Page 18 of Full Throttle

It was, as Cap had once said, “like Eton on steroids.”

Juliette hopped up on the table. “I still don’t get why Dominic’s coming here.”

Nate’s eyes lingered on where her skirt had ridden up. “Must have done something bad.”

“You think?” Jasper asked.

Phil smirked. “I heard he got caught smuggling drugs into a casino.”

Frederick leaned forward. “Well, I heard that the Brazilian model blew him in a race car and the paparazzi got pictures.”

“Interesting,” a male voice said mildly. “I’d love to know how the mechanics of that would work. Quite difficult to fit two people inside a race car.”

All five boys jumped.

Juliette spun. A young man surveyed them with bored amusement. He wore gym shorts and a black hoodie, his dark curls escaping from a backward baseball cap. Her first thought was that all of them were screwed. Her second thought was that Jasper had been right: Dominic Hastings was offensively handsome.

Frederick’s face drained of blood. “Sir—I’m sorry, we didn’t—”

“Hear me?” Dominic cut in. “That much was evident.”

He folded his arms. He seemed to relish their discomfort, Juliette observed, or at least made no move to abate it. His dark eyes flicked to her. “You must be Cap’s sister. The only girl at the academy.”

Wariness filled her. “Woman.”

Dominic raised an eyebrow. “How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

His mouth curled up. “Just barely then.”

Juliette raised an eyebrow. “And how old are you?” He couldn’t have been much older than she was, and he was certainly younger than Nate, who was the oldest in the academy at twenty-five. “Twenty-one? Twenty-two?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Oh,” Juliette said dryly. “Well then, please continue. I’m sure those three years make all the difference.”

Dominic tossed an apple into the air, catching it with irritating ease. “What’s your name?”

Every eye in the canteen was on them. Juliette raised her chin.

“Juliette Marchmont.”

“Juliette,” Dominic repeated, and his voice curled around the t, as if he were tasting it. “And what’s your theory as to why I’m here?”

Ah. Wasn’t that the question? Juliette leaned forward. “Because you’re fast. Because you’ve had seventy-one podiums, only four crashes, and your lap time is 0.2 seconds faster than the average driver.” She paused. “Sir.”

The boys stared at her as if she’d started speaking in Latin. Dominic tilted his head. There was something almost predatory in his dark gaze, she observed, something that made her think of a hawk circling a rabbit.

“Interesting,” Dominic said softly. “You seem remarkably well informed for someone who doesn’t give a fuck about me.”

He bit into the apple with a decisive crunch. Heat bloomed in her cheeks. So he’d heard that bit. Fantastic.

Juliette cleared her throat. “I do give a fuck about your racing.”

Dominic’s eyes remained on her. He pitched the apple core over his shoulder, and it landed squarely in a bin. “Come with me.”

He strode for the doors. Juliette scrambled to her feet.