Page 87 of Out of Control

“No.” I swallow and shake my head. “Nothing’s nothing.”

“Nothing’s nothing?” He laughs. “So glad Papá paid for that top-of-the-line education. Seems to have been worth it.”

“Don’t be an ass, Cruz.” I look at my phone as a text comes in about the flyers. “I . . . I need to make some phone calls. It’s about the gallery.”

“Then by all means.” He takes a step back. “You’re still on for the family dinner after the Miami Grand Prix, right?”

“That’s in a few weeks. Why are you acting like I’m not going to see you before then?”

“You’re busy. So busy it seems you can’t talk to me. Just making sure you’ll be there.”

“I’ll be there, Cruz. When have I not been?” I snap at him.

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Just figured I’d ask and get a commitment before you find out that both Mamá and Papá intend to be there.”

I groan. Perfect. Just what I need. Both of them in the same place, in public. “Awesome.” I start to walk. Then stop. Then look back at him. “Of course, I’ll be there. I have to—I have to go.”

“Okay. Everything’s okay though?”

“Yep. Perfect.”

But the farther away from him I walk, the more I realize this isn’t the time or place to be having any conversation with Rossi.

And yet . . . I need to.

I don’t know how many hours it takes for me to get him alone, but during that time I watch countless clips of the flyer drop. I read the buzz all over social media about the new gallery in town. I see local artists post about how they’re thrilled to be included in artmonte-carlo that’s typically reserved for the best of the best—and that means most of them come from outside of Monaco’s city limits.

The only response I get to the endless texts I’ve sent Rossi during the day is: Meet me at your hotel room at six. I’ll have thirty minutes between going from one event to the next.

And you better believe my ass is in my hotel room waiting for that knock on the door. I open it to find Rossi standing there in full Gravitas promo mode—baseball hat, polo shirt, sponsorship luxury watch—and he pushes into my room and shuts the door behind him.

“I don’t think anyone saw me. What’s up?” he asks seconds before his lips close over mine and he has me pressed up against a wall.

I’m consumed by the kiss, by having him at my fingertips all damn day but never getting to touch him. By wanting him and not being able to have him.

Then sense hits me over the head and my hands are pressing against his chest despite my head leaning forward to savor more of his kiss.

“Stop. No. I’m mad at you.”

His grin is cheeky as fuck as he meets my eyes. “Over?”

“The flyers. Monaco. The gallery.”

“I don’t have the slightest clue what you’re talking about.”

I hit at his chest and hate that my smile is a mile wide. “Yes, you do.” I push harder on his chest. “You papered the town. You thought up a brilliant contest to intrigue people. You locked my grand opening into a date I can’t get out of. You . . . you . . .”

“I, what? I believe in you? I want you to do this for you? I think it’s your time to fucking shine and that shouldn’t be compromised for anyone—even for old family precedents?”

I hold his gaze and shake my head back and forth. A million reasons to be mad flit through my head, but his words mean more to me than anything.

“You can be mad at me all you want but you have to admit, the videos online are awesome. Give me that much. For twenty minutes you stopped that town dead and they haven’t stopped talking since.”

“The trash,” I say, trying to gain my even footing. “I’m going to get in trouble for the trash—”

“It’s taken care of. I had permits pulled. Have a staff hired to pick up every scrap that wasn’t kept.”

“Ollie, this is . . .”