Page 8 of Forbidden Bride (Forbidden 1)
KARINA
The racetrack is oppressively hot,even though it’s autumn. Thank you, California weather.
Slumping in my box seat, book in my lap, I try to ignore the sun beating down on me. I’m only here because I have to be. Per usual, Mercutio has abandoned me. Ostensibly to get us some refreshments, though I’m positive he’s distracting himself with some pretty young thing.
Sleep completely skipped over me last night and I’m feeling the bone-deep tiredness of it. There was no way to shut off my mind and make it stop replaying my impetuous actions in the garden with the hottest man I’ve ever laid eyes on. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop reliving that scene. Nor can I control the butterflies I feel when I think of how much he wanted me, too.
It’s lame. I’m totally aware. But I’m twenty years old and don’t have enough experience to know all the ins and outs of sexual attraction. Men have certainly caught my eye, of course, but I’ve never had the power to do anything about it except wonder. And read. A lot. Living vicariously through heroines who battle daunting challenges to get their men, and all the hot loving that happens on the pages after they do. That’s basically it, though. It’s all in my head.
It’s not even just the physical attraction that drew me to Romeo, either—I’ve seen plenty of hot guys before. It was the way he looked at me. As if he saw only me in the crowd and he couldn’t rip his eyes away. He found me…magnetic in some way. And worthy of pursuing.
I touch my hair lightly and readjust my oversized sunglasses.
Growing up in the shadow of my mother’s legendary beauty was a challenge, not just because I didn’t win the genetics lottery like she did, but because it seemed like every other Napa Valley princess was effortlessly perfect, with their flawless skin, shining hair, and wardrobes full of extra-small designer clothes. I, on the other hand, wasn’t so blessed.
My cheekbones are a little too high, my mouth a little too wide…which I always hoped meant I might someday be compared to Julia Roberts, until the time I overheard my tenth-grade crush say I had chipmunk cheeks and a “clown mouth.” I never wore lipstick at school after that. My complexion was a nightmare for the longest time too, and no matter which stylist I’ve gone to or how many different things we try, my hair just won’t hold color or highlights more than a couple of weeks. It’s thick and long and heavy and about as mousy brown as you can get.
I’m being nice to myself. My hair is the color of mud. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
All this is to say, when you’ve been reminded nearly every day of your life that you don’t have the looks to catch a desirable husband on your own, well, it then falls to your male relatives to find you a suitable match. Which is how I ended up in this arranged marriage.
I might not be a model, but I’ve always figured I was at least average. But my uncle disagrees, and that’s all that matters. I guess that’s why the attraction I saw in Romeo’s eyes was so validating, even though I know that sounds shallow and naïve. Maybe it is, and maybe that’s okay, because I still felt alive in a way I haven’t before.
“She is tolerable but not handsome enough to tempt me.”
Ooh Darcy, you big fat jerk. I close the copy of Pride and Prejudice in my lap and run my fingers over the battered cover. How fitting I chose this book to bring with me today. That hurtful line is one I’ve lived all too well. Of course, Mr. Darcy was being a pompous jackass when he uttered those untruthful words about Elizabeth Bennet—it’s part of the push and pull of every Austen novel. The line isn’t a plot device in my life, though. It’s a reality. One that cost my uncle dearly and pulverized the last of my own pride to dust.
Taking a deep breath, I look out at the track, determined to keep my chin up today. I took my moment last night and I regret nothing. I can still taste Romeo’s lips on mine and feel the hard press of his body as he trapped me against him. His hot lips on my chest, my neck, tugging unnamable pleasure from my bare skin. It was truly a fantasy come to life and I refuse to dwell on the fact that I’m unlikely to experience anything close to that again. Because I’m not destined for true passion and love. My family has other plans for me.
Pulling a folded paper from between the pages of my book, I fan myself, desperate to cool the sweat beading at my temples. Then I smooth the paper flat and sigh over the memories it brings back. Yes, I’m a nerd—it’s the syllabus for the online class I took over the summer, an English course focusing on Jane Austen, her role in early feminism, and her place in the women’s suffrage movement. I aced the class and barely had to study for the tests, but I loved learning about Jane’s prominence as an outspoken, yet carefully self-possessed woman in a man’s world. She may have been restrained, but her voice had an indelible impact. It still does.
What an incredible mind. I understand all too well how it feels to have independent thoughts and opinions that you’re not allowed to use or to share. To have observations and words that could change circumstance if only they weren’t moderated. But she always got her point across, bucking the establishment as she pleased. Jane was headstrong and brave enough to test the societal or familial norms of her day…so maybe I should be, too.
There. My mind is made up. It’s not at all appropriate, but I’m going to see if Romeo is here today. And if he is, I’ll place myself directly in his view so I can watch for his reaction to me. Will there be attraction again? Or will the fire have faded like it does for so many men because I was only available and willing in the moment, but not desirable enough for more?
Well. There’s only one way to find out.
And since I had no choice in coming to this race, I’m going to make the best of it. Besides, Romeo wouldn’t have been at the fundraiser if he wasn’t important, right? All the up-and-coming drivers will be here today. Sponsor, or driver, it won’t matter. He’ll be here.
If I’m lucky, he’ll recognize me even from afar. My hair is up in the same braided bun with curls hanging down, and my blouse has the same straight, modest neckline as my dress bodice did. When I got ready today, some part of me was obviously planning this already. It’s a long shot, yes, but I can’t very well go around openly searching for him. So leaving breadcrumbs is about all I can do.
Mercutio still hasn’t returned with my lemonade, but there are several other pairs of eyes here today that will be watching me, so I’m careful about the way I slowly move from the box and make my way down through the stands, glancing around at everything with wide eyes, acting as if I’m truly interested in the cars and what’s going on around me.
The crowd is packed in tight, and the blend of voices and the roar of engines warming up is a little disorienting. I wonder if I’ll ever get fully used to the sound. It’s so different than hearing it on TV. The noise brings vibrations with it that hum through my body. I imagine the feeling will grow as the cars go top speed, and a little adrenaline rush crashes through me.
Being the first to blow past the checkered flag must be incredibly thrilling. How many times has Romeo crossed that line? He said he would die without his cars, so he’s got his hands deep in this speed obsession. What would it be like to be in his arms in the stands while the cars race by and force vibrations through us while his lips are on my neck…my lips…my…
Oh!
A dark head catches my attention down at ground level. I’m still five rows up, so I can’t be sure, but the uptick in my pulse is the only confirmation that I need. It’s him. The wavy, dark hair. The strong set to his shoulders. He moves with masculine grace as he strides toward a group of men. They greet each other and then weave through the crowd until I lose sight of them.
Dammit.
