Page 25 of Austin

“Not a chance. You haven’t been yourself all week. I know it has everything to do with your new boss.” She walks over to my bed and plops down onto the comforter.

“Bryce Sexton is my boss. Austin is—”

“Your other hot boss,” she says as she pulls out her phone. “What did you learn about him?”

After my first day at Sexton Media, Eva went into super-snooper mode and looked up pictures of the Sexton brothers. She was practically drooling at the sight of Bryce. I mean, I totally get it. With his black hair and dark eyes, tan skin and full mouth, he has this sexy businessman demeanor, who takes shit from no one. He’s gorgeous by most women’s standards, but he’s no Austin.

I slam my palm into my forehead. Stop it, Jalynn!

“Dude, I get it. The little brother’s hot.” She leans over and grabs a pack of Twizzlers off my nightstand. She takes a bite and waves the floppy candy in the air as she speaks, “I just don’t understand why he gave you such a hard time your first day. What’s his story? Tell me what you learned by snooping on him.”

I didn’t tell Eva that Austin was Falcon or that he kissed me. I know she wouldn’t tell a soul. That’s not her style. It just doesn’t seem right to share his secret.

I pull my feet up onto my desk chair and hug my knees. “He graduated from Stanford and then joined the military right out of college.”

“He was in the military? How old is he?”

“Twenty-six.”

Eva does the math in her head. “And he’s already out? Aren’t they normally four-year terms? So, if he graduated college at twenty-two, he’d just be getting out now, and he’s already been working at Sexton Media for a while. Something doesn’t add up.”

“Maybe he got kicked out,” I guess.

Eva takes another bite and talks as she chews, “Normally, that would ruin someone’s life, but I guess not a Sexton boy. He just went back to working for good ole daddy, making millions.”

I have so many questions, and the internet has only so many answers. I can’t imagine Austin in the military. How did this race car–driving, fine Italian-suit-wearing son of a millionaire, who owns part of a media empire, find himself in the military? What branch was he in? Where was he stationed? Why did he get out early?

“Good thing you don’t work for him. Sounds like he could be drama.” Eva rises from my bed and heads toward the door. Her lavender robe sways as she walks. “I’m hitting the hay. Sleep tight.”

“Have a good night,” I call out to her as she closes my bedroom door behind her.

I grab my brush off the nightstand and start combing out my hair when my cell phone lights up with a text. I don’t know the number, but the message makes my heart race a million miles an hour.

We race tonight. You have twenty minutes, or I’m taking off without you.

“Holy shit,” I say out loud. I look at the time and see it’s eleven o’clock at night. I’m sitting here in fuzzy pajamas with a wet head.

I pick up my phone and type back.

Is Beckett racing?

Three little dots appear and then disappear. They appear again and stall. Either he’s typing back a dissertation or he doesn’t know what to write.

Finally, a message comes in.

Be there in ten. If you’re not ready, I’m taking off, and he’s not racing anymore.

“Ugh!” I shout as I jump up and race to my closet.

I grab a pair of skinny jeans, and I pull them up my legs so fast, I almost tear one of the belt loops off. In my dresser, I pull out a chunky cable knit sweater and toss it over my head. I’m hopping around my room as I put on my socks and then slide on a pair of riding boots because I won’t have to waste time with lacing them up.

In the bathroom, I slather on some BB cream and apply mascara. My hair is still sopping wet, so I quickly run the blow-dryer through it. It’s not polished or pretty, but it’s dry, so I won’t freeze in the San Francisco chill.

I stuff my license and cash in my back pocket and grab my phone and keys as I head out the door.

As I’m rushing down the staircase of our three floor walk-up, I text Eva, telling her I’m heading out with Beckett. She sends back a KK, so I put my phone in my pocket and head out the front door of our building. The black Camaro isn’t here, and a pang of disappointment washes over me at the thought of being too late.

Waiting, I look up the block and see a car sitting in front of a hydrant. It’s idling with the headlights off. As it pulls out of the spot, I try to hide my relief as the engine purrs loudly, and the lights turn on.