There’s a piece of me that knows this isn’t our last conversationabout what happened, by far. That tiny, steadfast sliver of logic is outweighed by his smile, though. Arthurgrins.
“Born,” he answers.
Being a main character is going to be an adjustment. Letting go of creative control and letting life happen—that’s hard. But it’s only Arthur and me in this last breath of summer when he kisses me. There aren’t people watching. No music, no cameras. It’s just us.Forget us here, I’d tell the watch ticking away at my wrist if time had ears and would listen to someone as small as me.Go on, we’re okay being left behind.
Time does me one better, though. It keeps going and going, giving me the only other option I’d take.
Every next second with him.
“Want to get out of here?” I say once we’ve broken our mildly scandalous kiss. “It is a school night.”
“Since I’m not driving tomorrow, I was thinking we could stay,” Arthur says, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. “I know of a few rooms. Private ones. Where no one could see us.”
I catch his hand with mine. “Thought you liked being watched?”
“Rude.” A heady cocktail of want and affection darkens his eyes, and he clicks his tongue. “And to think, you seem so nice from the outside.”
“Arthur.”
“So… calm?”
“Hmm.”
“So honest.”
“Very true, good boy.Bestboy.”
He laughs, and then his arm is around me, and I have just enough time to text Delaney and Sarah an explanation before he’s leading me down a darker, less populated hallway, off from the wedding party. “Rumor says there’s a way to get on the roof, too,”Arthur says against my cheek, nose barely close enough to graze my skin, a whisper of a non-touch. “But only the brave of heart and sound of mind can find it. Like Excalibur, for exhibitionist debauchery.”
Briefly, I debate the repercussions of getting kicked out of a multimillionaire’s wedding. Seems pretty inconsequential at the moment. So I trail my hand up his sleeve, pull him down to my level, and try to say everything I feel by pressing a tiny, breathless kiss to his flushed cheek. “Let’s see if we have what it takes.”
“Was hoping you’d say that,” he hums. With only one tug, he has me pressed into his chest in this empty palace hallway, his mouth a warm promise on mine.
And this time, I let myself believe in him. On the night-swept roof, back at the hotel, in the crisp white sheets scattered with his bow tie and my dress and one thousand kisses, I believe every promise Arthur makes. I believe that it’s real when he drags me onto his lap and says it’s where I belong, here, on him, in any country, anywhere, his wife whenever I want to be. And I want it. This. How Arthur winds our fingers together when he pushes me to my perfect breaking point, a reminder that he’s right there, too. How he kisses me like I’m the one who smells like champagne, tastes like breathing, and feels like home.
I believe in Arthur, in me, in us.
And when he says he loves me, I say those three words right back to him.
September
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Crowds are queued up outside the Monza circuit’s security gate as Sarah, Delaney, and I navigate to the Paddock Club’s staff entrance. Delaney swipes us in just as someone recognizes me—so Sarah grabs my hand and yanks me through the doorway into the dark interior. There’s a flight of dimly lit stairs up to a side kitchen, and as we silently walk by the lit-up doorway, I hear chefs already grumbling about the clientele’s menu. Grouse served over parmesan risotto, chicken Milanese, something with a pheasant; the scent of meat and wine is thick in the air. Only the best for these very important people.
Then we’re out on the dazzling sunlit balcony of the Paddock Club. The breeze dances with the musical buzz of refined chatter and anachronistic techno, and I scan the well-dressed crowd for our target. White blouses. Linen pants. So many watches.
There he is.
For a moment, I have to remind myself to keep standing as my anxiety rears its ugly head again. This is a downright crazy plan. Bonkers. Maybe not entirely legal.
Then I glance at my friends. Sarah on my right, Delaney on my left, and a switch flips inside me. I’m far from alone this morning. Whatever happens next, we’ll figure it out.
Together, the three of us walk over to Holmes Bianco.
He’s seated next to Bob at a slim white cocktail table on the farcorner of the patio, dressed in his typical race-weekend Ignition polo and slacks—perfectly inconspicuous. When Holmes spots me, his gaze returns to his glass of whiskey, then snaps back up and widens.
I smile. “Hi, mind if we join you?”
