THREE YEARS AGO
Do you know what happens when people turn eighteen? They have nights filled with freedom, exploration, and boxed wine.
For me, eighteen doesn’t look the same—at least not yet.
James Mitchell smells trouble a mile away with his exposure to Formula 1’s bad-boy racers teaching him a thing or two about handling a daughter. Ever since we moved from California to Italy when I was five years old, I get the same treatment as the Bandini drivers he manages. In his house, I adhere to his three Rs: respect, rules, and responsibilities.
My dad let me join him for one Grand Prix this summer before starting my university classes. A rare occasion, seeing how he has kept me away from the race scene ever since I grew boobs and learned what clothes flatter my body shape.
This morning, I trudged my feet through our hotel room, arms crossed over my chest, and bottom lip fully displayed in a pout. My dad kept his face neutral with not a single gray hair out of place, unblinking and unwavering as I protested his plan.
Guess who won that battle? Not me, in case you were wondering, but thanks for the moral support.
Instead of hanging out in Bandini’s pit garage, my dad volunteered me to dress like a princess for a kid’s birthday party while I paint kids’ faces. Don’t let looks deceive you, I may be the same height as the eight-year-olds running around, but my brains, wit, and sass make up for my small stature.
I’m kind of like a lemon Starburst—sweet but packs a punch.
I run my hands down my ridiculous Rapunzel costume my dad bought. Joke’s on him this time because he didn’t realize he grabbed me a kid’s size. Velvet material barely contains my breasts, suggesting I want to offer way more than candy and face painting to unsuspecting partygoers. The skirt rests above my mid-thigh, revealing tan legs and white Converse because this princess wears comfortable shoes. Screw heels and being a royal pain in the ass who needs to be protected by a pretty prince.
No thank you. I’d rather save the day in sneakers.
I ditch the sour attitude once I arrive at the party. Face painting can be a cool gig, letting me show off artistic talents I tamper down into nothing nowadays.
See, I’ve loved art ever since I picked up a paintbrush at two years old and decided to paint all over the canvas stools in our kitchen while under the influence of too many Bob Ross episodes. My dad wasn’t amused when he sat on wet paint and rocked an imprint of a sunflower on his ass. I’d love to say an artist was born that day, but my dad didn’t support my creativity as anything more than a hobby.
So now, instead of pursuing a degree in anything art related, I’m forced to attend a college tailored toward business degrees.
I almost fall asleep thinking about it.
But I want to make my dad happy because he never lets me down. Blame the daddy’s girl in me. He does so much, playing both a mother and father, no matter how awkward or uncomfortable it makes him.
At least I can create mini masterpieces on everyone’s faces today. I choose different themes for each person because I’m not a basic bitch. I’ve never been wired that way, ever since my dad bought me a Star Wars backpack instead of a princess one because no daughter of his believes in fairy tales.
I scroll through my phone to pass the time. Kids move on to the bounce houses, no longer amused with the clown or me. Said party entertainment sends me sly grins across the lawn, weirdly making phallic motions with his balloon animals while mouthing for me to call him.
Someone leans against the table where I spread out my art supplies. My eyes trail his jean-clad legs before they land on golden arms crossed over a firm torso. Tense muscles pull against the black fabric. I hold my breath as my eyes meet two icy blue ones, the color of melting glaciers in the Arctic.
I’m an artist, not a poet.
“Blink twice if they’re holding you against your will.” He smirks at me. His voice has a hint of an accent I can’t place, the English smooth yet different at the same time.
My mouth opens before closing again. Because holy shit. This guy looks like he belongs surfing on the beach somewhere, all blonde hair and skin with a summer glow. I look around to make sure I’m at a kid’s birthday rather than daydreaming. The bounce house bumps up and down, roars of screaming children a reminder of how this is all very real.
“Oh, shit. I knew there was something weird about Evan. Who knew he liked holding beautiful girls hostage, dressed up like fucked-up Disney porno characters?” The stranger’s eyes roam up and down my body.
My cheeks uncontrollably flush under his gaze, new reactions sparking inside of me around this man. “Oh my God. No. Evan has been nothing but nice to me. And he’s very married. I’m here for the kids’ face painting and stuff. His daughter thinks I’m Rapunzel.” I fumble with paint tubes while I ramble, knocking a few to the ground.
I bend over to grab the tubes. The stranger beats me to it, our fingers brushing against each other, warmth radiating from his touch. My heart jolts at the contact.
Um. Okay.
The stranger gets a look at my chest when I pull myself back up along with the paints. My blonde hair whips to the side as I turn toward the table, wanting to hide my flustered state. This whole meeting is going terribly wrong, making me look like I don’t know how to act around someone unfairly attractive.
Can I blame the fact that I went to an all-girls Catholic school my whole life? Sounds plausible.
“Ah, she has a voice.” He lets out a rough laugh, his chest shaking before he controls himself.
“Duh.”
He points at the different brushes I set up in a perfect line, his thick fingers lingering over a paint tube. “You like painting?”
“I love it like a sordid affair. It’s a hidden secret, only known by a select few.”
“I love a good secret.” He pulls a finger to his lips, drawing my eyes to the fullness of them.
“You and everyone else. Care to share one of your own and make it even?” My mouth runs quicker than my brain, not caring enough to filter my words.
“I’m shit at secrets.” He shrugs.
“Then, I’m shit at talking.” My arms cross over my chest, making my boobs hike up an inch. Whoops.
His eyes lower as I uncross my arms. “You have a bite to you. Fine. I like to read at least a chapter of a book every night before going to bed. It’s a tradition I’ve had since childhood that I still keep, despite a busy schedule.” He says his admission like a dirty secret, something contrasting against his athletic image. Somehow it makes him sexier.
“What’s your favorite book?” Doubt colors my voice.
“If you have a favorite, I don’t trust you. Any book lover has at least five they can name off the top of their head.” His blue eyes hold mine.
Oh, wow. This guy actually likes reading. He grins when I roll my eyes with little effort, not putting much sass behind it.
“All right. Name your top author then since you’re such a scholar.” My voice rasps. I imagine him in bed, blonde hair ruffled while he rocks reading glasses and a thick paperback because he’d rather be practical than carry a heavy hardcover.
Sigh. Damn him and his nerdy secret.
“Brandon Sanderson. No questions asked.” His voice drops.
“A man who prefers to live in a fantasy. How cute.”
“I’d be your best fantasy, no book needed.”
A kid comes to my paint station and plops himself into the seat in front of me.
“Ciao, amico. Che cosa vuoi—” I turn toward the child.
“Shit. You’re hot and speak Italian.” He smiles wide at me before he turns toward the child. “Twenty euros. Leave.” The blonde-haired, blue-eyed man holds out a crisp euro straight from a designer wallet. The kid gets the meaning of his words as he grabs it and runs, leaving us alone yet again.
I laugh at the ridiculousness of the exchange. My new acquaintance catches me off guard by sitting and crossing his arms.
“Do your absolute dirtiest.” His wicked grin fills my chest with warmth. It’s a new sensation I can’t pin down, heat searing its way up toward my cheeks.
“If you say so. But I don’t think you can handle it, or me for that matter.” I offer him a playful grin of my own. If my heart wasn’t hammering in my chest, I’d gloat at my flirtatiousness.
“Please. Don’t insult my talents.” He presses a large hand against his heart while his lip wobbles on command. I like the way he drags out his vowels and emphasizes his Ts, his accent unplaceable yet distinct from my fused American-Italian one.
“All two of them?” I shake my head at him.
He drops his head back and lets out a deep laugh, not giving a damn about the staring parents around us.
“And what two talents do you think I have? Do tell.” He smiles at me, revealing straight white teeth. An idea pops into my head about mucking up his perfect face, wanting to take away his prettiness and remove some of his appeal.
I tap my chin with a paintbrush. “Bribing people and not taking a hint. Two very undesirable traits if I do say so myself.”
He shakes his head at me, his lips fighting a smile. I squeeze black paint out onto the palette and swirl my brush in the dark color.
My fingers raise his chin, revealing bright eyes and thick, dirty blonde lashes. “Now keep still. I don’t want to ruin the look before it starts.”
The stranger shudders when my fingers press against his face, my brush sweeping across his skin, black paint replacing tan skin. He smells clean and expensive, a mix of freshly showered with some fancy cologne. His blue eyes remain on my face the entire time except when I ask him to close them for me to paint his eyelids.
His obvious perusal surprises me. I center myself, wary of my desire toward him, from the way my cheeks flush to the feeling of my skin heating up as it touches his.
I concentrate on my task while ignoring his glances. He looks young, but still too old for me. I’d guess he’s probably in his mid-twenties from the looks of him, showing the smallest smile lines when he laughs. Our faces remain mere inches apart as I paint his face, familiarizing myself with every divot and scar that mars his skin. Black paint contrasts against sharp cheekbones.
I trace the curve of his neck with the end of my paintbrush, eliciting the slightest shiver from him—one so subtle, I almost miss it. “Do you care if I paint your neck?”
His heavy-lidded eyes capture mine. “Do I get to kiss yours after?”
“I’m going to ignore you because you’re way too old for me.” I wish I could take the words back the instant they leave my mouth.
“Says who?”
“Says the fact that you look like you have a decent savings account and a stable job.”
His lit-up eyes hold me in a trance. “What an observant princess. What about me screams that I have a big bank account?”
“I rock Converse on a first-year uni student’s budget while you wear Gucci sneakers and corrupt kids with a Louis Vuitton wallet.”
“Ah, how perceptive. Eighteen is definitely too young.” His eyes dart to the side.
“Yup. But lucky you, I’m not too young to blow your mind.” My brush taps on his face, hinting at my artwork.
He laughs, and for some reason, I like making him smile. I grab the mirror off the table and reveal how he looks.
“Holy shit. You seriously have some talent with a brush. I look like someone’s worst nightmare.”
That’s because you are.
He shoots me a smile that makes me feel all sorts of things, both good and bad. I find it difficult to ignore the tug of desire I have toward him despite our age difference.
I grin at the skull face painting I did. Spinal cord bones trail down his neck, intermingled with black and white faux muscle tissue, disappearing beneath his black T-shirt. Blue eyes starkly contrast against the black paint. His smile dims, revealing a row of teeth I created. The design is hauntingly beautiful, just like him, a man too old and too wicked for someone like me.
“Whoa. Liam, I didn’t even notice you with that sick makeup. Sophie’s talented, eh?” Evan, the man who asked me to do this ridiculous task in the first place, interrupts my moment with Liam.
Liam lifts out of the chair. His long legs make the task ridiculously easy, drawing my attention toward his body. His firm sculpted-to-perfection body.
Evan nudges Liam in the ribs. “Sophie, you did an awesome job. It matches how dead Liam’s going to be after he doesn’t land on the podium this Sunday.”
“That’s what you always say, except I kick your ass almost every time.” Liam’s voice has a hint of edge to it.
Dots connect because F1 has only one driver named Liam.
Liam freaking Zander. Germany’s most revered and F1’s up-and-coming star, wreaking havoc with Noah Slade and Jax Kingston since their young karting days. The racer who’s on track to win his first World Championship this year. The same man who’s almost seven years older than me.
Fuck me. I’ve been flirting with an F1 driver. My dad would kill me if he found out, never letting me off Bandini’s property.
Evan takes a photo of Liam’s face. “Seriously, this makeup is kick-ass. Great work. My daughter has loved Sophie ever since she saw her in the Bandini pit area. James Mitchell keeps this one hidden away, but I borrowed her talents for the day.” Evan looks over at me. “Don’t forget to remind me to pay you for your time.”
I brush him off, focusing on regulating my breathing instead of anything Evan says to Liam. Evan tells us a rushed goodbye after claiming he needs to check on the kids.
“So, you’re a racer.” My teeth grind together, my annoyance poorly hidden by the clenching and unclenching of my hands. I hate how much I like his eyes raking over me. He looks like he wants to memorize the way my stupid costume presses against my body, committing the whole day to memory. And worse, I love the way his attention makes me feel.
“Mm, that’s what they tell me. And you’re Sophie, a princess?”
My name rolls off his tongue like he wants to test it out, his German accent drawing out the e sound.
I stand taller. “You can say that. Except in this story, I don’t need rescuing.”
“No, you don’t. Maybe you’re the one who does the saving.” His lips twitch.
His charm covers up the weird sense of foreboding his words give. They sit heavy on my chest, along with curiosity to ask what he means.
He brushes his knuckles across my cheek, the rough texture setting off every nerve ending. A spark the equivalent of a blown-out fuse box. “But you’re too young and naïve. And it’s not the right moment. Maybe if we meet again under different circumstances, at another time.”
Liam laughs to himself as his eyes roam down my body, not giving me time to respond, let alone process his words. “You’re no princess. You’re a motherfucking queen. Don’t let anyone forget it, not even yourself. People think the king matters, but the queen brings down all the other pieces. Good luck in uni and chug a beer in my honor.”
He reads books and uses chess references. Liam Zander is a closet nerd, and knowing this secret pulls a smile from me.
He tugs his hand away and stares at his knuckles. Confusion crosses his face before he covers it up and flashes me a smirk, the wicked paint covering up his perfect image. He winks at me over his shoulder as he walks away, leaving the party and me behind.
Damn. I think I just got mindfucked.
