Page 65 of Until You Say Stay
Lark shrugs at Luca, and I translate for her. “He said I speak like an Italian when I’m drunk.”
Lark looks at me, snorting. “Well, well, you’re full of surprises today. What else are you hiding? Can you juggle? Do magic tricks?”
I try not to look too pleased with her reaction. “I like to keep people on their toes. Maintain an air of mystery.”
“Next time you’re drunk I’ll have to test this theory,” Lark says, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
“Do you speak Italian? Dear God, I should be careful what I say around you,” Luca says with a laugh.
“No, no, but I speak Spanish and it helps me understand quite a bit of it,” Lark says, her eyes dancing between us. “Don’t worry, I heard nothing too incriminating. Your secrets are safe.”
“Oh, now I know not only are you too beautiful for him but too smart as well. Careful Jack, half the paddock will try and steal her away,” Luca says with a wink, and I feel a swell of pride as if she really is my girlfriend, as if this whole thing could be real for more than just a moment.
Before I can formulate a response, Thomas appears at my elbow like a ghost materializing from nowhere. “Jack,Autosportis ready for the interview. They’re set up in the media tent.”
“Duty calls,” I tell Luca with a resigned sigh. “Save me a beer for later? I’m going to need it after this.”
“Always,amico,” he promises, then turns to Lark with that charming smile. “It was lovely to meet you.”
“You too,” Lark says warmly.
The rest of the morning is a blur of handshakes, sponsor meetings, and carefully rehearsed answers to the same questions. Yes, I’m focused on getting back in a race seat. No, the incident in Monaco wasn’t what it appeared to be. Yes, I’m more mature now, more dedicated. No, I won’t comment on Davis’s recent performances (even though we all know he’s underperforming).
Through it all, Lark stays by my side, handling it like she was born for this world. She’s smart, engaging, makes people laugh with her quick wit. I find myself watching her when I should be focusing on the sponsors.
By early afternoon, we’ve done our mandatory rounds and watched the GT race from the Ferrari suite. Lark’s enthusiasm was infectious throughout the race, her eyes bright with excitement. During the final lap battle, she sprang to her feet when the Ferrari GT executed a perfect hairpin overtake, her drink splashing over her fingers as she let loose a cheer so unfiltered, so joyful, that I couldn’t help but grin like an idiot watching her instead of the race.
Something twisted in my chest watching her. This urge to keep her in my world longer than our September expiration date, to steal her away to more races, more cities, more of everything.
Back at the hotel, we have a couple of hours before the evening gala. We share the bathroom getting ready, but once I’m dressed in my tux, she shoos me out with a “I need space for all this,” gesturing to her array of makeup and hair products spread across the marble counter like a small pharmacy.
“How much space could you possibly need?” I ask, eyeing the arsenal.
“More than you can comprehend,” she says, physically pushing me toward the door. “Go. Drink something. Watch TV. Just be anywhere but here.”
“Bossy,” I say, but I’m grinning as she shuts the door in my face.
I pour myself a whiskey from the minibar and wait in the living area of our suite, scrolling through messages from Thomas about the day’s meetings. The bathroom door’s been closed for almost an hour when I finally hear it open. I look up.
Holy fuck.
Lark stands there in a deep blue dress that clings to every curve before flowing to the floor. The front is elegant but shows just enough cleavage to make my heart race. She grins, spinning slightly, and I see the back is almost entirely bare, a smooth expanse of her skin from her shoulders to just above the curve of her ass. Her black hair is pinned up with a few strands falling loose, framing her face like art, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
I grip my glass a little tighter. My brain short-circuits with the vivid thought of walking across the room, picking her up and carrying her out to the balcony to fuck her right there against the railing, hotel neighbors and passing boats be damned.
“Jack?” Her voice snaps me back to reality. “Is it too much?”
“No,” I manage, my voice thick. I clear my throat, trying to get blood back to my brain instead of other regions. “You uh… you look incredible.”
A flush spreads across her cheeks. “You don’t look half bad either,” she says. “Very James Bond.”
“We should go,” I say, standing and offering her my hand. If we don’t leave now, I’m going to do something stupid.
The glass elevator descends, giving us a view of Miami at night—city lights stretching into the distance, the water beyond reflecting the moon like scattered diamonds. The lobby is still crowded despite the hour, and more than a few appreciative glances follow Lark as we cross the marble floor toward the exit.
The heat hits us immediately as we step outside. Miami’s night air is still warm and heavy even after sunset. A valet in a black vest is already waiting at the curb with a low, impossiblysleek Ferrari in glossy black, engine idling like it is alive. He steps forward the second he sees me, offering the key fob with both hands.
“Mr. Midnight,” he says. “Your car is ready.”
