“As a representative of new blood on the team. And as someone whom Sterling, who will also be there, has taken a liking to.” Ilya’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t comment orask the question that would put me in deep water. “Get yourself cleaned up and be nice to the press.”
I do one of the things he asked—wrangle my appearance into something that could pass for semi-human. As for the conference, I give three-word answers max. I already know that the press doesn’t like me; I will never be wanted by the media like Elio. I’ve come to terms with that and see no reason to make great efforts to change it.
Ilya obviously isn’t happy with my performance—something he communicates with a glare as we’re leaving—but I don’t particularly care.
I don’t even bother stopping by my room when I return to the hotel. Instead, I go straight to Victoria’s. I have no way of knowing that she’ll be here—she could still be doing cleanup with the crew. Somehow, though, I cansenseher. I feel her behind the polished door even before she opens it.
“Hey.” Her eyes light up when she sees me, sparkling with something that I hope is affection.
“Where were you after the race?” I snap.
Her brows furrow, and the sparkle in her eyes dim.Shit.
“Cleaning up with the rest of the crew,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry I missed your press conference.”
An awkward silence ensues. I should fill it by apologizing for snapping at her, but instead, what comes out is, “Do you want to go to a gala with me?”
Her eyes brighten again. Just as fast, they dim. “I… can’t.”
“Not officially.” I hide an eye roll. If I’m going to make an effort with the media, even a reluctant one, people are going to find out about us soon enough. Victoria’s smart enough to know this. “I know you’re going to represent the team. I’ll be there too. Do you want to…” I search for the right word. Appetizers will be served at the gala, and the catering at black tie events is usually decent, so we probably won’t be hungry afterwards. “Get dessert after?”
That soundswaymore explicit than I intended, and judging by the flush in Victoria’s cheeks, she agrees.
“Sure,” she says. “As long as we keep it low-key.”
“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”
She clears her throat. “I’m, uh… I’m working on my algorithm.” A sardonic smile flits across her lips. “Like always. Do you want to come in?”
If anyone else asked me to sit with them while they work on insanely boring technical stuff, I’d laugh in their face. With Victoria, I’ll take any opportunity I can get.
Including accosting her when she’s trying to drink a smoothie in peace and disrupting her work-time.
“Sure, but it’s not a date, so I’m not fucking you.”
Why the hell can’t I be decent for once?
Instead of getting offended or embarrassed, a serene smile crosses Victoria’s lips. “You promised me dates, pretty-boy. Sitting next to me while I code won’t make the cut. I expect flowers, and chocolate—dark chocolate, not the disgusting bullshit we get in America. I also—”
I can’t help myself. I lean forward and press my lips to hers, cutting off her useless rant. Maybe she thinks I’mincapable of doing things right—I am literally famous for my fuckups—but for her, I’ll approximate perfection.
She melts into my kiss, even though it’s a soft brush of my lips against hers. All of her delicious sass slithers away, receding in one fell swoop. She leans forward, twisting her hands into my shirt, and tries to deepen our kiss.
I pull back. Her expression is adorably grumpy as her eyes slowly open. “What—”
“Can’t distract you too much. You’ve got some work to do, right?” I slip into her room and shut the door behind me. “I’ll order room service.”
I’m still not over the jetlag from going to Jeddah when I’m hit with a new round of it coming back to the US. I only have one day between arrival and the gala—which I know will consist of a bunch of immensely stuffy people all eating expensive food and drinking expensive champagne while pretending they give a fuck about baby turtles, or whatever it is they’re donating to. They’ll only be there for the networking and tax write-off.
I’m only there for Victoria.
This will be our third date—not the gala, but whatever we do afterwards. Which means I’ll be in the clear to invite her over to my place, and…
No, don’t think about it. If I think about being hours away from exploring Victoria’s every curve with my handand mapping her body with my mouth, I’ll tent the front of my slacks. They’re tailored, so the evidence of my arousal will be obvious to anyone who sees me.
I manage to keep my hard-on deflated through the drive to the venue—the best hotel in the city. It looks the part, too; a limestone façade with gold lighting it up from below. The entrance is columned and a circular driveway is already clogged with black cars and valets in matching uniforms.
The ballroom where the gala’s being hosted has a vaulted ceiling, marble floors, and the sort of obscene opulence that screams wealth. Crystal chandeliers throw light across the walls, and enormous flower arrangements sit on every surface. Staff in black glide between well-dressed guests, offering hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne.
