Nevaeh
“NevaehEmiliaFuchs,”Valentinasays after opening her hotel room door, looking like the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in the world.
She’s wearing a red dress that appears to be made out of pure glitter, red heels so high, just looking at them throws me in danger of breaking an ankle, and her necklace with a Formula One car-shaped charm. Her makeup is bright and bold, and I think I could look at this woman for hours and find more beautiful things about her.
“How did you find out my middle name?” I ask as she takes a step toward me and places a kiss on each of my cheeks, the typicalbise.
“Adrian told me,” she says, waving me into her room. “You look beautiful,” Val adds, smiling at me.
“Thank you. So do you,” I reply, running a hand down the dark orange dress I threw on.
It’s tight in all the right places, and loose in all the others, simultaneously highlighting my curves and hiding parts of my body I’m not entirely confident with. I’ve chosen flats instead of heels, and more simple makeup. But looking at Val, who is shimmering with her dress and the eyeshadow she put on, I wish I’d gone a similar route as her.
“You know, orange is Adrian’s favorite color,” she says, winking at me as she walks toward her purse and slips it over her shoulder.
“Is it?” I ask, pretending not to know that when it was one of the reasons I chose this dress in the first place. Valentina looks right through me, humming a little after the words have left my mouth.
“Come on,petite menteuse, Gabriel, Adrian, and the rest of them are meeting us at the afterparty club,” she says, guiding her long, blonde curls over her shoulder and holding out her hand for me to take.
When we arrive at the club, Val and I have to show ID to the bouncers to make sure only members of the Formula One world may enter. This is an exclusive event, after all. I’m sure I wouldn’t even be allowed in there, being a reporter and all, if it weren’t for Valentina. She takes my hand again as we walk inside, keeping me close to her and reassuring me in the same breath.
I’ve never had a friend like Valentina Romana.
That thought is followed by another.
There is no one like Valentina Romana.
Just like there is only one Adrian Romana in this world, and he’s currently leaning against a high table, smiling at something James Landon is saying. The Monegasque is dressed in a simple black button-down with several of the top buttons left undone to expose his trained chest. His fingers are decorated in several black rings, and a simple black necklace hangs from his neck. The dark blue jeans he’s wearing do his round ass a lot more justice than his racing suit, and good God, it is a glorious sight.
All of him is a glorious sight.
Adrian might call memonange, but he’s the one that looks like an angel.
“Need a napkin?” Val teases, lifting her index finger to the corner of my mouth as if she wants to wipe away my drool.
“No, I need a drink,” I mumble, walking directly to the bar and ignoring the way my body has caught on fire.
“Don’t worry,bella, Adrian has that effect on a lot of people,” a short woman with bright green eyes, light skin, and short brown hair says. Her Italian accent is thick, and a scowl rests on her lips. “I’m Chiara,” she introduces herself, extending a hand. I shake it with a smile.
“Nevaeh. It’s nice to meet you,” I reply, although her comment about Adrian has me more confused than anything else.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” she says right as another woman walks up to us with an empty glass and a bright smile on her lips.
“I need another of these passion fruit cocktails. They’re so good,” the woman says, and Chiara takes the glass from her, shooting the bartender a death glare until his eyes widen and he hurries to make the other woman another drink.
“You must be Nevaeh. I’m Scarlette. Val has told me so much about you!” she says, genuine excitement wafting off her. I look from one woman to the other and almost grin at the polar opposites. Scarlette is pure sunshine. Chiara is a thunderstorm.
Chiara hands Scarlette her refreshed drink, staring at the alcohol longingly. Scarlette catches that look, too.
“Just have one drink. One drink isn’t going to mess with your milk,” she tells Chiara, but she shoots her a frown in response.
“It’s safest for my baby if I don’t drink anything, so I won’t. Not while I’m breastfeeding,” the Italian woman says, lifting a hand to place it on her left boob absentmindedly as a sad expression slips across her face.
“Is breastfeeding as weird as I’ve always imagined it to be?” I blurt out without really thinking. I half expect Chiara to give me a strange look and walk away, but she gives me several nods and a look that says, ‘You have no idea.’
“It’s wonderful and so weird, and when your nipples are sucked raw, it’s not fun at all,” Chiara replies right as Leonard Tick approaches and wraps his arms around her from behind. He whispers something into her ear that makes her blush and bite down on her bottom lip to fight a smile.
“Do you mind talking about taking care of your wife’s nipples when I’m not in earshot?” Scarlette asks with furrowed brows and Leonard mumbles a quick apology before whisking Chiara away, making her giggle in his arms.
