Page 11 of Forbidden Bride (Forbidden 1)
The Bellanti car takes the lead and the loudest cheers I’ve heard yet fill the air. Whoever is inside that car has the attention of the crowd, that’s for sure. The next few laps go by with him pulling ahead and falling back, in and out of first and second place. Meanwhile, our yellow car starts to fall behind further as the other cars speed up in a desperate race for the finish line, and my cousin’s shouts get louder and louder. But I barely hear him. I barely feel the vibrations coming through the stands, barely feel the tremble of the railing in front of me as I grip it. I can only focus on one thing.
The Bellanti car.
The space around me narrows as I track the car, struggling hard to maintain first place. The final lap flag is waved. The engines roar louder, harder. The crowd simultaneously cheers and holds their breath.
The Bellanti car is in first again—it’s going to win! I jump to my feet without thinking, and that’s when I realize our yellow car has fallen to sixth or seventh place. Putting my hand to my forehead as if I’m shielding my eyes, I track the cars with my heart in my throat. Suddenly, the second-place car—a blue one—zooms past the Bellanti car and over the finish line, and my heart falls as the Bellanti car roars past in second place. Still, second place! Wow.
My head is buzzing as the rest of the cars cross the finish line and roll off to their respective corners. I’m a little breathless, my heart pumping with adrenaline. I may not know the second-place winning driver, but I figure at least one of his mechanics is happy with the outcome. Romeo.
Merc grabs my wrist as he stands. “Our car placed! Come on, I’ll take you down to the winner’s circle.”
We head down onto the track and weave our way through crowds of fans and media to the winner’s area. My stomach drops as we approach the yellow car and the driver turns in our direction. His expression is positively murderous—nothing to do with us, of course, but surely thanks to his unsatisfactory placement in the race. He doesn’t say anything as he reaches his hand out to shake with Mercutio and then my cousin pushes me forward so I can give the driver a side-hug. Merc and I huddle in on either side of the driver for a quick photo, and then a woman with a microphone and several cameramen push us out of the way. I’m happy to let them.
Realizing my cousin has disappeared, a giddiness washes over me. I’m sure the woman he’s chasing is around here somewhere, which means he’s snuck off to woo her, which means I’m temporarily on my own. The base of my throat tightens a little as I think about the car I wasn’t supposed to be rooting for. I spy it up ahead, parked slightly behind the winner. With this many members of the press here, I’m sure the drivers of each of those cars is swarmed. It’s unlikely that I’ll see this mysterious Bellanti mechanic…but I guess it’s probably best if I don’t.
No one seems to notice me as I sink into the crowd with a pang of disappointment that my fantasy is now over. I suppose I’ll just go to the adjoining restaurant and bar where Mercutio instructed me to meet up with him, find a seat in the corner, and read until he finishes wooing his flavor of the week and comes to get me. Which could be hours from now, if he even remembers about me at all. His job as my chaperone is kind of a joke.
I don’t get far when I feel a hand on my arm. Turning around, I expect to see my cousin.
Instead, I get Romeo—dressed in the racing suit of the Bellanti driver. He’s holding his driving helmet in one hand, and my lost purse in the other.
Tiny chills race over my scalp.
Romeo isn’t a mechanic, after all.
He’s a Bellanti.
