Chapter 6

My heart shakes in my rib cage as my gaze traps on his large hand on top of mine. This handsome stranger looks even more beautiful up close, like he could be one of the Greek statues displayed at the Louvre.

Those long, lean fingers, an artist’s fingers—a painter, an architect, a musician, I don’t know. It’s a gut feeling, a truth I can’t shake. The map of veins on the back of his hand, which trails up his muscular forearms, sprinkled with a light dusting of dark hair.

The lips that look so soft, I wonder, for a split-second, how they would taste. What’s going on with me?

Then there’s dark hair, the brown so deep it’s practically black, the strong Roman nose and angular aristocratic jaw.

But it’s the intense eyes, the gray almost iridescent, that stall my breath, the eyes that drew my attention to him in the first place when he arrived in his car.

I don’t know what came over me when I caught sight of him moments ago, because I’d never done anything like this before. He looked older than me by at least a decade, and yet, I couldn’t find it in me to care. I just had to meet and talk to him.

Every atom in my body is awake as I watch his fingers lightly trail from my hand to slowly encircle my wrist, his thumb settling there, alighting a thousand sparks across my body.

I’m afraid he can feel how hard my pulse is beating against my skin.

“Don’t leave me.”

I gasp at the possessiveness in his voice .

Three quiet words. A rough, deep voice, which sounds so familiar and yet unfamiliar, like a voice from a dream a long time ago.

Dragging my eyes away from where his hand is still touching mine, I look at him, finding him staring at me, his turbulent eyes flashing with surprise before darkening into something undecipherable.

“W-What?”

He grips my hand harder; the dominance sending a wave of warmth inside me, chasing away the cold from a moment ago.

“Don’t go. Stay. You said the racers need a passenger in their car.”

“I didn’t say that. The announcer did.”

“Right. I didn’t come with anyone. So stay. Might as well be you.”

I squint, trying to read him, not sure if I should be offended by the phrasing of his words, like I’m his last choice or something. I guess that’s how Taylor felt that day when I called her up at the shelter.

“Well, if you put it that way.”

His lips twitch, and the almost smile softens his cold, handsome face into something more approachable.

“Where are my manners?” He turns toward me again. This time, a smidgen of warmth appears in his eyes. “Will you do me the honor of sitting next to me for this race so I can be eligible to participate?”

“Are you a good driver? Any traffic tickets or accidents?” More worries occur to me—year of yeses, my ass. “What about alcohol or drugs? Did you drink or consume anything illegal before now?”

He snorts. “Shouldn’t you have thought of that before you got into my car?”

“I wasn’t thinking! I got caught up in my year of yeses and Jamie said if I got into your car, she’d consider giving me her family’s collect—”

I stop myself. There’s no need to tell him the sob story of how I’m begging for design collection opportunities from acquaintances in my circles. Any chance to prove to my horrible boss I have talent, that I deserve my place at McKenzie’s.

It’s the only reason I’m at this event tonight, when I normally avoid hanging out at The Orchid or events hosted by them. I grew up amid the rich and the elite, whose social media posts consisted of “look at this new diamond necklace I got” or “we just bought our new vacation cottage ,” which turned out to be fifteen-thousand square feet. I don’t plan on hanging out with the stuffy elite…unless I have to.

“Collection? What do you collect?”

“Never mind.”

The sweeping, romantic aria playing in his car fades to silence. “ Turandot , huh? I didn’t peg you as an opera patron.”

His eyes sharpen with interest as he regards me. “You know your operas. Why do you think I’m not a patron of the arts?”

“Everyone else here is listening to rap or hip-hop or some top twenty song. And you…” I motion to the vicinity of his muscular torso, straining against the constraints of a thin white T-shirt, his black leather jacket giving him a bad boy edge, especially with the thick lock of hair falling over his forehead. All he’s missing is a pair of aviators and he’d be a dark-haired James Dean.

“My what?”

“You look like that .” I groan inwardly. If there is a God, you have my permission to kill me now. I feel my face getting hotter.

He smirks. “Look like what?”

“A gentleman would not push when a lady is clearly embarrassed.”

“Who said I was a gentleman?”

“Ugh!” I throw my hands in the air and cross my arms over my chest.

He chuckles, then stops himself and frowns, like he’s surprised to hear his laughter.

A few seconds of silence pass by before the opening strains of a song from La Bohème play from the high-quality surround sound speakers, which must’ve cost a fortune, since I feel like I’m sitting right in front of the orchestra and not inside a sports car in a random garage in Lower Manhattan.

“Scratch that. Maybe you aren’t an opera fan per se, but a Puccini fan?” I arch my brow at his widening eyes. He clearly didn’t expect me to recognize this piece as another Giacomo Puccini work .

“Impressive,” he murmurs and slowly slides on black driving gloves, the movement masculine and sensual and a heat gathers in my core.

“What’s your name? I’m…Anna.” I decide to fib a little since I know nothing about this stranger.

He swallows, his Adam’s apple moving up and down his corded neck. “S-Silas.”

His eyes dart to my face as if searching for something, but a second later, he turns away.

He stares out the windshield and I follow suit, noticing the crowd dispersing to the side and a girl with a black and white checkered flag walking to the front of the cars.

The race is about to begin.

The collective roaring of the engines breaks through the classical music and my heart shoots up my throat. Sweat beads on my back.

I guess I’m doing this. Sitting in a hot stranger’s car in an illegal street race. Year of yeses, Belle. Quickly, I buckle my seatbelt and tightly grip the handle on the car door.

“Puccini was my mom’s favorite composer. She was the person who showed me the beauty of classical opera and musicals,” he answers my question from moments before.

My brows furrow at his usage of past tense, but my attention is quickly drawn to the activity occurring in front of us.

The girl with the flag stands on top of a center divider. She raises her flag into the air. I blow out an exhale, my lungs desperate for more oxygen, and I feel my pulse speeding, careening off a cliff. I tremble in my seat.

His gloved hand reaches over and clasps my free hand, which is gripping the hem of my dress as if that’ll save me if anything happens to the car. My gaze darts to him, finding his eyes still intent on the scene before us.

Somehow, he senses I’m terrified .

“I’m a good driver. No alcohol. No drugs. No traffic accidents or violations.” He turns to me, his penetrative gaze settling the nausea churning in my gut. “You’re in good hands. Trust me.”

Trust me . The two words echo in the small space between us, and I don’t know why, but I trust him, this stranger who I swear I’ve never met before, and yet feels so intimate and familiar.

My rapid pulse settles and I nod.

His lips twist into a half smirk, baring one dimple, and a shrill whistle sounds in the air.

Tires screech on the cement as the car lurches forward.

The race is on.