Page 9 of Out of Control

Did I let him know it? Of course not.

Did I even show gratitude to him for saving my ass? Not as much as I should have. Especially when he was the only one in a crowd of people who stopped to help me when that prick assumed a courteous smile and a bit too much alcohol meant he could take without asking.

Truth be told? I was a wreck. My confidence was shaken, my sense of security stripped, and the last thing I needed was for someone I knew in my everyday life to see it. For that person—Rossi—to say something to my brother, who isn’t thrilled that I’m here. For him to treat me like Sofia Navarro when I came here to get lost in this festival and be anyone but her.

The woman responsible for keeping her family from imploding.

The woman who everyone seems to need all the time.

The woman who is Cruz Navarro’s little sister.

Just simply Sofia from Spain. That’s the only person I want to be this weekend.

So I acted like nothing happened. Even footing. Isn’t that what I called it? I just needed things to be status quo—where I’m not supposed to like him, where I’m supposed to think he’s a problematic person. That way I could settle my nerves and pretend that creep who touched me didn’t exist and my confidence wasn’t shaken.

But Rossi followed me. Watched out for me. He was a quiet presence in a sea of people and after what happened, that somehow made me feel safe.

It was a weird feeling. A new one to me. I’ve always noticed Oliver Rossi in the paddock or garages, and last night I loved that he noticed me. Was watching out for me.

Maybe that’s what prompted my parting words to him last night. The shit I said about getting lost in someone. I don’t know. I’m not immune to having a good time.

Or to being attracted to Oliver Rossi—if the buzz I feel knowing he’s here is any indication.

I glance over my shoulder. There he is—again—across the sparsely crowded space. He’s in the shadows, his back against a retaining wall atop a grassy hill with a beer bottle raised halfway to his lips . . . and his eyes are locked on me.

Adrenaline hums. And yes, my pulse beats a bit faster.

“He wants you. Bad,” Lilith murmurs as another stage in the distance starts its set. A dull throb of techno echoes over the distance and hits us.

I glance at my watch and pretend not to care.

“He can want me all he wants. That doesn’t mean he can have me.” I shrug and take a sip of my own drink.

“Um, hello? Have you looked closely at him? Why the hell not?”

“Because . . . because he’s him.”

She throws her head back and laughs. “I don’t try to pretend that I know anything about your world. Not your esteemed family. Not the crazy-ass world of racing. Not anything in your realm . . . but that?” She lifts her eyebrows, referring to Rossi. “That I could get to know more about if you know what I’m saying.”

Great. Lovely. Same. “He’s just . . .”

“He’s just what? Gorgeous? Sexy? Mysterious? Possessive?” She raises her hand. “Sign me up.”

“The problem is he knows it.”

“Can’t fault a man for knowing what he is. And can’t fault a woman for appreciating it.”

I can still feel his eyes on me. Still love knowing they are. “Huh.” It’s all I say in response. It garners a sarcastic chuckle from her.

“You do realize you two are the same, right? Too gorgeous for your own good. Intense. Here together.”

“You forgot one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“That he’s a total player and unabashed fuckboy.”

“And your point? What’s the harm in some fun? You’re here. He’s here. You have a common understanding of the life he leads . . .”