Page 4 of The Fake Date Deal

“Are you hurt?”

I surged up, eyes prickling, my neck flushing hot. My stupid damn dress was stuck. Caught in the door. My last shred of dignity?—

“Eve! Over here!”

I seized my skirts with both hands and jerked till they tore. Tiny crystals broke loose and spilled down the steps. I ran over them barefoot, yelping in pain, and stormed through the press corps elbowing wild. Microphones came at me and I slapped them away. Cameras thrust themselves full in my face. I batted them back and barged out the front gates, and dove for the limo with its festive rosettes. The limo still waiting to whisk us away.

“Open the door,” I screamed, and I heard the lock pop. I jerked the door open and tumbled inside. The driver peered back at me through the glass shield.

“Miss Hansley? Should I?—”

I dragged myself up, tattered, knees bleeding. “Just get me out of here. Drive and don’t stop.”

CHAPTER 2

MARCO

Ihad a whole ritual before a big race. It started the night before, in bed by nine. Then the day of the race I’d get up first thing, go for a run or a punishing workout. Most drivers would stretch some or do a light workout, but I’d push myself till my muscles were burning. Only then could I slip into my race-day headspace, focused, relaxed, nerves good and steady, and just enough pain to maintain my edge. If I missed my workout, if I didn’t push hard enough, I’d go in jumpy. Adrenaline-drunk. I took stupid risks that didn’t pay off, and I ended up second, or worse, wiping out.

After my workout, I’d head for the track. I’d go over my race plan with my engineer, then I’d walk around for a while so I wouldn’t get stiff. As I walked, I’d breathe deep, taking in that track smell, rubber and gasoline, exhaust, hot asphalt. By the time it came time to meet with my race team, I’d be in full drive mode, ready to go.

We were through with our briefing, sixty minutes to go, when I got a bad feeling, something not right. I thought it was me at first, just being antsy. Then I spotted my publicist trotting toward me. I scowled at him.

“Glen. You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know that,” he said. “But, man, this is big.”

A hard knot of tension clenched in my gut. I didn’t need big right now. I needed to focus.

“Can’t it wait for after?”

“Not really, no.” Glen glanced at his phone, then at something behind me. I kept my eyes locked on his, narrowed with pique. He knew I needed this time to get my head straight. To read a chapter or two of The Crossing or The Road and get myself in that dog-eat-dog mindset. I snorted, impatient.

“Well? What is it?”

“Rafael’s here,” said Glen.

I stared at him, thrown. I only knew one Rafael, Prince Rafael, and he wasn’t here today. He was getting married.

“Did you hear what I said? Rafael’s racing.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” I said. “You must’ve heard wrong. Rafael’s in Monaco, at his wedding.”

“Yeah, no, he’s not.” Glen held up his phone. I shoved it away from me.

“Don’t do that. Just tell me.”

“He’s with his team right now going over his drive plan. Everyone’s saying he’s a last-minute entry.”

I shook my head. “That doesn’t make sense. He can’t just— He couldn’t— They wouldn’t let him.”

“They wouldn’t let you, but Rafael’s a prince. Maybe he pulled a string or two. Maybe?—”

“Dio cane!”

Glen pursed his lips. “No need for that language.”

I bit my tongue on a worse curse, the kind that stripped paint. This wasn’t Glen’s fault. It was Rafael’s. What the hell was he doing here the day of his wedding? Had he rushed through the ceremony and hopped on a plane? Was this his honeymoon, horning in on my race? What would his bride think?

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