My face goes hot. “I don’t know or care.”
For the record, I very muchdocare about that kind of thing. But I’ve been suckered enough times that at a certain point, I started pretending marital status doesn’t matter. Being seen as a homewrecker somehow feels less mortifying than being cliché gullible.
I catch sight of myself in a mirror and glare at the face that made my stupid ex Josh once joke,You’re too pretty to be wasted on print media. Glossy dark brown hair and fine bone structure I inherited from my mother, my father’s full lips and long-lashed blue eyes.
Unfortunately, I may also have my parents’ irresponsibility, despite working hard my entire life to prove otherwise.
I fought their legacy when I chose the debate team rather thancheerleading in high school. I fought it when I kept up a consistent 4.0, studying on weekends instead of dating. I fought it when I applied to Queens U Charlotte instead of party school University of Alabama, where my peers were dying to go.
And finally… I fought it when I got offers from bothVogueandAuto Racing Journal, and spite-choseARJbecause Josh once said I should “get established in the fashion industry before you age out and lose your looks.”
I’ve completely messed it all up, right out of the gate. What do I do now?
I need to get the hell out of the United Arab Emirates and hit the reset button on this disaster. After all, I don’tneedto be here—I won’t officially start withARJuntil next month. This trip is just to chill with Phae and get the lay of the land.
No pun intended…
I’ll head back to the States, I resolve,and by March when the new racing season begins, Klaus will have long forgotten me.
“Okay, um, I’ll meet you at your room soon!” I tell Phae. As she’s replying, I hang up and hurry back to the bedroom to collect my travel outfit from the en suite.
Charcoal Suit—Klaus Franke, oh my God—is sitting on the bed, propped against the headboard, perusing something on an iPad and wearing a businesslike scowl. He glances over the tops of a pair of reading glasses as I enter.
Flashing a smile, doing my best not to look panicked, I walk into the bathroom. My purple dress is folded on the counter, and on top of it—
Tell me that’s not what I’m seeing.
A stack of hundred-euro notes is perched on my dress.
I strangle the money in one fist and clutch my folded clothes against myself, marching back into the bedroom.
“What the hell is this?” I demand, holding the cash up.
He pulls his reading glasses off. Before he has a chance to say anything, I throw the money. It flutters around him, half of it hitting the floor beside the bed.
“You think I’m a prostitute?” I rage. “Are you out of your mind?”
“I don’t assume one way or another when I meet women in this manner.” He sets his glasses aside. “Money is useful to everyone. Consider it a gift.”
“No thanks.Asshole.”
I storm to my suitcase and cram my dress and shoes inside, then haul it to the door in bare feet. I wave my hand in front of the confusing door latch, assuming it must be motion-activated, then spin around with a growl.
Klaus is standing a few yards away.
“What’s with this techno BS?” I demand. “Does it need to scan my retina? Are normal human doorknobs too pedestrian for your cool luxury suite?”
He walks over with maddening leisure and slides his fingers under the matte metal flap that opens the door, pulling it wide.
“I’m sorry for offending you,” he says quietly. “It was a terrible blunder.”
I wish he looked sarcastic, but his eyes are the tiniest bit sad.
“This,” I tell him, summoning my inner badass and donning a frosty mask of disdain, “has been both the best and most disappointing lay of my life.”
I drag my enormous suitcase out and stride to the elevator.
2
