Page 146 of Hot Lap
“You always clean up well, bunny boy.”
His lips twitch at the nickname that only I use. “I have to bring my A-game. I never know who’ll be on your arm.”
“Tonight it’s just my ego. She’s the only bitch who tolerates me.”
He chuckles, then sips his drink. Bloody hell, even the way he drinks champagne is annoyingly refined. He lowers it and nods toward the crowd. “I’m surprised you’re not pressuring Coy to give a speech about team sabotage and chronic underfunding.”
“I already did that. He said I wasn’t allowed to stage a coup on a historic ballroom floor.”
“Shame. You’d look very powerful in a tiara.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You think I don’t own one?”
“Oh, I know you do. I also know you stole it from Nia to wear on karting podiums.”
I laugh. “God, she was furious.” I can’t believe he remembers that.
“She still wants it back.”
“Speaking of Nicolina.” I tilt my head. “Where is your charming twin?”
He loses a little of his ease. “Seattle. Stayed home with Mamá. She’s had a rough autumn. School stuff, roommate drama…”
“Roommate or hot volleyball player?” I’ve seen a little online gossip.
“Hmph… Both.”
I cackle ’cause I know Nico. His jury’s still out on his sister’s crush. “Is this the one with the jawline and the six-pack?”
“Sebastian. Professional beach volleyball player. He’s tragically egotistical but oddly decent.”
“What doesEl Conejothink of all that?”
He snorts. “That if he breaks her heart, I’ll personally introduce him to tarmac at three hundred seventy-eight km/h.”
I raise my glass. “To sibling loyalty and lightly veiled threats.”
Nico clinks his against mine. “To patience.”
I arch a brow. “That so?”
He nods once, expression still serious. “Some things are worth waiting for.” He holds my gaze a second too long.
I break eye contact with a grin and a shake of my head. “Careful, Belmonte. You almost sounded sincere.”
“I’m always sincere.”
“I know. That’s what worries me.” I down the rest of my champagne, then offer him a wink.
He watches me walk away, and I pretend I don’t feel the weight and warmth of his gaze all the way down my spine.
But.
What would happen if I turned around and stopped pretending the way he says my name doesn’t flip my stomach like I’m taking Eau Rouge flat out during the Belgium GP?
The bassline of a classic jazz number throbs through the floor, warm and low, like a heartbeat. I still hear Nico’s voice in my ear, feel the press of his hand against my back. He always says my name like it’s something worth savoring.
No. No-no-no.
