Chapter 1 Hiding under his bed

Viola

Just imagine that: you got a little drunk from champagne at a fancy party. Then you accidentally stumbled back to what you thought was your hotel room. Next, you accidentally pushed open the unlocked door, and ended up hiding under your old childhood crush's bed like a creepy stalker. Yep, the same guy who shot you down hard years ago.

What were the odds of all this happening at once?

For almost everyone? The probability is roughly zero.

For me? One hundred percent.

Which is exactly why I was currently wedged under the bed in a penthouse suite. And I couldn't even blame anyone but myself.

I should have turned around and left the second I saw Bryce Mulholland's suitcase by the door. Maybe I was just too stunned. That bag was a birthday gift from me, and he was still using it, after all these years. He said this suitcase with a little teddy bear pattern was too childish and he would never use such a silly thing, though.

Then I heard footsteps in the hallway.

My champagne-soaked brain made the worst possible call and ordered me to hide under the bed.

God, I was so stupid.

Every time Bryce Mulholland showed up, I turned into an idiot. And I was pretty sure, totally sure, that I didn't even like him anymore.

Ugh, how did I ever fall for such an arrogant jerk?

The door opened from the outside. I held my breath as heavy footsteps padded into the room. He let out a long, exhausted sigh. That sigh made my heart skip a beat.

I was way too nervous. I heard him take off his shoes. From my extremely limited view under the bed, all I could see was his lower half. He walked toward the bed and stopped right beside it. Bare feet.

Then he unbuttoned his zipper. A second later, a pair of faded blue jeans dropped to the floor, pooling around his bare ankles.

I didn't want to look. I really, truly told myself to close my eyes. But I couldn't help it. My gaze crawled up from his bare arches to his ankles, and then to his calves.

Holy Mother of God.

His calves were smoking hot. They were strong, powerful, and utterly breathtaking. Of course they were. These were the legs of a five-time Formula One World Champion.

Stop it, I scolded myself. You are literally a hostage under his bed. This is not the time to admire his body.

But he was way too attractive. He was a fatal seduction to every woman.

He took off his shirt, and as the shirt hit the ground, something small and shiny slipped out of the pocket.

A condom.

SIZE EXTRA LARGE.

I felt all the blood rushed instantly to my cheeks, burning so hot. I was surprised the carpet beneath my face didn't catch fire.

Of course he carried those around in his pocket. Of course he did. He was the most charming and ridiculously wealthy athlete on the planet. According to the media, he had admirers in every single city the Grand Prix visited, from Monaco to Singapore, from Shanghai to Vegas. Women threw themselves at him, and there were rumors that he only dated supermodels that women with legs up to their armpits.

He got used to being adored by everyone from his childhood. Just like I got used to being invisible.

His family was loaded, and he'd been the center of attention since he was a kid. He was effortlessly arrogant. Wherever he went, women swarmed him. His whole existence was basically a personal attack on ordinary people like me.

The biggest challenge he had ever had in his life was probably getting confessed by a plain and chubby girl.

And yeah. That stupid girl was me.

Suddenly, I saw his hand reach down into my vision. I watched his fingertips move toward the condom.

My heart completely stopped. My blood froze in my veins.

Please don't crouch down. I prayed to any god that would listen to me.

Please, please, please do not bend your knees. If you bent your knees, you would look under this bed, and you would see me, and I would literally have to fake a heart attack and die to escape the humiliation.

For a second, his fingertips hovered over the carpet. Then, seemingly changing his mind, he straightened back up, leaving the condom alone.

I let out a relieved breath.

However, things didn't exactly get better.

Oh my god, he was still undressing. Then his underwear came down. He was completely naked.

In that moment, I was basically a cavewoman running on pure instinct. I couldn't control my brain. It kept wondering: if those calves looked like that, what did his abs and chest look like? All sculpted and perfect.

On top of that, he had that flawless face. Dark brown hair. Gray-blue eyes. As long as he kept his mouth shut and didn't say anything mean, he was the most perfect man on earth.

As he turned back toward me, my eyes betrayed me once again.

I caught a fleeting and heart-stopping glimpse of his body.

He started walking toward the bathroom, and the farther away he got, the more of him I could see.

His upper thighs, the tense, powerful muscles of his legs leading up to...

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Okay, I thought. The second he got in the shower and turned the water on, I could crawl out and rush to the door. I would just be a ghost. He'd never know I was here.

But right before he crossed the threshold of the bathroom, he stopped.

I heard a phone beep. He had picked up the phone.

"Hey," his deep and beautiful voice echoed in the room. Even after all these years, that voice sent a shiver straight down my spine. It was smooth, arrogant, and entirely too magnetic.

"Anne," he said.

I twisted my face. Anne. Of course. Probably some gorgeous and statuesque blonde waiting in the hotel bar.

"Are you coming over later?" he asked into the phone, in that casual and lazy tone. "Alright. I'm going to take a shower first. Just come for me later."

He hung up the phone.

All those fantasies about his body vanished in an instant. My pounding heart felt like it had just been slashed open by his words.

It hurt.

He was expecting company. He was literally about to hook up with someone in this room. I stared at the extra-large condom on the floor. It was a ticking time bomb, reminding me to get out now, or I'd be a pathetic little peeping Tom, forced to spy on a five-time F1 World Champion's wild night life.

But underneath the heartache, there was something else. Something I didn't want to admit.

Jealousy.

No, no, no. Viola Hayes, you shouldn't care who he slept with. You just needed to leave.

I crawled out from under the bed, ready to make my escape while he showered.

But the second I stood up and looked toward the bathroom, I froze.

The bathroom door was wide open.

He hadn't shut it, just like he hadn't shut the door of the room. Who the hell takes a shower in a hotel room and leaves the door wide open?

Men. Arrogant, overconfident, careless men, that's who.

I scrambled right back under the bed, tail between my legs. I was completely trapped. Stuck under the bed of the man who had crushed my teenage heart, listening to the water run over his undeniably perfect, naked body, while waiting for his supermodel hookup to arrive.

God, you definitely had a sick sense of humor.