Page 47 of Formula Dreams
“Look at you.”Carlos grins, pulling me into a hug.“And here I thought I’d have the most heads turning tonight.”
As if by magic, a waiter appears with a tray of champagne flutes.I take one, intent to stick with this and nothing heavier since I’m not a big drinker.
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say, taking a small sip.
“Please, I’ll allow it,” Carlos says, clinking his glass lightly against mine.
We chat for a bit, Carlos pointing out the who’s who in FI sponsors.We spot Lex and Posey walking down the carpet and through the wide-open doors into the lobby reception.He’s all clean lines in classic black tie and she’s stunning in a pale gold gown that catches the light with every step.We wave, and they head toward us.
“Francesca,” Lex says with a wide smile.“This is my Posey.”
My heart melts at the tenderness in his voice and the way he called her “my Posey.”I’ve been quite eager to meet the American romance author.She offers her hand, her smile genuine and bright.“It’s so nice to finally meet you.I’m very excited about your debut in FI.First Harley Patrick as a team principal, Brienne Norcross as a team owner, and now you as a driver.Women are going to rule the world one day.”
“You are my soul sister,” I joke, and she laughs softly, her grip firm and confident.
Carlos gestures subtly toward a tall, silver-haired man across the lobby.“There’s Charles Hadden.”
“Making a splash,” Lex snorts.
“Who’s Charles Hadden?”I ask.
“CEO of Brenwick Aviation.See the woman with him?”
Posey and I look that way.She’s young, barely looks eighteen.“His daughter?”
Lex chuckles.“His third wife.The second was barely twenty-five.”
Carlos shakes his head.“The first one left him for a yacht captain.”
“Guess that’s one way to keep things interesting,” I say, and we all laugh quietly before the conversation drifts back to the room around us.
Nash and Bex join us again and we lapse into talk about racing, because… that’s what we do.I’m laughing at a joke Carlos made when movement through the open doors catches my eye.A sleek black limo has pulled up and Ronan is stepping out.I see glimpses of him as other people circulate around the grand lobby and my breath catches.His tux is perfectly cut, crisp white shirt open at the collar just enough to look dangerous.His hair is swept back, face clean-shaven, the whole effect so effortlessly male it’s almost obscene.The cameras pop like gunfire.
Then he turns back to the car and offers a hand.
A tall, impossibly polished blond steps out—silvery gown, legs for days, the kind of beauty that looks like she has a filter over her.She tucks herself neatly against his side, his arm goes around her waist, and they smile in perfect sync for the cameras.The photographers surge forward, shouting his name.
My heart plummets through the floor.We never discussed… other people.And why would we?Last night didn’t make anything official.We both agreed… just sex.
Still, it’s a gut punch, mostly because I’m guessing it’s probably just sex with this girl too.My self-esteem takes a direct hit, and I curse myself for being so stupid as to think I saw something more in that man.
I watch as they move toward the entrance, Ronan taking her hand to lead her through.He scans the room as soon as he steps inside, eyes sweeping over the crowd until they land on me.A bolt of adrenaline sizzles through me, almost equivalent to the way it feels when the engine of my race car is started.
But I can’t let him see that he affects me.I refuse to, so I smooth my features to be cool and unreadable, even as my pulse hammers in my throat.For what seems like an eternity, our gazes stay locked across the room until the woman he’s with takes his attention away with a whispered word.As soon as our eye contact is broken, I take a long sip of my champagne and hiccup on the bubbles.
Carlos touches my elbow and leans into me.“All right, what’s with the face?You look like you just bit into a lemon.”
My entire being is overcome with bitterness, but I give him a bright smile.“I think I need a drink.”
He glances at the half-full champagne flute in my hand.“Pretty sure that’s already a drink.”
“I mean a better one.”
I set the flute down on the nearest passing tray and head for the bar, the click of my heels swallowed by the plush carpet.The lobby turned ballroom glows—gold light from chandeliers, the mirrored bar polished to a high shine.Laughter circulates, a reminder that I’m supposed to be having fun.
I am decidedly not having fun.
Carlos keeps pace with me easily, and when I reach the bar, I don’t bother with the menu.I catch the bartender’s eye.“Grappa Riserva,” I tell him, leaning an elbow on the counter.“Neat.”
