Page 79 of Break My Heart

“No,” I cut in, shaking my head. I loosen my grip so she can lean back in my arms. “It has nothing to do with that. I trusted you. What you built. What we’re building.”

The words land between us. Not light, but real. “And I didn’t try to control it. For the first time, I didn’t get in my own way.”

Her breath catches slightly. I see when my words really resonate. This public display of emotion isn’t just about the win. She clarifies, “That wasn’t about the car?”

“No, it’s about us.” I slacken my grip so she knows she can move away at any time, but she’ll have to pull out of my arms. I don’t want to let her go. “I believe in you. I believe in us.”

Silence stretches for half a second before she murmurs, “I do too.”

The shield she’s been holding lowers. And this time, I know, I got it right.

I didn’t just win the race; I won my heart.

And deep down, I know I don’t have any reason to be afraid.

28

PACE: SPEED RELATIVE TO COMPETITORS

Isee it in his eyes—the certainty. The way he’s standing in the middle of chaos like none of it matters except this moment. Except me. Us.

I lean up and press my lips to his.

His kiss is an outpouring of everything he’s kept hidden; mine is an attempt to make sense of everything I feel. The answers, the restoration of trust despite us breaking—it smothers every reason I gave myself to stay distant and gives life to what is now blooming between us.

My hand comes up against his jaw, anchoring myself to him as his other hand tightens at my waist, pulling me closer like he’s not willing to let even an inch of space exist between us.

The noise around us doesn’t disappear. It just stops mattering because for the first time since I came back into his life, I’m not analyzing but choosing.

When I pull back, it’s only because I need to breathe. “That was a strong follow-up,” I murmur, my voice softer than it should be.

His mouth curves slightly, but his hand doesn’t loosen at my waist. “I’m improving.”

“We should leave,” I say because if we stay here, this becomes something public before we’ve even defined it ourselves.

His gaze flicks briefly around us—media, team, spectators. Eyes that will absolutely notice if they haven’t already. Then back to me before he agrees, “Yeah, we should.”

His hand finds mine. I don’t even think about pulling away as we move through the celebratory chaos. We glide past people too distracted by revelry to notice what’s happening on the fringes of it.

Or maybe they do. Neither of us cares.

Outside, the car is waiting. The drive is short. Barcelona hums around us—beautiful as Monaco in a more earthy way. I barely register it before we’re pulling up in front of the W Barcelona, its glass reflecting the city lights.

We step out and quickly move through the lobby, his hand still wrapped around mine like letting go isn’t an option. I should be aware this is exactly the kind of moment I would normally dissect from every angle before stepping into it. I don’t care.

I’m only aware of Leo next to me and the way his grip tightens slightly when someone passes too close. The way he matches his pace to mine without a word.

The elevator doors slide open.

We step inside.

Once they close with no other passengers, every emotion intensifies.

He pulls me closer, his hands biting into my hips. I go willingly, my hands sliding over his shoulders, his pecs, recalibrating my senses to the feeling of his skin.

When he leans down, I don’t hesitate. I meet him halfway. I’m immediately devastated by the slow caress of his lips.

As the elevator ascends, our kiss changes—harder, hotter, like we’re both trying to possess the other. It’s beautiful because even without words, we’re saying the same thing.