Page 49 of Formula Chance

“Will we… um… go together?” she asked, and I hated the uncertainty in her voice. I put it there by telling her I couldn’t promise anything.

I remember all the sponsor parties we’d attended together in past years and how fucking good it felt to have her on my arm. She fit. We belonged, and while I knew how good that felt and wanted to feel it again, it just wasn’t a good idea.

And I told her exactly that. “I don’t think we should blatantly advertise that we’re…”

I didn’t know what we were.

“Fucking?” she suggested in her perfectly posh British accent.

It was a crass acknowledgment that this is only a sex thing. Still, I remembered how I hugged her at Silvercrest and I did so without caring that anyone was watching.

I know I’m sending mixed messages, but I said, “We should go separately. I don’t want your authority diminished by our actions.”

Yeah… that sounded like a good reason and she didn’t question the guise of professionalism, but really, it was to prove to myself—and maybe to her—that I still have control over whatever the hell this is between us. She’d said it was fine, but I caught the flicker of hurt before she squashed it with a pretty smile.

The party is already in full swing when I arrive—alone. It’s a dazzling affair, held at one of Melbourne’s premier rooftop venues and luckily only a few blocks from the hotel we’re staying at, so it was a pleasant stroll over. String lights twinkle overhead, the skyline stretches beyond the glass railing, and a DJ spins a good mix. The air hums with chatter, laughter and the clinking of glasses.

One of the best perks of being a formula driver is traveling the world. With races in the Middle East, Asia, Europe, North America, South America and Australia, you get to immerse yourself in the local culture. Tonight is so different from the event in Jeddah where dancing and alcohol were not allowed because of religion. But Melbourne is progressive, the women dress in revealing clothing, and the liquor flows freely, although I’m not partaking this close to the race. It’s one of my pet peeves, although many of the other drivers party pretty hard.

I weave through the crowd, shaking hands with sponsors and exchanging polite greetings with other guests. I’m stopped for what seems like a million selfies with VIP fans and I’ve perfected the smile. My presence here is part of the job—making connections, promoting the sport and keeping the team in good graces with the people who bankroll this whole operation. But my attention is elsewhere, scanning the room for one person.

And then I see her.

Bex is on the dance floor with Carlos, laughing as he twirls her around to some upbeat pop song. She’s wearing a long-sleeved dress in shimmering white silk that clings to her curves. The shoulders are padded, and the front is cut in a V that falls just below her breastbone, barely exposing the rounded inner globes of her breasts. It’s sexy and elegant and my mouth waters. Bex’s hair is loose, framing her face in soft waves, and there’s a glow about her that makes my chest tighten.

And then my stomach rolls as I watch Carlos dip her dramatically, earning a burst of laughter from her and a few onlookers. The slit in her skirt exposes a toned thigh and calf, and I never minded her dressing like that when we were together. But now… she’s not wearing that for me. She’s wearing it for herself, or possibly Carlos, or possibly for every fucking man in here.

My jaw tightens.

I know Carlos well enough to understand that he’s harmless—he’s like a puppy, playful and friendly—but seeing his hands on her ignites something primal in me.

Before I can stop myself, I’m moving toward them without a clue what I intend to do. People try to stop me for a word, but I ignore them, shouldering my way through the crowd.

Just as I step onto the dance floor, the song shifts to a slower tempo, and I seize the moment. “Mind if I cut in?” I ask Carlos, my tone even but leaving no room for argument.

Carlos grins, ever the gentleman. “All yours, amigo.”

He steps back, but not before feathering a kiss over Bex’s knuckles and shooting me a sly wink. I glare at him before taking her hand and pulling her into me.

My free hand goes to her waist, hers to my chest, right over my heart. We sway together, her body fitting perfectly against mine, just as it always has. I’m sure if anyone were to look at us and not know I’ve spent every night in her bed the last week, they’d sure know it now, but I don’t give a fuck, all that bullshit about professionalism is thrown right out the window.

“You’re full of surprises,” she murmurs, her eyes searching mine.

“Figured it was my turn,” I reply, keeping my tone casual.

“But we’re not supposed to be here together,” she points out, glancing around, but I can tell it’s only with interest, not worry. “What will everyone think?”

We dance in silence for a moment, the world fading into the background. But I can’t ignore the flicker of jealousy still simmering beneath the surface. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself with Carlos.” I try to sound indifferent and fail.

She tilts her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “He’s a good dancer. And fun.”

“I’m fun,” I counter, raising an eyebrow.

Her laughter is soft, almost wistful. “You used to be.”

The words hit harder than I expect, and I realize she’s not just talking about dancing. I pull her a little closer, my hand tightening on her waist. “Maybe I’ve still got some fun left in me.”

“Prove it,” she challenges.

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