Vinny crossed my mind while I was getting ready, and I should have taken it as a warning. Like the universe’s way of throwing me a bone to mentally prepare for the testy run-in, as if my nerves haven’t already been fried all week from the bane of my existence: Rome.
My neck still tingles from his hot whisper against my skin.
I’m apparently starved for a man’s touch if Rome Pierce gets me going.
I growl quietly into my glass cup, the ice clinking together with the bitter taste of vodka on my tongue.
Rome did not get me going.
It was the action itself.
Not Rome.
“Is it time to go yet?” Beck whines.
I place my glass down on the cocktail table and look at him flatly. “We’ve been here for less than an hour.”
He bristles, the curl of his lip showing his frustration. “I’m not even sure why I’m here. I’m not the one they want to see.”
“You’re a part of Vanstone too,” I say. “Your time will come.”
“Easy for you to say,” he argues. “You’ve reached your goal.”
I laugh bitterly. “My goal is to win a race as top engineer, and I’m not sure if you noticed or not, but Rome and I aren’t exactly meshing well.”
Beck follows my line of sight.
Rome and Noah stand side by side, a sponsor rep opposite of them. She says something, and Rome flashes her a grin—one I never see. Instead, I get arrogant smirks after he lands an insult or a scowl.
The woman touches his arm, her long, red fingernails stark against his black suit.
I curl my fingers around the glass cup.
“I’m stepping out for air,” Beck says, leaving me alone at the cocktail table.
The last time he did this, I ended up in a position that sits like a secret in the back of my head.
I scan the room.
It’s always nice to know where the threat is, and for once, I’m not referring to Rome.
Jericho stands tall in his suit and runs a hand through his hair as he checks the same watch the rest of the racers are wearing tonight. They’ve already taken a photo of Rome and Noah with theirs, which means we don’t have much longer until we can head out for the evening.
“Looking for someone?”
I turn quickly, my movements jerky. I knock my drink over simultaneously and gasp.
Rome catches it with a cat-like reflex, placing it back on the table. “Too much to drink?”
I scowl. “Not nearly enough to deal with you.”
His chuckle is gruff.
I pull my drink out of his grasp, and just to prove a point, I press the glass against my lips. Rome peers at me from his tall stance, his dark lashes outlining those stupid blue eyes. I sip the vodka into my mouth with ease, although the liquor burns my tongue.
Rome surveys my wet lips. His pupils grow when my tongue jolts out to lick the rest.
“See something you like?” I ask.
