Noah faces the camera crews again. “We all learn from mistakes here. The sport is about growth and personal development on the course. Accidents happen. It’s all about what you do after that matters.”
One point for Noah Slade. He handles the situation like a pro who was well-trained by a publicist. The rest of the press meeting remains mundane after the spur of drama, not as juicy as my brother promised. A blessing in disguise for him since he’s already messed up.
Relief floods through me when an F1 member announces the end of the media conference. He reminds everyone about the gala being hosted tonight in honor of the Bandini racers, plus information about a few other press sessions taking place after practice rounds and qualifiers. Excuses of how to get out of those pop up in my head. Thankfully for Santi, he can do most of them alone, minus Noah and myself.
Noah approaches us outside of the press building. My skin prickles at our closeness, his body hulking over my five-foot-two frame, making me feel smaller than usual.
“I don’t know how your last team worked but let me handle the big-boy questions. You should re-watch the tapes from Abu Dhabi if you think it was a mistake on my end because it sure as fuck wasn’t. That should be your first order of business around here. Well, that and staying the hell out of my way.” His fists clench together and his jaw ticks under pressure.
“I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” my brother says with earnest.
“Clearly. You’re new to the team and we have a system here. One that doesn’t include stupid answers. You should ask around if you’re not sure how things work.”
“There’s no need to be rude to him. He said sorry,” I snap, my eyes meeting Noah’s cold glare. I can only take so much of his attitude when my brother’s already said sorry. Santi acts tough, but issues affect him more than most, his emotions swirling inside of him like a slow-moving tornado.
Noah’s sapphire eyes trail down my body. He licks his bottom lip, drawing my attention toward them, noticing how the bottom is fuller than the top. They look soft and plump. Perfectly kissable.
Skin heats wherever his eyes roam. I feel betrayed by the way my body acts around him, like I can’t control the draw I have toward him.
He opens his mouth. “Side pieces don’t come to these types of things either so she can stay away. Maybe you’ll be less of a dumbass.”
My head snaps up, waves of attraction replaced by anger. All at the flip of a switch. He did not insinuate what I thought he did.
Before Santi or I can get a word out, he continues. His blue eyes gaze into mine, dancing with delight. “If you ever get bored of being with him, I’m always free. With age comes more experience.” He shoots me a ridiculously smug smile, and I can’t wait to knock it off his face.
I start toward him, wanting to get uncomfortably close because death stares look better from inches away. Santi grabs my hand, halting my attempt to get up in Noah’s space, but he can’t stop my mouth. Oh, no. My mouth has a mind of its own because words flow without a second thought.
“He’s my older brother, asshole. Can’t you see the family resemblance? Or is the cloud of superiority around you so thick that you didn’t notice?”
I imagine the wheels turning in Noah’s head as he makes the connection. His eyes dart between Santi and me, looking at our dark hair, olive skin, and same honey-brown eyes. My head tilts to the side and I shoot him a smirk.
His jaw drops open and his cheeks tinge a light pink color. I gloat at his embarrassment, mentally dancing around at my sassiness. Everyone knows what they say about people who assume.
“I’m sorry, I clearly shouldn’t have spoken to either of you like that.” His voice has a hint of regret. I shrug, ignoring the tug on my heart at his remorse because I get petty when mad. Assholes don’t do it for me, no matter how pretty their faces are.
My brother offers a handshake because he acts like a real man. I try my best to disregard how good Noah’s ass looks as he walks away, but I take a peek because a woman can only have so much restraint. He gives me one last look over his shoulder before he disappears around the corner of the building.
I sigh softly, my heart slowing down for the first time in an hour. Santi gives me a quizzical glance before we take off in the opposite direction. Looks like tonight’s gala just got a lot more interesting.
4
Noah
I mull over the conversation with Santiago and his sister while I eat lunch in the Bandini area. Santi has a sibling I had no clue existed. Where was she throughout his racing debut? I feel like I would’ve recognized her. Instead, I made myself look like an asshole on the first day. An image of her brown eyes boring into mine like she wants to skin me alive has singed itself into my brain. She’s a stunning woman even when mad with flared nostrils, flushed cheeks, and waving hands.
I need to come up with a plan for the Bandini gala. It was never my intention to get off on the wrong foot with Santiago already, or his sister for that matter. Looking like a dick before the season begins doesn’t make me happy. Santiago and I will spend countless hours together doing press tours and going to sponsor meetings, which means his sister will be around just as much.
I snapped when he blamed me for something that wasn’t my fault. Let this be a lesson for him to not open his mouth without thinking, a prime example of what can go wrong in the public eye, shitty consequences included. But it’s not right how I took my anger out on his sister.
During our earlier walk-through of the course, I apologized to him again because I was ashamed of what I’d said. I’m not above cornering people to get what I want. He begrudgingly accepted my apology, his jaw tight as his fist squeezed my extended hand.
I spend the rest of the day sitting through more press sessions, the less desirable side of F1.
I make it back to my hotel room with enough time to get dressed for the event. Santiago and his sister plan on attending the gala, my thoughts confirmed when I discreetly asked around. No need to draw attention to myself.
The poorly lit lobby bar welcomes me as I order a Scotch from the bartender. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman sitting in a booth, twirling a straw in her drink. She looks vaguely like Santiago’s sister. I head on over to her, confirming she is, in fact, the Alatorre I need to speak to. Perfect timing. Getting an apology out now sounds like the best idea because I don’t dance around problems to avoid confrontation.
Some people scurry at trouble. Me on the other hand? I drive my car straight into problems at two hundred miles per hour. Fuck the consequences.
“Do you mind if I sit here?”
Her body tenses at the sound of my voice. I’m not off to a great start by the looks of her grimace, rigid body posture, and stilled hand holding her straw. But I can work with it. I shoot her a dazzling smile that makes women drop to their knees. Tested and verified.
I remain motionless as her almond eyes look up at me. My heart rate speeds up as I gaze upon her, taking in her smoky eyes that cloud at my perusal, lush lips that purse, and high cheekbones I want to run my knuckles across. Her dark hair piles on top of her head, begging to be let down. A few soft curls escape and trail down her thin neck. Her dress dips low, accentuating tan skin and a fully displayed back. My fingers itch to stroke her skin and test how soft it is.