Page 31 of Until You Say Stay
“So is racing,” I counter, and his mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
“What kind of music?” he asks.
“Singer-songwriter, mostly indie pop with some acoustic influences. I’ve been building a following online over the past year. Streaming platforms mainly.”
“She’s got real talent,” Jack says, and the real pride in his voice catches me off guard. “Great melodies, smart lyrics. You know, that song of yours, ‘Autumn Echoes,’ should be getting way more attention than it does.” He gives me a gentle nudge with his elbow.
I blink at him. He listened to “Autumn Echoes”? Something warm spreads through my chest. It’s one of my favorite songs I’ve ever written. Deeply personal, but barely anyone listens to it. It’s nowhere near my most popular tracks. He must have actually dug through everything, not just skimmed the top songs like I assumed he would for our fake dating backstory.
Robert nods slowly, his expression giving away absolutely nothing. “Music industry’s a tough one. Unforgiving. What’s your distribution strategy?” He asks the question like a businessman evaluating a prospective investment, with cold calculation.
“Currently on all the major streaming platforms,” I answer, slightly thrown by the business angle but trying to keep up. “But I’m also in talks with Tidal Records right now.”
“Tidal, yes I know of them,” he says with a brief nod, almost to himself like he’s filing the information away. “Medium-sized outfit, but they do have some decent artists on their roster.” He says it like he’s weighing his assessment internally, as if he’s running complex calculations in his head about my potential ROI.
Before I can determine if he approves of this potential business decision or thinks I’m making a mistake, his sharp gaze shifts to Jack.
“Jack, Alessandro Vitale from Ferrari is here,” Robert says, his tone all business. “He oversees partner strategy and factory backing. He asked to speak with you specifically. If you’re serious about getting that seat back, he’s someone you want on your side.”
“Of course,” Jack says smoothly, his voice taking on a more professional tone. “I’ll make sure to find him.”
“Good. And make sure you see Lucía Álvarez from Santander before she leaves.” Robert’s already scanning the room, predatory eyes searching for his next target. Then he glances back at me. “Pleasure meeting you, Ms. Reyes. If you’ve got even half this one’s natural talent,” he gestures to Jack with his cocktail, “you’ll go far. Hopefully with less of the attitude problem.”
“She has twice my talent, not half,” Jack says quickly. “And I’ve been nothing but a perfect gentleman tonight.”
“Yes, for all of twenty minutes,” Robert says dryly, checking his watch. “Let’s see if you can maintain it.” And with that, he’s gone, moving through the crowd like a shark through water.
I exhale hard, taking a substantial gulp of champagne. “That was…”
“Robert,” Jack finishes, amused. “He doesn’t waste words.”
“Is he always that terrifying? I feel like I just got interrogated by the FBI.”
“Pretty much. But he liked you. I could tell.”
“How?” I turn to stare at him. “His face didn’t move once. He has less expression than a marble statue.”
“He asked follow-up questions about your music,” Jack explains. “Trust me, that’s a very good sign with Robert. If he wasn’t interested, the conversation would have been ten seconds max.”
Jack guides me deeper into the party, his hand a constant presence at my back. He introduces me to a blur of executives, racing team members, and business associates. Everyone seems to know him, respect him, want a piece of his time and attention.
The next hour passes in a blur of conversations and Cristal. I talk to a Ferrari engineer about aerodynamics I don’t fully understand, a Callahan executive who asks surprisingly smart questions about streaming algorithms, and a food blogger who wants restaurant recommendations in Dark River. The champagne flows freely, and Jack keeps me close, his hand finding my back or arm whenever we move between groups. Each touch sends little sparks through me that I’m trying very hard to ignore.
At one point, we pause near the display vehicles, and I take a moment to really look at them up close. They’re absolutely stunning, with sleek, aggressive curves and gleaming surfaces that seem designed purely for speed and nothing else.
“Is this one of the cars you’ve actually driven in races?” I ask, admiring the Formula One machine in front of us.
“No, this is just a show car for events like this,” he explains, his eyes lighting up. “The real race cars are all back in the factory in Maranello. But it’s built to look exactly the same, same paint scheme, same sponsor decals.”
“It’s still incredibly impressive,” I say, reaching out to touch the carbon fiber body before pulling my hand back. “Am I allowed to touch it?”
“Go ahead,” he encourages. “It’s here for people to see.”
I run my fingers lightly over the smooth surface. “It feels expensive.”
“There’s a ton of work that goes into building them,” he says, gesturing towards different parts of the car. “The teams start designing each car over a year before it even hits the track. We test everything extensively in wind tunnels and computer simulations, constantly tweaking tiny details, trying to find even a fraction of a second advantage over the competition.”
“You really miss it, don’t you?” I ask, noticing how his entire demeanor changes when he talks about racing. How alive he becomes.
