Page 24 of Full Throttle

Dominic shrugged. “A little.”

“Introduce me.”

Dominic almost laughed. Yeah. Not fucking likely. “I hardly know her.”

Anthony’s expression was irritatingly smug. “Bet you’d like to, though.” His posture changed. “She’s coming this way.”

Shit.

It was Juliette’s scent that struck him first: vanilla and something flowery, mixing with the strawberry ChapStick that she wore. It took him back to Parisian streets, to bundling into smoke-filled art galleries to shelter from silty rain. Her eyes were the exact shade of violet-blue that haunted Dominic’s dreams, like wildflowers blooming in spring, although they lacked the warmth that he remembered.

“Hastings,” she said.

Dominic’s smile was easy. “Marchmont.”

A lump rose in his throat. She was wearing those same fucking pink cowboy boots she used to wear. As if nothing had changed.

Ranya—who wore a high-necked white dress—stepped forward. “Dominic. Juliette. I wanted to reintroduce the pair of you.” She turned. “Anthony? Could you be a dear and fetch me a drink?”

Anthony looked appalled, as if he’d never fetched a drink in his life. Very likely he hadn’t. Dominic was suddenly aware of the cameras. The whispers. It was an open secret that he never warmed to his teammates; The Prince of Racing, a newspaper had once written, is far from princely, although his aloof character is part of the handsome racer’s appeal. He doesn’t make friends. Only allies. Liêm had framed the article alongside a plastic gold medal that he’d bought from a pound shop, which he’d inscribed with “Dominic Hastings’s Number One Ally Since 2010.”

Yes.

Every reporter was circling hungrily, waiting for this introduction to go badly. But it was only Dominic who understood exactly how badly it might go.

He looked at Juliette, whose lips thinned.

Ranya looked expectantly at Anthony. “A glass of champagne?”

Anthony glanced at a reporter before offering a stiff smile. “Of course. I’ll be back in a moment.”

He slipped toward the bar. Cameras exploded in silver flashes, like the scales of some quick-darting fish, and Dominic couldn’t breathe.

“Stay here,” Ranya said in a low voice. “I’ll be back with some sponsors.”

She gave him a look that clearly said Don’t fuck this up or I’ll have your balls before starting into the crowd. Dominic crossed his arms. Juliette was silhouetted against the glow of the pirate ship, the golden clips in her hair shining like morning stars. She was devastatingly beautiful, and even though he’d known to expect it—knew it like the laws of physics and gravity and things that were objectively true—it still fucking leveled him.

“Your hair,” Dominic said finally, “is different.”

Juliette held out a hand. “And you look taller.” She smiled for the cameras. “Been stretching the truth again?”

Dominic took her hand. Her fingers were smaller than he recalled. “I suppose I deserve that.”

“Was this your idea?”

“What?”

She held his gaze. “Did you bully Ranya into hiring me?”

Dominic repressed the urge to snort. “Are you mad? A bulldozer couldn’t move Ranya.” Juliette kept looking, and he lowered his voice. “No. I had nothing to do with this. Trust me.” He hesitated. “I had no idea that you were going to be my teammate. I’d have never agreed to this otherwise.”

She dropped his hand. “I see.”

A camera flashed. Dominic had the urge to usher her away to a private corner, which was a terrible idea for many reasons. Namely, that he valued his fingers.

“Look,” Dominic said. “Let’s just be civil.”

“Civil,” Juliette repeated flatly.