Page 63 of Hot Lap
I’m suddenly aware of the sheer robe still clinging to my body. I shrug and lean casually against the doorframe, letting the open door be an invitation without surrendering the whole room.
"Hey."
Instead of gawking at me, he scans the room, pausing on the sewing supplies spread across the desk, the giant bouquet of red roses still commanding the corner, the makeup on the vanity.
"You've been busy."
"Trying to be." I tip my head, studying him. "How was media day?"
He drops his head back and groans, and I laugh.
"A lot of smiling and answering the same five bloody questions a hundred different ways. Cutting off the nonsense when the entertainment media decided to shove their noses into business I'm not interested in sharing with them. Absolute rubbish, the lot of it."
“You mean business about your stripper wife?”
Reece hits me with a solid gaze. “I mean about my beautiful, talented wife.”
Ohh. M. G.
He steps closer, his voice softening. "How about you? You okay?"
I nod. "Yeah. I slept in and had a ridiculously fancy breakfast.” I wave toward the bouquets. “Some dude keeps sending me all these flowers.”
He glances toward them. "What an absolute wanker." Then his gaze swings back to me. "What else have you been up to, then?"
“I did some sewing, then staged some mild social media chaos."
His mouth curves. "I saw."
“You did?” That’s a surprise. "You follow my performer account?"
He shrugs, not even pretending to be sheepish. "Petra sent me the link. Had to see what kinda trouble Mrs. Pritchard was up to."
I roll my eyes but can't help smiling. “The good kind, Mr. Pritchard.”
Reece's face grows more serious, his voice dropping low. "You look happy."
"I… am. But… I’m still unsure." I bite my lip. “Sorry.”
He nods. "Quite alright."
For a moment, neither of us says anything. The air hums between us the same way it did in Vegas. It’s a jittery, giddy energy that makes me want to touch Reece Pritchard, shove my hands under his dark green shirt, feel his skin, and taste his mouth.
I don’t only because I don’t trust that kind of kinetic heat. It’s burned me before.
His green eyes narrow. “You hungry? I thought maybe we could grab something easy. No sponsors, no cameras. Just us."
My heart does a little skippity-doo-dah. "Yeah. Okay."
He smiles that lazy, boyish grin that first wrecked me back in Vegas. "Good. Get dressed, honeybee. I'll wait."
“Thirty minutes?”
“Sure.”
He steps back and I close the door. Cripes. Dinner with RP11 shouldn’t make my heart act like an idiot, but here I am, smiling.
Ugh.
