29. Juliana

TWENTY-NINE

JULIANA

For billionaires and their families, The Kentucky Derby is like a short jaunt to a local lake.

A little getaway that's not too far of a drive, but instead of packing up a minivan or Tahoe and hitting the road, assistants and flight crews warm up their private jets. Then poof, in a short couple of hours, they're touching down at Bowman Field and strolling into Churchill Downs within minutes.

At least, that's been my experience so far.

A day of unprecedented firsts for me, and I feel they're just beginning.

My first time flying private, which is... very weird, to put it simply. Glamorous. But weird. Not only did we skip TSA, bag check, and the long lines you'd experience at a normal airport, our chauffeur drove onto the track and right up to the plane. A Gulfstream G700, Hayden called it, nicknamed his Passion Pegasus. Putting that eye-roll-worthy name aside, it's his jet. As in, his alone, like the Kingston family wouldn't be caught dead sharing a single plane.

Then there were the amenities. Most notably, the crew of flight attendants who served us—the only two passengers on board—full-blown, hot breakfast. I'm talkin' sausage, hash browns, pancakes, orange juice in champagne flutes, eggs, the whole shebang. Guess billionaires are too good for that crackers and trail mix crap they serve while flying commercial.

And then... Hmmmmm...

I swear, there was something else—

Oh, yeah. How could I forget?

About this boulder on my head.

I groan, scratching my scalp beneath my humongous hat. Pink, feathery, with an excessively broad brim, it looks like a flamingo landed on my head.

"Quit fidgeting." Hayden tugs on my arm, leading us through a crowded hallway inside the historic racing complex. "It's not gonna fall off."

I know that, I don't say. How could it? What, with the twenty bobby pins digging into my scalp, securing the frilly monstrosity into place.

Instead, I just nod.

This morning, I devised a plan to survive today—speak to my fake boyfriend, only when necessary. I'm still cross with him, obviously, for reasons that shouldn't even matter. Nonetheless, here I am, on the arm of perhaps the most eligible bachelor in Churchill Downs, pursing my lips in stubborn silence.

"Still not talking, huh?"

Hayden weaves us around a flock of boldly dressed women, who each crane their necks at him, their eyes sparkling with appreciation beneath those giant hats, before flickering down to me. And burn with jealousy.

Not that I blame them, of course. I'm sure they can smell his trust fund oozing from the seams of his all-white suit. And even I know, in the throes of my resentment, that Hayden's disgustingly attractive, more so than usual. Like, painful to look at, when the sun hits him just right, which makes this whole silence thing that much harder.

"Okaaayyy." He opens a door to another hallway, holding it for me. "After you," he hums, close enough to my ear that butterflies flutter deep in my belly.

Dammit, does he have to be such a gentleman? I make the mistake of meeting his gaze, only to be struck with another barrage of feelings I can't ignore, before passing through the doorway. "Thank y—"

I suck in a breath, but it's too late.

His laugh bellows behind me, the deep baritone warming my cheeks. "So, flattery is your soft spot, huh?" He offers me his arm, which I'm obliged to take. When I do, he tugs me closer than necessary and whispers in my ear. "Shall I attend to your every need, then, Jules?"

I grit my teeth as a shudder ripples through me.

"Ensure you don't have to worry about a thing? Handle any inconveniences or change of plans. Pull back your chair. Fetch you drinks. Flaunt you around on my arm—oh, would you look at that? Guess that's just natural."

He swings a left, entering a corridor with an old-fashioned ambiance, and I swear the crowd naturally parts for us— for him. As we move through them, their eyes seem to drift onto us, like flowers pointing to light, while he murmurs, "And shower you in compliments...?"

Oh, no. Stay strong, Juliana, stay strong.

"Like how breathtaking you are in this dress?"

My lips roll between my teeth as I feel the weight of his stare. He rubs his chin with his free hand, as if he's mentally digging into some gentleman's arsenal, a playbook of sorts.

"That you're the epitome of grace and style?"

I whip my gaze onto him, my eyes narrowing. Is he...?

"Your elegance— truly captivating."

Oh, he's definitely—

"And such a splendid conversationalist."

My jaw drops, and before I can think better of it, my hand goes flying, aiming for his—

He snatches my wrist from midair, inches from his suit-clad chest. With a smirk, he tugs me close— too close. His minty breath basks my senses, forcing me to crane my head up to look at him.

He feigns a gasp. "My goodness, were you about to hit me, Miss Brooks?" His eyes bulge. "Why, that's not very ladylike of you at all. You'd think I brought a wild animal as my—"

A laugh bursts from my mouth, but I quickly stifle it, pressing my lips together tightly as if my life depends on their silence.

His lips twitch—

The rest comes spilling out, light and airy, like fizz bubbling over a glass rim. And his eyes. They're crystal-blue water, like waves lapping up a shore in delight, and God does my heart ache as they soften, as his hold on me loosens.

Fine. When I can't flee from the room, maybe I'm no match for his charm. There's no shame in that—what girl is?

"Come on," he whispers, tugging me along.

"Wait, isn't seating that way?" I point as we pass beneath an overhanging sign.

At the sound of my voice, he smiles wide, flashing me a row of his porcelain teeth. "Yes, but there's something we need to do first."

I shake my head. "I should've known."

He sparkles with mischief. "Yes, you really should have." Flicking his chin, he gestures to the flatscreen mounted high above the Wagering Counter, displaying the names and trainers of all twenty horses in the race.

Gambling. He took me here to gamble.

"Pick one."

"What? I don't know the first thing about horse racing."

"Come onnnnn." He nudges me. "I know who I'm picking."

"Oh, yeah? And who's that."

"Hayzeus, of course. He's got the best odds. Some even think he'll win the Triple Crown."

"Boringgggg, what about an underdog—or, I mean... under- horse?" Our eyes connect as his entire body deflates like I pricked him with a sewing needle. "Sorry, sorry. Untimely dad joke. Uhh..." I search through the horse names, neglecting the odds written right beside them.

"Stirrup Trouble, Horsen' Around..." I mutter to myself, my eyebrows lifting higher and higher with every name. "Mane Attraction, Luminous, Baby Got Back, Practical Choice—" I snicker, locking gazes once more, before I whip back to the television. "Uhhhhh... Canterbelle. Yep, Canterbelle is going to be our winner."

Hayden sighs. Finally, his eyes tell mine.

He makes for a waging booth, eyeing the—

I bump into his backside as he comes to a sudden stop.

"Wait a minute." He squints up at the television. "Canterbelle? He's got terrible odds."

I round to Hayden's front, so he can see my hand shooting to my hip. "So? I said I wanted an underdog."

"Yeah, but... Juliana, you picked the underdog of the underdogs. His odds are seventy-to-one. Don't you know what—"

"Of course, I know what that means." I resist an eye roll. "If Canterbelle comes in first place, I'll win my bet times seventy."

"Okay, then you do realize how astronomically unlikely it is for him to win. Experts base these odds off previous races and the horses' bloodlines, you know. They're accurate for a reason. If you wanted an underdog, you could've at least gone with Mane Attraction at thirty-to-one odds. You know, something a bit more plausible than an alien spacecraft landing on the track partway through the race."

I suppress a laugh, not because of his theatrics, but expecting the reaction my next words will surely provoke. "You think I looked at the odds?"

He deflates, yet again, but worse than he did from my dad joke. Like a whoopee cushion, void of air and humor. "What did you say...?"

I blink. Yeah? I said what I said.

"Well, what in the world did you base your bet on, then?"

"Their names." Duh.

His face falls, so, so very far, and it takes all my strength not to combust into a fit of laughter. You'd think I took his favorite toy away.

"Well, let's go place our bets!" I breeze past him cheerily, smiling even brighter when his groan sounds behind me. Approaching the only open waging booth, I unhook my purse's latch and—

"Don't even think about it." Hayden beats me to the counter.

I arch an eyebrow. "Huh?"

He gestures to my bag. "Money. You don't need any when you're with me. In fact, I'd prefer it if you left all your cards at home."

I stagger backward, just a step, my jaw hanging low on its hinges. I try to respond, except I just... can't. All that escapes me are inaudible noises. Sure, he's lent me his Black Amex once before, but that was because I needed new clothes for our arrangement. No other reason, right...? Then why is he acting the same way now? I can easily pay for my bet, which has nothing to do with our arrangement, anyway.

"Okay..." I breathe, as the feminist inside of me rattles in its newfound cage. Little does it know, I can hardly hear anything. I'm too busy mulling over a single word.

Home.

And the fact that, when it left his lips, my initial thoughts weren't of my apartment.

But his.

A possessive fire blazes behind his eyes as I feel him reading mine. "Good." He grins, swiveling on his heels to face the teller, sinking a hand into his pocket. "We'll do five thousand on Hayzeus and Canterbelle."

WHAT?!?!

I rush up beside him and hiss, "What are you doing?! I wouldn't have bet on Can—"

"Here, baby." He offers me his wallet. "Be a doll and count out my cash for yourself, will you?"

Cash?!

I freeze momentarily, meaning to argue some more, if it weren't for the teller's gaze. I snatch his wallet. Who has ten-thousand dollars cash just lying around in their wallet? Is he some drug dealer? He must've meant hundred, not thousand. There's not even enough room for—

My heart drops when I flip it open, revealing a considerable stack. Hesitantly, I comb through it, finding each bill to be a thousand dollars. There must be at least thirty, all showing considerable signs of use. They don't even print these anymore, and there's only a set amount in circulation. How did he get his hands on so many?

Gaping, I sense Hayden's presence near, his hand settling at the small of my back.

"Be sure to count out loud."

My toes curl at his voice's rough timbre, only for my teeth to bite into my lower lip at the sound of his satisfied hum as I pull the entire stack from the clip. Pinching the first bill, I try not to dwell on how many hours at the coffee shop it represents, before snagging it from the stack.

"One thousand." I pull another. "Two thousand, three thousand..."

His touch sweeps up my spine and back down, trailing goosebumps.

"Four thousand," I force out. "Five thousand, six thousand, seven thousand..."

"That's it."

I swallow roughly, my mouth drying beneath his unwavering gaze, as satisfaction fills up the air around him, stealing the oxygen from my lungs. "Eight thousand..."

"Louder," he murmurs.

"Nine thousand..."

Heat floods between my thighs when he hums, again, and right as ten leaves my lips, his brush against my ear. "Such a good girl, bleeding my wallet dry. Do you want more, baby?"

Shock pummels through me with a sharp inhale. I meet his eyes, mine flicking between them, searching. He's serious. I could take the rest of what's in here, and he wouldn't think twice. In fact, he wants me to. Something so far from necessary, in the eyes of our contract, that it has my head spinning.

I snap his wallet shut, and quickly pass over the money, gaining the teller's attention, who made herself quite busy with whatever's oh-so urgent on her computer. Embarrassment marks my cheeks, but only a mild blush. I'm too preoccupied, focusing on the hand still pressed against the small of my back.

With a polite smile, the teller slides over two vouchers, then zips along to another booth. I hold my breath, aware of Hayden's intoxicating nearness as I grab the vouchers and...

Don't move a muscle?

On any other day, I'd take this as a perfect moment to dash off, to shake the emotions that're wound deep inside me while devising excuses for their existence. But... not today. I turn to Hayden, staying close in his presence, as if he's a warm fire on a windy night, and hand him his voucher.

I crane my head—and there's that softness again.

I'm taken aback at the smile he beams down at me. He doesn't speak a word. No snide remark. No sultry innuendo. No humor. Just... a smile filled with something I grasp instantly. Maybe because it's reflected in his eyes, too.

Longing.

And for perhaps not the first time, but the first time it's been strong enough not to deny or diminish or cover up with the wrongs of our past...

I feel it, too.

The attraction.

"We don't want to miss the race." He offers me his arm, and taking it is like second nature.

Hayden guides us down a hallway that's noticeably emptier than it was ten minutes ago, pressing a phone to his ear. "Yes, Dad, we're on our way up now."

Nerves bundle in my gut as we turn a blind corner, every step like a countdown toward not just a figure from my past, but one who holds my future in his hands.

Warren Kingston.

"Save us two seats... No, not for—no, Dad, I told you, I brought my girlfriend."

I stifle a smirk. Girlfriend. That's new to his vocabulary—but also novel to my ears, which could be to blame for why my smile is growing.

"Yes, Dad," Hayden sighs, riddled with annoyance. "You heard me, right. I said girlfri—"

Warren's voice elevates, breaking through the line, just enough for me to hear. "Enough lies, boy. Don't bring one of your whores around the family..."

Shit. They may be working together, but it seems their father-son relationship is still in the dumps.

Hayden tenses against me. "I said she's my—"

He stops us abruptly in front of a corridor as he drags the phone from his ear. "He hung up on me," Hayden says, his forced chuckle hinting at his lack of concern. Maybe he assumes I didn't hear Warren's remark. Honestly, I wish I hadn't, but it's not like that would make what's coming any easier.

"Ummm..." I tug on his sleeve, pointing back to where we came. "I think we passed it again."

"That's cute, Jules. You think we're general admission?"

"I thought that's all there was. Where are we going, then?"

He gestures to the sign above. "Take a guess."

Eyebrow cocked, I search through the names and arrows, until I pause at the top.

Billionaires' Row.