Redeemed (Dirty Air #4)(63)

“Why?”

“Because you make me want to live in the present rather than kill myself by focusing on the past.”

My chest tightens to a point of discomfort. There’s nothing in the world that can prepare me for having real feelings toward Santiago Alatorre. Feelings are dangerous, and I want to push them away. Very few people in my life have elicited any positive ones. And developing any kind with him gives him an opportunity to break me in ways I’ve never allowed anyone to do before.

I don’t have time to evaluate how I feel toward him. It’s messy and convoluted because of our fine line between fake and real. And it doesn’t help when he says things that muddle my brain.

I didn’t come to Italy to fall in love. And I most definitely didn’t come to Italy to have my heart broken. But with all the time I’m spending around Santiago, I’m not sure if the two are mutually exclusive anymore.





The first camera bulb blinds me. I blink away the black spots in my vision, only to be set off by another flashing light. “How does anyone walk the red carpet if they can’t see?” I clutch onto Santiago’s arm, my fingers digging into the material of his tux.

Somehow my game-day prep speech worked on him while my confidence disappears by the minute. He struts the carpet like he was meant for this life while I struggle to keep up, my attention diverted by reporters yelling out questions.

“I’d say you could get used to it, but I hope we don’t have to attend another one of these for a very long time.”

My feet grind to a halt at his words. “We?”

His eyes land on everything besides my face. “We. Me. Slip of the tongue.”

Right. I scrunch my nose.

A reporter calls out Santiago’s name. He grumbles something under his breath as he leads us toward the red velvet rope. “Let’s get this one over with and then we can drink until the world blurs.”

I laugh as I follow him.

“Santiago Alatorre! What a pleasure it is to have you here at Monza with us!” The reporter beams at my date.

“I’m happy to be here.” Santiago offers a half-assed smile.

I elbow him in the ribs and whisper, “Try a little harder.”

“And who is your date for tonight?” The reporter moves the microphone from Santiago’s face to mine.

“Oh.” I suck in a breath. “I’m Chloe.”

The reporter looks at me expectantly. “Chloe who?”

“Carter.”

“From?” he prompts, his right eye twitching as if he wants to hold back an eye roll.

“America?”

The reporter laughs while Santiago looks like he sucked on a lemon. Am I making myself look like an idiot on live television? If I had a mom who cared, I’d apologize to her later.

The man shifts his attention back toward my grumpy date. “Santiago, will we see you out on the track this Sunday cheering Noah on?”

“Of course. It’s Bandini’s home race and Noah’s last Italian Grand Prix. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Santiago’s smile looks more like a wince.

I pat his hand, and he wraps his muscular arm around me, tugging me into his side. My heart speeds up at his touch, and all the nerves in my body go haywire.

“And how long have you two been dating?”

“A month.”

“A year.” We both speak at the same time.

The reporter’s head snaps back and forth between us.

“A year and a month.” Santiago squashes the man’s confusion.

I turn my laugh into a cough. Somehow my fake relationship has been more successful than my last two relationships combined.

The reporter asks if I need water, but I wave him off. “Sorry. I have chronic allergies.”

“A pity indeed, always flaring up at the most inconvenient times.” Santiago cracks a smile in my direction.

The reporter carries on, expressing his enthusiasm at scoring an interview with the enigma beside me.

I learn a few things as we continue down the carpet, answering questions from fellow reporters. People genuinely care about what Santiago has been up to. Their gaze remains sincere as they ask him appropriate questions. But most of all, Santiago brightens as he gains more courage with them.

I don’t want to assume, but I think deep down that he misses this. The attention, the race car talk, the whole don’t mind me, I’m really fucking famous situation.

The curious part of me wonders what it would take to help Santiago realize he has what it takes to come back.

It seems like after this trip, I need to add something new yet essential to my European expedition. I refuse to leave Italy without helping Santiago return to his former glory. Whether it’s racing or living a life out of the shadows, I want to help him. And nothing can stop me from accomplishing what I put my mind to. Not even a grumpy, six-foot-something male who seeks to be invisible when he’s meant to shine.





28





Santiago





I survived the red carpet of torture. My head throbs and my palms remain permanently sweaty as Chloe and I make our way through the crowds of people inside the ballroom.

Rather than focus on their obvious stares, I remain laser-focused on Chloe. It’s not a hard task in the slightest. I’m enchanted by her. Absolutely, utterly captivated by the brunette beauty who emanates warmth and confidence despite her fear of attention. I’d pay for a hundred more gowns if it meant I could see her dressed like this again. The material flows across her curves like water, changing colors depending on the light.