Henrietta gave her signature pause, her gaze sweeping the room. “If there are no other nominations…all those in favor of Nicola Moretti as chairwoman of the Moretti Foundation?”
One by one, hands lifted into the air. Every voice around me rang out, “Aye.”
And I sat there, frozen, the weight of it pressing into me, trying to reconcile the girl who once begged her father to let her take notes in this room with the woman who had just been voted chair.
Holy. Shit.
26
NICOLA
The next two weeks passed in a blur of champagne toasts, press junkets, and countless hours working on events as the new chairwoman of the Moretti Foundation. I hadn’t even had time to tell Matteo about my recent huge life-altering promotion. It felt like an in-person type of announcement. However, life was a fickle bitch, and somehow our schedules doubled in size and never lined up. On top of that, it felt like once Matteo and I decided to give this thing an actual shot, we couldn’t even plan our first official date, which Matteo was very insistent had not happened regardless of the number of times we’d done things together by now.
We’d landed in Abu Dhabi for the final race of the season, and it felt like I hadn’t seen him in months instead of a measly fourteen days. I’d texted, called, even sent the occasional suggestive voice note, but all we’d managed were a few stolen FaceTimes and a shared craving for room-service pasta. It was infuriating. And also, maybe, kind of hot? Absence made the heart grow fonder, or whatever. But I didn’t want fond. I wanted Matteo—hands-on, lips pressed to my shoulder, falling asleepmid-rant about how he missed those cheesy puffs from the first night we all went out together. That kind of presence.
So I decided to take matters into my own very capable hands. I’d flown in with my dad this time, but the second we touched down, I texted Anna.
Nicola:
What’s Matteo’s room number?
Anna:
521. You didn’t get this from me.
My partner in PR crime was all too happy to participate in a little covert romance operation. Honestly, I think she’d been rooting for us since day one. That, or she just really enjoyed chaos.
Either way, I was now standing in front of Matteo’s hotel room, suitcase in hand, lipstick perfect, and the full intention of staying the weekend. Not just visiting—staying. With him.
Girlfriend behavior? Maybe. But if I was going to be emotionally reckless, I might as well look hot doing it.
I raised my hand to knock—three polite raps, but there was no answer. Just the hollow thud of knuckles against what was clearly an empty room. I sighed, one hand dropping to my hip, the other already fishing out the keycard I’d semi-legally acquired.
Technically speaking, it wasn’t stealing if you charmed it out of someone, right?
Turns out the concierge was a die-hard Moretti Racing fan—and an even bigger Matteo DeLuca fan. One coy smile, a signed cap, and a promised photo later, and I was the proud temporary holder of one crisp white keycard to Room 521.
My heels clicked softly against the tiled floor as I stepped inside. The room was dark except for the golden glow sneakingin through the curtains, casting soft shadows over sleek furniture and that plush, king-sized bed I hadveryspecific plans for.
I dropped my suitcase just inside the door, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed face-first into the bed with a dramatic sigh. Matteo’s cologne hit me instantly. Something warm and woodsy with just a hint of spice.God, that scent.It wrapped around me like a weighted blanket and a secret all at once.
I laid there for a moment, burying my face in the pillow, smiling like an idiot. So okay, the surprise had failed, he wasn’t here to be ravished the second I walked in. But I was nothing if not adaptable.
A buzz from my phone pulled me out of my daydream. I flipped it over to find a message from the man himself.
Matteo:
Pulled into an extra training before my next meeting. Was really hoping to see you tonight but this schedule fucking sucks.
I bit my lip, eyes flicking to my suitcase. A plan formed in less than five seconds.
Nicola:
Would this make it any better?
I snapped a photo—tasteful, teasing,devastating—of the blue lace set I’d slipped on. The one he hadn’t seen yet. The one I specifically packed because I had intentions. His reply was nearly instant.
Matteo:
