Page 27 of Full Throttle

Dominic released her immediately. Juliette stumbled back, her eyes flying wide like a puppet cut from its strings. Fuck. He lunged for her instinctively, only to discover that she’d already righted herself with preternatural driver’s reflexes. And then something happened. He pulled with too much force. Or maybe she shoved him. Either way, the world toppled, and then they were slamming into the bow of the pirate ship.

A glass crocodile shattered on the floor. The white sail pitched to the ground, taking out half a tray of canapés. Several guests screamed, pedaling backward as shards of glass scattered like diamonds.

A hush fell. Cameras clicked.

Dominic exhaled. He was splayed against the bar, Juliette half cradled against his chest. Her hair was falling out of its pins, and she wore the expression of a cat that had been dropped unexpectedly in bathwater, which would have been funny if he wasn’t terribly certain they’d be splashed across every international tabloid by tomorrow morning.

A cane clicked across the wooden floor.

Ranya observed the broken pirate ship. Two men—presumably sponsors—stood behind her. When she looked at them, her expression was unreadable.

“With me. Now.”

Chapter 9

Fixer-Upper

Ranya led them to an office.

Well, office was a generous term, Juliette thought. The room was comprised of linoleum flooring, three plastic chairs, a desk, and a sad-looking coffee machine. Cold air pumped out from the vents. They could have been anywhere; this office was indistinguishable from all other offices, in the same way that airports were identical.

“So,” Ranya said.

Their team principal sat at the desk. She was wearing what Juliette had learned was her trapped-behind-slow-walkers face. That didn’t bode well.

“Start talking,” Ranya said.

“That’s a lovely plant,” Dominic observed, gesturing to a potted orange flower. “Is it a poppy?”

Ranya clicked her tongue. “Dominic.”

“You’re right,” Dominic said. “Too narrow. Much more likely to be an anemone.”

Juliette pursed her lips. “I didn’t know you were such a gardening enthusiast, Hastings. You should take it up full-time.”

Dominic’s smile was breezy. “Bit busy with my other full-time job.”

She couldn’t help it. The urge to piss him off was too strong. “Crashing cars?”

“Enough.” Ranya held up a hand. “That’s enough.” She massaged her neck. “I’m only going to ask this once. Were you two involved?”

Juliette refused to look at Dominic. Her ears were burning.

“We never slept together,” she said.

“Jesus,” Ranya muttered. “Spare me the details.” She dropped her hand. “This ends right now. Whatever happened between you, I don’t want it affecting your performance on track. Do you understand?”

Dominic nodded. “Understood.”

He looked annoyingly unfazed, as if none of this bothered him. And maybe it didn’t. Maybe he’d spent the last two years happily dating a Swiss model and they owned a tiny designer dog and spent weekends sampling Emmental at her family’s alpine fromagerie. Anything was possible.

She leaned forward. “Ranya—”

“Let me finish,” Ranya said, but not unkindly. “Please.”

Dominic shifted in her peripheral vision. He looked uncomfortable, which was no surprise; he was the sort of obedient son that never got in trouble. Although if you’d told her that Dominic had spent his childhood burning ants with kerosene for kicks, she thought bitterly, she would have believed that too.

“As far as the press is concerned,” Ranya continued, “you both got a little drunk and stumbled into the table. It’ll make a nice anecdote for interviews tomorrow.” Her phone rang, but she ignored it. “You’re going to smile and wave for the cameras and pretend to be friends. And you’re going to do it convincingly.”