Page 63 of Formula Dreams
The way he says it—edged with dark promise—sends a shiver through me I’d never admit to.Which is exactly why I push him further.“You don’t have to be jealous.”
“I’m cautious,” he corrects, the words brushing my skin like the edge of a blade.
“You’re jealous,” I repeat, this time with a smirk.
Before I can dodge, his arm snakes around my waist in a single, fluid motion, pulling me flush against him.My pulse kicks into a reckless cadence.“Careful, Accardi,” he warns, already hauling me up over his shoulder.
I laugh, pounding my fists lightly against his back.“Ronan—put me down!”
“Not a chance,” he says, slapping my butt, which makes me yelp.He moves to my bedroom with purposeful strides.“You started this, but now I’m going to finish it.”
He drops me onto the bed and I bounce gently on the mattress as he follows me down, bracing himself over me with that infuriating, devastating smirk.The next few minutes blur into heat and motion—clothes pulled away, his mouth finding mine, the sharp hitch of breath when his hands slide lower.It’s not slow, not entirely gentle, but it’s exactly what I want—what we both want.
When it’s over, we’re both breathing hard, my skin still humming from the contact.He rolls out of bed without a word and shrugs into his clothes.
“Text me where to meet you and Carlos,” he says, leaning down to kiss me.“I’ll be there.”
The door clicks behind him, and I lie there staring at the ceiling, my pulse still unsettled for entirely different reasons.
And not for the first time, I think to myself—I’m in trouble.
CHAPTER 19
Ronan
Michael Barnes’s officeis all glass and cold light and the reception smells faintly of furniture polish and money.His assistant gives me the same tight smile she’s given me since I was twelve and wearing my school blazer, waiting on a ride home he forgot to arrange.
“Your father will see you now.”
Of course he will.I’m just another appointment in his agenda, required if I want to get a few words with him.
He’s at the window when I step in, phone to his ear, suit cut like it was measured with a scalpel.“Push the earn-outs, then we’ll talk equity.”He hangs up without a goodbye and finally turns.“Ronan.You look well.”
“That’s because I am,” I say, letting the door click shut behind me.“She’s worse.”
He stares at me.Not even a flinch.“Your mother has been ‘worse’ for twenty years.”
“She’s not eating.She’s drinking as soon as she wakes.The new nurse lasted four days.”
He exhales, a bored sound dressed up as concern, and rifles through folders on his desk.“Hire a better one.I’ll transfer funds.”
“She doesn’t need a better nurse.She needs a rehab she won’t walk out of.”
My father continues looking through papers and when I don’t say anything else, he finally looks up.
“You could ask how she’s actually doing.”
“I just did,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets.“And you told me you’re handling it.”
The old anger lifts its head.It’s almost comforting, how familiar it feels—like a scar you can trace blind.“I’m handling your wife.Again.”
He fusses with cuff links that don’t need fussing.“Don’t be melodramatic.You’ve always had a flair for it.Besides, she’s your mother.”
“Right,” I say, because if I don’t laugh, I’ll put a fist through his ridiculous art.“How’s work?”
“Fine,” he says, as though the question were rhetorical.He glances at his watch.“In fact, I’ve got an important appointment I have to get ready for.If you need more money to… help her, just tell me how much and I’ll transfer it.”
Typical.He thinks that money can fix everything.
