32

Marianna.

Oh, fuck me sideways with a rusty fork.

That's the first coherent thought that blasts through my brain as I spin around on that goddamn barstool, nearly toppling off like a drunk toddler at a carnival ride. There he is, Duane Richter, in all his brooding, black-clad glory, leaning against the wall.

How long has he been standing there? Long enough to hear me wax poetic about Ollie's V-taper?

"I thought you were in Europe," I blurt out, my voice coming out high and squeaky, like I've inhaled helium from a clown's balloon. Brilliant. Way to sound composed.

"Clearly." His gaze flicks to the phone—where Jill's traitorous face has just vanished—then back to me.

The sarcasm drips from his words like honey from a beehive, sticky and stinging. My face is on fire.

"That was clinical," I stammer, scrambling for dignity like it's loose change under the couch cushions. "A clinical assessment."

"Mm." That sound again. That infuriating non-word that means everything and nothing. He's still standing there, all six feet of him, filling the hallway.

I hop off the stool, needing to move, needing to do something with my hands besides wring them like a Victorian damsel in distress. The kitchen island suddenly feels like a battlefield, with me on one side and him on the other, armed with nothing but my rapidly evaporating self-respect.

"Look, Duane," I start." "What I talk about with my friends is none of your business. You weren't supposed to hear that. You weren't even supposed to be here. You're supposed to be in... I don't know, Canada or wherever, doing your champion thing, winning races and brooding in private jets."

He pushes off the wall, stepping into the kitchen light. The shadows play across his face, highlighting that sharp jaw I've dreamed about biting—wait, no, stop that, brain. Bad brain. We're not going there. Not now, not ever.

"Tell me something, Marianna." He says my name like it's a loaded gun, all four syllables chambered and ready to fire. "Is this a hobby for you? Collecting drivers?"

I freeze. The words hit me like a slap from a wet towel.

"Collecting—what?"

"Oliver Hale," he says.

Oh, hell no. The embarrassment flips into anger faster.

"Oliver is a friend," I snap. "A client who became a friend. He was excited about his first points. In your mind, it's got to be some sordid thing, right? Because that's how you see women. Don't project your shit onto me."

His eyes narrow.

I blink hard, refusing to let the tears win. Not yet. "what is this?" I gesture between us, the air thick with tension. "Why do you care who kisses my forehead? Why do you care if I talk about his abs or his glutes or whatever? You're the one who said you're not interested. Remember? 'You're not my type. You never have been.' So why the hell are you acting like—"

"Because Marco asked me to look after you." His voice rises, the control slipping just a fraction. "And I won't let you throw yourself at the first driver who smiles at you. Not while you're under my roof. Not until your brother gets back."

Throw myself? The words land like punches, each one bruising something deep inside. "Throw myself? God, Duane, your ego is the size of your Bugatti. Ollie's a friend. A nice guy who talks to me like I'm worth listening to. "

"Nice guy." He sneers the words. "Is that what you call it? Letting him paw at you in the paddock for the cameras? You're smarter than that, Marianna. Or at least I thought you were."

"Paw at me? It was a forehead kiss! Not some orgy in the motorhome!" My voice cracks, the tears winning despite my best efforts.

He goes silent then, watching me cry with that unreadable expression. He reaches out, almost hesitant, and wipes a tear from my cheek with his thumb. The touch is electric, sending sparks through my skin straight to that frozen place inside me.

For a second, I think that's it. He'll pull away, retreat to his gym or his bedroom or wherever he goes to avoid feelings. But he doesn't. Instead, he cups my face, his hand warm and steady, and then—he kisses me.

My body responds before my brain can catch up. I kiss him back, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him in like he's the only thing keeping me from falling apart. It's messy and raw and everything I've fantasized about in those shameful dreams where I'm not broken, where I can feel without freezing. Heat pools low in my belly, that unfamiliar ache building into something almost painful.

It's soul-deep, this kiss, like he's pouring all his unspoken bullshit into it—the control, the distance, the pity. And me? I'm pouring back my loneliness, my brokenness, the desires I can't name because they scare me too much. The ones rooted in that dark corner of my childhood I never look at, the place where touch went wrong before I even knew what touch was supposed to be.

But then he pulls back. Just as suddenly as it started. His forehead rests against mine, breaths coming in ragged gasps that match my own.

"Marco's coming back soon," he murmurs like it pains him to say it. "This ends when he does."

The words hang there, a cliffhanger sharper than any race finish. Ends? What ends? This kiss? This whatever-the-fuck we are?

I stare at him, lips still tingling, heart pounding like I've just run a marathon. And all I can think is: What the actual fuck just happened?

Okay, pause. Rewind. Let's dissect this shitshow, because if I don't, my brain might implode like a bad tire in qualifying.

He kissed me. He initiated. His hands in my hair.

I pull away from him, wiping my face with the back of my hand. The kitchen feels smaller now, the air thicker. "What the hell was that?"