Page 52 of Out of Control

But it’s the expression in her eyes when she looks over her shoulder where she’s standing with the picture window and the ocean behind her that has me struggling to breathe.

She’s fucking gorgeous.

And yeah, Blair was beautiful. Still is. And while she was mine on and off for so long, I never looked across a room at her and felt like my heart was going to explode. I never wondered how I could stop time, how I could preserve the moment, because I feared it would be ruined the minute she realized I wasn’t good enough for her.

That I was exactly what they all say about me. My fellow racers. The media. The fans. Stavros. Fucking Navarro.

Great sex is one thing.

This . . . this weird feeling in my chest and sudden flush of heat is entirely different.

Why do you think everyone leaves you, Sofia?

“What?” she asks me as she trails a finger over a cabinet on the far end of the room. She offers a half-smile before turning back to unabashedly look at my things.

There’s a part of me that wants her out of here. Out of the inner sanctum of who I am. The real me.

But I brought her here, didn’t I? I brought her here when I knew I wouldn’t be taking advantage of the situation. I forced myself to show her this part of me. Hints of the truths I hide from the public.

This one’s on me.

“Nothing.” I smile and reach for my coffee. I then glance at my kitchen counter and realize how utterly ridiculous it looks right now. How much I overdid the breakfast shit because I didn’t know what she liked and wanted to make sure whatever it was, was here.

And I wanted a reason for her to stay longer.

“You were at the party last night,” she says over her shoulder.

“Apparently.”

She chuckles with a quick glance my way as she thumbs through yet another art book. I fight the urge to tell her I got that on a private tour of a gallery in Florence. She’d understand, right? She’d appreciate that?

“Why?” she asks.

“Why, what? Why was I there?”

“This book is incredible by the way.” She nods and sets it down like it’s an artifact, which makes me smile. “But yeah, why were you there? I thought you hated my brother.”

My smile flickers. “I was invited.”

She laughs, her nipples jogging against the fabric with the motion. “But no response to the you hate my brother part.”

I drag my eyes up to meet hers, trying to ignore the fact that I want her with every part of my being but talk of her brother isn’t exactly arousing.

She smirks.

She knows where I was looking.

“I don’t dislike your brother.” I set my coffee mug down, feeling like I might need my hands free.

“But you don’t like him either.” She turns and mimics my posture, ass against the windowsill, legs stretched and crossed out in front of her, arms now crossed over her chest.

“History is sometimes a hard thing to overcome.” If I dislike her brother because of everything he stands for—affluence, legacy, presumption, reputation—then don’t all the same things apply to her? Shouldn’t I have the same animosity toward Sofia?

“But history is made to be learned from.” She points to the art books as if to say case in point. And only if she knew how true that was. How many hours my nonna spent teaching me the history of each of those pieces.

“True.” I nod.

“So you do like Cruz then?” she presses.