Hopefully, he didn’t know that was my biological father. Being adopted by my mum’s husband at eight meant I wasZsófiaBacque. Proudly.
Livie burst into the waiting room like she’d run the final kilometre of a marathon, clutching her iPad to her chest above her small bump. She blew a full blonde fringe out of her eyes and exhaled dramatically. “God, am I pleased to see you.”
I stood, shoving my headphones away and giving her a gentle hug, careful not to squish baby Armas. Three months pregnant,but with Nix as the dad?That baby was going to be massive. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll have him speaking some kind of sense.”
“The language barrier is… intense,” she said, already leading me toward the photo shoot space. “He’s either trolling me or he’s going for a world record in trying to rile up as many people as he can while not speaking their language.”
“Could be both.”
Her shoulders sagged, and her fringe went flying again with the exhale. “If he flirts, ignore him. If he gets too close, walk away. He’s not your problem. He’s mine.”
I could do that.
But I wanted her to have fewer problems.
Strobe lights and fog machines forced me to blink as we walked across the studio, camera crews darting between platforms where racers in branded leathers posed. Before telling me the schedule, she told me about the Airbnb we’d be sharing — the pool, the balcony, the restaurant down the road.
“Here’s your locker,” Livie said, pushing it open with a lazy pointer finger. “Andthat’s your racer.”
I turned—and nearly walked into him.
Zoltán was taller than I expected. Broader, too. His black leathers clung to him like a second skin, the zip half-undone to show a glimpse of collarbone. He was warm-toned, skin a smooth deep bronze, and his hair, dark and thick, curled slightly at the base of his neck. His arms were crossed, tattooed and tense, and his eyes—dark, unreadable—tracked me from head to toe in one slow, unapologetic sweep.
And just like that, I forgot every word in every language I spoke.
I swallowed, straightening my back.
“Szervusz,” I said coolly.Hello.
His brows lifted.
I added, in Hungarian, “I’m your translator for the day.”
A slow grin curled across his lips. “You don’t sound Hungarian.”
“I’m out of practice.”
“Then hope English gooder,” he said, accent strong, ‘then’ sounding like ‘den’ and,oh sweet lord, the way he said Ee-nglish?Goner. I was a goner.
Livie frowned, eyes darting between us with caution.
I blinked. “You speak English?”
“Enough to get laid,” he said, back in his mother tongue, then winked. “Not enough for …press.”
I sighed. Livie wasn’t wrong.
“We’re starting with photos,” she said quickly, ushering us to one of the camera crews. I waved for him to go first, but his cocky smile took time to grow across his beautiful face before he followed her, glancing back over his shoulder.
I shook my head, trying to clear the scandalous thoughts from forming.What English got him laid?I doubted he needed words when he looked likethat.
The camera crew gestured for him to stand on the red cross and to smile. He grunted and stretched his neck.
The crack weakened my knees.
“I need you to stay with him, make sure he knows what’s being asked,” Livie said at my side. “Don’t let him disappear. And for the love of god, don’t let him take his shirt off unless someoneaskshim to.”
I nodded. “I’ve grown up with cocky racers my whole life, Liv. I can handle them.”
