“Oh, please come lie on my bed in your sweaty clothes. Make yourself at home.” My voice drips with sarcasm.
He ignores me as he grabs one of the pillows. I continue to put on my makeup, keeping it fresh and light, my go-to look. My skin glows in the mirror after my long tanning-session-turned-nap yesterday.
He lets out a grunt. “Noah’s an ass and you keep me in check. I won’t be an idiot if you’re there. Please come.” His words distract me, and I stab myself in the eyeball with my mascara wand. Shit. Is there a greater pain than mascara on your eye?
My heart accelerates at the thought of Noah Slade. He’s hot, in a devilishly handsome kind of way. Messy hair so dark it looks black, sharp cheekbones that can shave ice, and lips every woman can envy. I see pictures of him everywhere—ads, commercials, gossip mags. You name it, he’s been on it. Not to mention how my brother has stood at the podium with him multiple times. I may have watched one or twenty times on my TV at home. Hard to resist seeing Noah get showered with champagne on a Prix podium while he beams down at the trophy in his hand.
I let out a sigh. Noah’s the type of guy you don’t bring home to mom; he’s the one you screw around with before you find the guy you finally take home to mom, ensuring her you’ve moved on from your wild ways. His list of past partners happens to be longer than my grocery list and to-do list combined. Gross yet oddly fascinating how women like that.
“You do understand you’re an adult, right? How on earth do I keep you in check?”
“Because I won’t say anything too nasty for my sister’s ears.” He bats his long, dark lashes at me in a ridiculous gesture that softens my heart. Damn him and his goofiness. I fall for it every single time, a victim to Santi’s boyish ways.
“Your innocent ploy is nothing short of terrible. Is that how you get laid?”
He throws a pillow straight at my face, smudging my mascara even more.
“Ugh, you’re messing up my makeup! Fine, I’ll go. But get off my bed. Now.”
He hops off my bed triumphantly because I fell for his plan. Hook, line, and sinker.
“See you later. I’ll send up someone to grab you when it’s time.” He taps away at his phone.
“The things I do for you. I’ll try not to fall asleep on the side of the panel, but no promises.”
He lets out a deep laugh. “F1 panels are juicy. You’ll enjoy it, I know it.” He leaves with a smile plastered on his face. I can’t tell if he means to be serious when he rubs his hands together like an evil genius. Shady side eye included.
I wrap up getting ready. An attendant shows me the way to the press conference area where my brother waves at me from the panel table. My grin mirrors his own. Warmth fills my heart at seeing him up there living his dream, wearing signature scarlet Bandini gear—everything he’s wanted since he was a kid.
I snap a quick picture for my Instagram story. Hate to break it to the thirsty females out there, but I’m his number-one fan. After fiddling with my phone, I glance up at the panel, my eyes meeting Noah’s blue ones—a strikingly beautiful color framed by dark lashes and brows. His plump lips turn down as he checks me out. My body heats at his appraisal, aware of the beautiful human in front of me because I’m dumb not blind. I find it impossible to calm my racing heart, thumping against my rib cage, as I take him in. Fuck me. I don’t think I’ve ever thought of a guy as gorgeous until now.
He rakes a hand through his thick, unruly strands. His hair looks like he continuously runs his fingers through the locks all day. Corded arms lay on the table, revealing tan skin and large hands, taking my mind to dirty places. Noah’s lean kind of muscular is ideal for racing. Shit, the kind of muscular perfect for fucking against a door, in a shower, or on a counter. Vivid images fly through my head of Noah in compromising positions. My body hums with excitement at the sight of Noah smirking at me, my lower half clearly not understanding the difference between danger and lust. Turns out press conferences offer more eye candy than I thought.
I lick my lips at the sight of his arms. Nothing makes a girl swoon quite like a guy dedicated to his gym regimen, but this guy is more likely to commit to his gym than to another girl. He notices my reaction and winks at me. My cheeks flush at his attention, an embarrassing display that makes my attraction noticeable. Can I be any more obvious?
Frustration rushes through me, washing away thoughts of his lips against mine and his hands in my hair. How on earth will I survive a season around someone who looks like him?