Page 21 of When Hearts Surrender

“Scratch that. Maybe you aren’t an opera fan per se, but a Puccini fan?” I arch my brow at his widening eyes. He clearly didn’t expect me to recognize this piece as another Giacomo Puccini work.

“Impressive,” he murmurs and slowly slides on black driving gloves, the movement masculine and sensual and a heat gathers in my core.

“What’s your name? I’m…Anna.” I decide to fib a little since I know nothing about this stranger.

He swallows, his Adam’s apple moving up and down his corded neck. “S-Silas.”

His eyes dart to my face as if searching for something, but a second later, he turns away.

He stares out the windshield and I follow suit, noticing the crowd dispersing to the side and a girl with a black and white checkered flag walking to the front of the cars.

The race is about to begin.

The collective roaring of the engines breaks through the classical music and my heart shoots up my throat. Sweat beads on my back.

I guess I’m doing this. Sitting in a hot stranger’s car in an illegal street race.Year of yeses, Belle.Quickly, I buckle my seatbelt and tightly grip the handle on the car door.

“Puccini was my mom’s favorite composer. She was the person who showed me the beauty of classical opera and musicals,” he answers my question from moments before.

My brows furrow at his usage of past tense, but my attention is quickly drawn to the activity occurring in front of us.

The girl with the flag stands on top of a center divider. She raises her flag into the air. I blow out an exhale, my lungs desperate for more oxygen, and I feel my pulse speeding, careening off a cliff. I tremble in my seat.

His gloved hand reaches over and clasps my free hand, which is gripping the hem of my dress as if that’ll save me if anything happens to the car. My gaze darts to him, finding his eyes still intent on the scene before us.

Somehow, he senses I’m terrified.

“I’m a good driver. No alcohol. No drugs. No traffic accidents or violations.” He turns to me, his penetrative gaze settling the nausea churning in my gut. “You’re in good hands. Trust me.”

Trust me. The two words echo in the small space between us, and I don’t know why, but I trust him, this stranger who I swear I’ve never met before, and yet feels so intimate and familiar.

My rapid pulse settles and I nod.

His lips twist into a half smirk, baring one dimple, and a shrill whistle sounds in the air.

Tires screech on the cement as the car lurches forward.

The race is on.

Chapter 7

I swerve the carto the oncoming traffic lane as a delivery truck unexpectedly stops in front of us on Canal Street, my car handling the shift in gears and transition smoothly despite the rain splattering on the windshield.

“Oh my God!” Anna shrieks, her eyes squeezed shut as she grips my hand tightly on her lap, her fingernails digging into my skin.

Horns blare and bright headlights flash at us as I weave the car seamlessly between oncoming traffic.

“I’m going to die. I’m going to die,” she mutters. “I don’t want to die. This is supposed to be my year of yeses, not my last year on earth. Why did I do this? Why did I get in his stupid car? Because he’s hot, huh? Are youstupid?”

I swallow a laugh as I hear her prattle with the fervency of a monk praying before his deity on judgment day.

Beeeeeeep.

With one hand, I turn the steering wheel sharply right, squeezing my car in between another racer’s red Porsche and a semi.

Her nails dig in sharper and I wince. That one will bleed. “I promise I’ll go to church and pray more. I won’t order well done steaks at restaurants. I won’t dog-ear my books anymore. Please, just let me survive this!”

Chuckling, I squeeze her death grip. “You’ll be fine. I have everything under control.”

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