There are a few chuckles here and there, and then comes the next question.
“How does it feel to race again after the season-ending crash last fall?”
My leg twitches beneath the table, a phantom pain burning the skin. “I’ve crashed plenty of times, so I feel the same. Theonly difference this time was that the world was there to witness it, but that’s just part of the job. I think most racers can agree.”
Tessa shifts in from beside me, her tan leg that I noticed right away when she showed up in a sporty-looking skirt brushes against mine, to distract me.
The journalist clears his throat, and I quickly snap back into the present, except I only catch the tail end of his question.
“—dynamic with your new team versus your father’s?”
My heartrate spikes. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”
Tessa’s leg brushes against mine again.
Fuck, stop it.
“How would you describe the dynamic with your new team versus your father’s?”
Think fast, Rome.
I lean back in my chair to seem more comfortable than I am. “It’s been different…” I glance at Tessa, who sits poised with her high ponytail, the hairstyle pulling my attention to her soft, slender neck. “Obviously.”
The crowd laughs again, and Tessa smiles—only, I know it’s fake.
I’ve seen her real smile, and it’s much prettier than the one she’s giving the media.
Prettier?
“Tessa? Would you like to comment?”
She leans over and grabs the microphone from me, our fingers brushing along the way.
“I grew up with four brothers,” she says, deadpan. “I can handle Rome Pierce as my driver.”
Herdriver?
I grumble under my breath, something only Tessa hears.
This time, her knee knocks into mine on purpose. With an instinctive reflex, I grab a hold of her thigh with my free hand, the tablecloth hiding our battle from the rest of the room.
Laughter rings around us from her answer, but it’s muted from the pounding in my ears. My skin sparks when my palm collides with her smooth leg. Something deadly simmers just beneath the surface, and it’s so distracting I almost miss the new addition to the crowd.
My father stands alone with his arms crossed, a glare fixed in my direction. Arrogance seeps from his pores, the energy in the room awakens, and like a moth to a flame, everyone turns to catch a glimpse of him.
“We only have time for one more question,” someone says, their voice barely reaching my ears.
“Is there anyone you’re particularly eager to measure yourself against?”
Silence covers the room like a blanket.
The hand on Tessa’s leg grows heavy, and I can’t seem to pick it up.
I swallow and try to tie words together to make a decent sentence, one that can’t be twisted to fit someone else’s narrative of the weekend.
The microphone is still in Tessa’s left hand. I see it out of the corner of my eye.
I turn to look at her, and for the first time since coming to Vanstone, she isn’t glaring at me. Her eyes are soft around the edges, the brown color full of warmth. Then, her right hand falls to mine, still glued to her leg. She gives it a gentle squeeze, and it completely derails me.
