Page 129 of Full Throttle

All of it.

Exactly as it had happened.

Chapter 40

Then…

Dominic found her by the nineteenth-century paintings.

He spotted the pink cowboy boots first. They stood out against the white trainers and brown Oxford shoes, a defiant scream in the low buzz of the Musée d’Orsay. She wore a jean skirt and an oversized blazer, sunglasses shoved on her head, tilting slightly as she studied a photograph.

“I like this one,” Juliette said without turning. “It’s more vivid than the others. Almost like you could be there.” A lump rose in Dominic’s throat, and she frowned. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s great,” Dominic said.

He hadn’t even looked at it. Juliette’s hand jumped to her neck, toying with a delicate chain. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

I’m memorizing you, Dominic wanted to say. I’m committing every inch of you to memory, every scar and tiny freckle. He stuck his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. He delivered the next words in a rush.

“I don’t want to do this.”

“The art gallery?” Juliette looked relieved, which would have been amusing if Dominic could bring himself to smile. “Thank god. Let’s go for a walk by the Seine. There’s a little market that I saw which has—”

“This. I can’t do this.”

She paused. “What do you mean?”

A gaggle of schoolchildren pushed through the gallery, waving paper and crayons, chattering excitedly in French. Gabriel—his bodyguard—eyed them warily but didn’t move from his post by the door. Dominic swallowed.

“You’re a junior driver.” He forced the words out. “I’m your instructor. It’s inappropriate.”

Juliette dropped the necklace. “You don’t teach at the academy anymore.”

“Even so. If the media found out…” And they did, he wanted to say. They had photographs. I saw them. “They’d write things about both of us. Horrible things. And everyone would assume that I gave you a leg up; you told me that yourself.”

Something hardened in Juliette’s expression. “Then I’d set the record straight. Anyway, I’m not worried about that anymore,” she said, taking his hand with such easy confidence that a lump swelled in his throat. “I don’t care what other people think. Not if it means that I get to have you.”

It had been everything he’d been waiting to hear. Dominic looked at the painting. Danse à la Ville by Renoir. One of the most famous works in the gallery, depicting a couple dancing in their evening finery. His mother hated that painting. “It’s impossible to tell,” she’d once said, “if the woman is smiling or crying.”

“It’s better,” Dominic said, his voice leaden, “if we don’t see each other.”

Slowly, Juliette released his hand. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Just trust me.”

Juliette crossed her arms. “What’s going on? Be honest.”

Dominic turned back to the painting, studying those flat, painted eyes. I’m protecting your dreams. You’ve always been a dreamer. I can’t take that from you now. “I need to focus on my racing. My stats have been off, and I—”

“Bullshit,” Juliette cut in. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.” Her blue eyes were the hottest part of a flame, so intense they felt searing. “You’re adapting to the upgrades. I’ve helped you work on them myself.”

“I just need to concentrate.”

Juliette made a noise. “I don’t believe you.” She glanced at his bodyguard, then lowered her voice. “Be honest with me, Hastings. You owe me that much.”