Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Mamma reaches over and pats my hand. “Let them talk. You’re an Accardi and you don’t care what people think or say. You just keep driving.”
I nod, because that’s exactly what I plan to do.
But first, the bathroom. I rise from my chair. “I need to use the restroom. Mamma… will you order me a fizzy water when the waiter comes back?”
“Of course,” she says and then turns to Carlos. “So… are you dating anyone special?”
I roll my eyes because I can hear the machination in my dear mother’s question, confident Carlos can hold his own. I weave through the tables and into the bar area where the restrooms are located. It’s separated by an open archway and a few tall potted plants that do nothing to muffle the sound of clinking glasses and low music. I spot a familiar face before I even round the corner.
Ronan Barnes.
He’s in a black button-up, sleeves rolled, and casually leaning against the bar with a beer in hand. His posture is loose and his bearing superior, like the world has never once told him no. Two women hang near him, both tall, both laughing like they’ve just heard the cleverest joke on the planet.
He doesn’t see me at first and I’m grateful for it. I haven’t seen him since qualifying ended today and even though I vowed to give him a piece of my mind after he impeded my flying lap, I’ve reconciled it’s not worth it. The race stewards declared no penalty was warranted so I have to let it go.
I duck, passing directly behind the bar, heading for the hallway marked Toilets in both Japanese and English. But curiosity gets the better of me and I sneak a peek his way, only to find him staring at me.
Great.
One of the women says something to him, her hand on his arm to get his attention. It doesn’t provoke a result though, and instead his steady blue eyes burn into mine.
I ignore him, turning toward the restroom, and only once I’m inside with the door closed do I realize that my heart is thudding. I try to analyze why that is, and by the time I’m drying my hands, I’m no closer to the truth. Surely, it’s because I’ve got a beef with him over how he impeded me and I’m anticipating blowback since we reported it.
That must be it.
I leave the bathroom, eyes averted with the intent to ignore Barnes, but I’m brought up short by a muscular frame right in my way. I almost run into the man, an apology on my lips when I realize it’s Ronan.
I take a step back. “Excuse you.”
Ronan doesn’t budge. His beer is still in hand, half-empty, condensation trailing down the side. “Didn’t realize walking down a hallway qualified as an offense now.”
“Blocking someone’s flying lap during qualifying does,” I snap at him.
His gaze sharpens. “I can’t believe you seriously filed a steward report on that.”
I lift a brow. “I can’t believe you’d think I wouldn’t.”
A slow smile pulls at his mouth—not amused, perhaps sardonic. “I wasn’t impeding you. I was setting up for my own flyer. Your engineer should’ve timed your release better.”
Just walk on by, Francesca. Show him he’s not worth your time.
But I’m not the sort of woman who shies away from a fight. Italians can be quite spicy with their emotions. “Oh, so it’s my team’s fault now?”
“Someone has to take responsibility, Accardi. Might as well start where it belongs.”
I fold my arms. “You were crawling through Sector 2 and weaving like you were sightseeing.”
He leans in slightly, enough that I catch the faint scent of cedar, warm and smoky. “If I was sightseeing, it was only because I saw something worth looking at.”
I snort. “Spare me the charm routine. Save it for your fan club.” I nod toward the bar, where the two women are now looking me over with narrowed eyes.
Ronan doesn’t even glance their way. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”
“Jealous?” I laugh, incredulous. “Hard pass.”
His smirk deepens. “You sure? Sounded a little bitter when you mentioned them.”
I shrug. “Just surprised you can carry a conversation with women whose only vocabulary is cocktails and compliments.”
That gets a low chuckle from him, and for some reason, I hate that I like the sound of it.
“You’ve got brains, Accardi,” he says. “You applying for the spot?”
I pause. Did he just say that to me? My eyes flick over to the bar and the two women shoot me hateful glares. I try to return a silent message to them that they can have him.
“You’re so full of yourself, you’re not even worth my energy to have this conversation.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, taking a lazy sip of his beer, “you’re still standing here.”
I open my mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but for a beat too long, I stare at him instead—at the way his shirt clings to his shoulders, the sharp edge of his jaw, the undeniable pull of him. I get why women follow him. He’s magnetic in a way that’s hard to ignore.