A SECOND CHANCE MAY BE TOO HOT TO HANDLE
They say there are no second chances, and for Lily Onassis, ever since she walked away from Formula World driver Max Becker, she's considered this true. Instead of a glitzy, glamorous life on the auto racing...
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LILY
I haven't been this close to Max in years. Seven and a half, to be exact. Oh, sure, I've made polite small talk with him at parties, charity events, and races, but one of us has always slipped away from the conversations, reluctant to be in each other's presence. At least I'd always been hesitant. Max probably was repelled or bored.
Couldn't be bothered with an ex-lover.
Now, there's no way to avoid each other. Not in this moment and not for the next several races.
He's standing next to me, with only a flimsy plastic chair between us. I grip the back to steady myself, because Max's unyielding ice-blue eyes are laser-focused on my face. It's as if he's scrutinizing every feature and pore. Dammit, I hadn't put on makeup, and that somehow makes me feel naked and vulnerable. I'm still in my glasses, the black-rimmed ones that make me look like an owl.
I never could read Max, and not knowing what he's thinking is somehow even more unnerving now that we're older. Max's face is angular, but not severe — more model-like than harsh. His hair is a little longer now, still messy and wet, probably from his post-race shower.
"Oh. Hey, Max." My voice is soft.
We stand there, awkwardly, sizing each other up. Most people would extend a hug in this situation, but not Max. He knows better and shoves his hands into his jeans and blinks.
"Lily." The sound of my name on his lips sends an electric charge running through my body. It ignites every nerve ending and sets my skin on fire. It's a physical reaction that I can't control, and it used to happen every time he said my name when we were together.
Back then I loved it. Now? It's more than a bit uncomfortable. I've really got to get a handle on myself.
"Hey," I repeat, in a dumb, breathy voice.
His tanned face is tense, probably because he's worried about Dad, and a muscle in his jaw pulses, betraying the gravity of the situation. A black t-shirt clings to his shoulders, chest, and stomach, showing off his hard-earned physique. Unlike most Formula World drivers, he's on the taller side, a fact that the press loves to discuss.
Another member of the team, a Chilean guy whose name I can't recall but I've known for years, approaches. His arms are open wide, and I step back. Dammit, I need to tell Jack to informally let everyone on the team know that I don't want to be touched or hugged. Where is Jack, anyway? He seems to have evaporated into thin air.
Max, who knows my hatred of hugs, blocks the guy by physically moving closer to me and shooting him a steely glance.
"Ooh, sorry to interrupt. We'll catch up later, Lily," the man says. I give a weak wave as he wanders off.
I press my hand to my forehead. "Thanks for that," I mutter to Max.
"I saw the look in your eyes. Like a cornered cat."
