inevitable.Fine, Nicky wanting me to be protected and safe is sweet.
It’s so sweet I’m not sure what to think or do about it. I just need to remember that at the end of the F1 season all of this stuff, this time with Nicky, with his attention—and hands—on me, is going to end.
Whether I want it to or not.
CHAPTER 8
Nicky
The notification bar on my phone taunts me. So far this morning, I’ve had messages and emails from every person I’ve ever met, it seems. From every person, except one.
Cherry.
After she left the restaurant last night, tipsy and sexy as hell in those faux-leather pants, I’d done something impulsive. Something so out of character for me, Sue had sent two follow-up emails confirming my request was real before actually completing it. And now, here I am, waiting for a response from this woman who’s got me acting impulsive and possessive and all kinds of other adjectives I’ve never been before.
“Screw it.”
I give up pacing in my room and head down to pace in front of hers. The text I sent Cherry last night asked her to be ready at 8.00 a.m., so here I stand at 7.55 a.m., with still no response. I know from James that she and Serena had stayed out drinking and dancing until 2.00 a.m., so there’s a very real chance she’s not even read my text yet, let alone will be ready to leave in five minutes, butI’m not ready to admit defeat yet. Not when there’s still a chance that I get to spend the day with her. Just the two of us. Away from the track; away from everyone watching us.
I’m so gone for this woman.
With a clenched fist, I knock on her door. Light at first and when I hear nothing on the other side of the timber, with a bit more force. Biting back a smile, I sigh with relief when there’s a thump, and a muttered curse, followed by a raspy, “I’m coming.”
I shuffle my feet and wait for what feels like a really long time for one small person to make their way to the door, when it finally opens. There in front of me is Cherry. Her hair is a mop of wavy disarray around her face. Her skin is pale and blotchy, her eyes are rimmed with remnants of black mascara, and she’s wearing those pyjamas again. Otherwise known as the skimpiest pjs in the world. Two scraps of material I’ve fought long and hard to forget about since we shared a suite in Shanghai.
“Good morning, sunshine,” I drawl, warmth filling my chest as her enormous blue eyes blink up at me. She’s a mess this morning—an adorable mess—and I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone more.
Eager to get our day under way, I take two steps into her room, stopping when she takes two rapid steps back.
“What’s going on?” she asks, her voice hoarse from all the karaoke singing from the night before. I know this because I was privy to her performance, courtesy of the video James sent to me at 1.00 a.m. She puts a trembling hand to her head, a wrinkle marring her brow like she’s racking her mind for the reason I’d be standing at her door. There wasn’t any talk of the two of us meeting today, so I understand her confusion. It seems my text message to her had gone unread after all.
“You didn’t see my message?” I ask, my eyes unable to stay focussed on just her face. Like right now, they are stuck on where her hands are playing with the hem of her shorts. Her short shorts, showing off miles of creamy skin and toned thighs. “Do you get some sort of discount for your pyjamas?” I add, the words out of my mouth before my brain can stop them.
Seriously, Nicky? Get it together.
She glances down at her cotton baby blue singlet and shortie set, like she’s looking for a clue. Like she doesn’t see what the problem is.
“It would only seem fair, given they seem to have forgotten half the fabric.”
Great. You’re making it much better. Shut up.
A deep red blush starts at the base of her neck and travels up over her face, and I swallow a groan when she grabs a cushion off the couch next to her and holds it in front of her body, making it so she now looks naked.
“That’s not really helping.” I try and cannot bite back a grin, chuckling loudly when she turns and launches the cushion at me. At my face.
“So, what are you doing here?” she asks.
I put the cushion back on the couch between us, taking several steps closer to where she’s standing. I watch, fascinated as she fiddles with her pyjamas, first with the hem of her top, pulling it down enough to cover her stomach, then pulling it up to cover her chest. The poor thing looks so uncomfortable. I rush to put her at ease.
“We’re going to Kyoto,” I announce.
Her fiddling stops.
