Throttled: Dirty Air (Book 1)(37)

Maya


Monaco. The ultimate racing Prix to attend. Bandini’s week is packed with events before the world-famous Monaco Grand Prix, known as one of the oldest races in F1 history, fueled by wealth and luxury. Celebrities from all over the world come to attend. Yachts litter the sea, glittering under the bright sun as I observe from our hotel room.

The Bandini team schedules a week packed with boat trips, interviews, galas—you name it, they have it. Which means I get to go, too. My supportive sister role has no bounds, and although I usually try to avoid these types of events, I don’t complain about this race week.

Because not even I can resist a party with one of the Kardashians.

Monte Carlo is the coolest place ever. Pictures don’t do it justice; they’re unable to capture the picturesque shoreline and old-world feel. I can’t believe Santi wants to buy an apartment here. We picked one out earlier in the week before he got busy, a modern two-bedroom overlooking the Mediterranean Sea.

I can tell the stress is getting to him. He seems edgier than usual, getting heated at smaller things, like when I left my makeup all over the bathroom counter. Monaco’s race is a big deal and he feels pressure from Bandini to perform well. It doesn’t help that this Prix happens to be one of Noah’s best, a place where his racing skills shine.

What exactly am I doing on a Tuesday in Monaco?

I’m on a boat.

Bragging isn’t something I usually do. But come on. This is Monaco… By boat, I mean one that is at least a hundred feet long, the white fiberglass gleaming under the hot summer day. But I don’t ask the owner about footage because that’s rude and not high class.

And I want to be posh and proper this week.

My body lies on a lounge chair on the front deck of the McFloating Mansion. I already toured the four different floors, drank a cocktail on the back deck, and did a vlog interview with my brother while breathing in the crisp ocean breeze. Talk about living my best life this week.

I grab a sunscreen bottle out of my bag because my skin is warming under the intense sun. Noah, a man with impeccable timing, decides to plant himself in a lounge chair next to me.

“Avoiding the sun?” He taps at the pink bottle in my hand. Dark sunglasses make it difficult to see and read the emotions swirling within his blue irises. To be honest, his whole look unsettles me. His preppy bathing suit looks shorter than regular swim trunks, accentuating muscular thighs and calves. Plus, he’s lost his shirt somewhere between the cocktail hour and now. My eyes flick across his tan, sculpted body before focusing on the deck.

“No tan is worth aging when I’m already naturally golden.” My heart quickens when he leans in closer.

His hand brushes against mine, causing an intense buzz of energy, one that never goes away no matter how many times his skin touches mine. He grabs the sunscreen bottle right out of my hand.

“Uh. I can handle that!” I sound breathy. Can he tell?

His cocky grin tells me that yes, he can. I grab my sunglasses from the top of my head and pull them down onto my face, creating a barrier because two can play this game. An immature move I have no problem with.

“Turn around. I’ll help you.”

Is it possible to die of a heart attack at twenty-three? What are the stats?

I pull out my cellphone, desperate to check.

“What on earth are you so interested in now? Every time I’m around you, you’re always doing something fidgety.”

I want to disappear in the lounge cushions or melt away into the sea. He’s onto me.

He plucks my phone straight out of my hands.

“Excuse me! Hand it back. Now.” I use my best mom voice, but it lacks the desired effect I want, making Noah chuckle instead. Going to suck at punishing my kids one day.

He ignores me, choosing to swat away my grabby hands.

“What are the chances of dying of a heart attack at twenty-three? Seriously, you’re googling this? I didn’t know I had such an effect on you. You flatter me.”

I shoot him my best scowl, but he just laughs. A full throw-your-head-back laugh, and if I weren’t peeved, I’d find it extremely attractive. Who am I kidding? I do. Annoyed or not, this man is fine. Handsome and absolutely fuckable.

I take advantage of his moment of weakness and snatch my phone back.

He rotates his finger in a motion to get things moving here, his previous task no longer put off. I reluctantly turn and lie down stomach first on the reclined lounge chair. Noah sits by my side, the cushion dipping under his weight as his thigh presses against my body.

He toys with my red bikini strap before squirting the sunscreen bottle. “You look good in red.”

Does his voice sound huskier? Is it just me? I can’t see his face since I’m looking out at the Mediterranean Sea.

My body jerks when the cold liquid hits my back. I lie to myself, chalking up my goosebumps to the cold sunscreen. Not because of Noah rubbing sunscreen all over my back. Nope.

I tell myself so many lies about Noah that I convince myself to go to the local confessional. A priest will have a field day with this type of stuff, offering sage advice before sending me off with at least five Hail Marys. I can’t blame myself. Noah has the sex appeal of about one hundred men combined, making this whole process hard.

My arms grow heavy as he continues to rub lotion into my back; I’m enjoying the feeling of being cared for while Noah’s hands caress me. His strokes leave a path of warmth behind them. I let out an embarrassing moan that I try to cover up with a cough.