Kara tugged at the brim of her hat, shielding her eyes from the bright, midday Barcelona sun. Before her sprawled the oddly shaped track, which looked more like a toddler’s attempt at an oval, with sharp jags and unexpected turns throughout. It was her first Formula One race, but more than that, it was her first race as the girlfriend of an illustrious racer. The luxury sprawled around her in spades. She had access to the private viewing suite, which hung high above the track, offering a coveted view of the track and the stands. Around her, various members of Gregor’s “in crowd” chatted quietly, all people she’d met briefly but struggled to remember by name. A few were investors in his company, others childhood acquaintances. All of them were British, as well. The lilting accents flooded her, made her feel giddy.

Gregor had given her the option to stand with the pit crew or watch from up here, but she hadn’t wanted to be in the way. She’d promised she would come down to congratulate him on his win when it was over—that, at least, seemed like the supportive girlfriend thing to say. Really she had no idea about these races, what they involved, what the hell Gregor was working on all those days at the garage. There was still so much to learn.

And what she had learned so far was enough to keep her curious and wanting more. These past five days with Gregor had been oddly blissful, like a vacation on steroids. Though she kept in touch with Lexie back home and occasionally got updates from Bridgette about the status of her Seattle tasks, it was so easy to lose herself in this strange reality that Gregor had crafted for her.

Kara, the American lover of the British capitalist prince…

Headlines like that one floated through her head at regular intervals since Gregor had pointed out their first appearance in a tabloid magazine. The actual headline of the article had been shockingly direct—Another American Girl for the British Playboy—leaving no doubt that Gregor had a well-known history of women. It stung to be considered just another one of his “girls,” until she reminded herself that she wasn’t truly his girl at all.

This is a farce. An act. Remember that.

But at almost a week in, it was hard to keep that at the forefront of her thoughts. She and Gregor had a chemistry that couldn’t be faked, like finding the ideal stage partner. So few of those crossed her path, and if this truly was the performance of her life, then she had lucked out in the casting department. Except sometimes, she wondered if Gregor was really faking it.

His comment to her the other night at the opera still burned in her mind. Now tell me what you want to drink so I can get you sauced and have my way with you. It was playful and funny but left her damp between her legs. And after a night full of heated touches and meaningful glances, she had to admit that she wanted him to have his way with her.

Gregor was certainly gorgeous. Her attraction to him had been there since the first day. But something else about him drew her in now that she was getting to know him—a magnetism, a charm that bordered on sorcery.

It was strange, not knowing if what she was feeling was real or simply the byproduct of a great performance. She was hesitant to ask Gregor. Maybe his answer would hurt. Maybe she was simply content for now, living in this reverie between real life and fantasy, where she and Gregor had a sincere, budding connection and the rest of it would figure itself out later.

The race started uneventfully, and she tried to pay as much attention as she could to Gregor’s bright red car. After the first few laps, the action grew monotonous, so she paced the long line of windows, humming a song from the opera, swishing the skirt of her pale linen dress around her. The performance had been vivid and at times chilling, and she’d caught Gregor watching her a few times instead of the opera. He’d remarked afterward how intensely she enjoyed the performance, making her wonder if he’d taken her comment about body language to heart.

His body language that night told her that he wanted her. Maybe that slinky black dress had something to do with it. But if that dress was the key to getting those lingering eyes on her again, she’d wear it on a daily for him.

She sighed, digging her phone out of her purse. No use fantasizing about her fake boyfriend. Adding the physical realm was definitely a no-no. They’d said it in the beginning—nothing more than holding hands, light kisses, and hugging would be needed. Besides, adding the physical dimension would definitely complicate things. And this act needed to stay as straightforward as possible.

Even though it already felt a little complicated.

Kara scrolled through her phone, checking emails and catching up on news back home. Only five days out of the States and it seemed she’d missed so much. More than three weeks lay ahead, which would be the longest she’d ever stayed out of the country. She might return a brand-new woman. At least a newly engaged woman.

Kara smirked, switching to the tabloid page she’d pulled up at Gregor’s request. There they were, the new couple, holding hands in the theater. Who had taken the blurry photo? It was so strange to be peeped on like that. Gregor had lived with it for most of his life, and now here she was, a Seattle nobody, thrust into the spotlight.

That dress looked killer though. She examined her ass again in the photo, nodding with approval. She saved the web address and sent it off to Lexie, who would probably see it when she woke up in a few hours. This would certainly be the first review of many, and maybe future articles wouldn’t be so kind. This one, at least, kept it strictly basic, the deepest detail being the designer of her gown. But who knew what other sources might uncover as time went on? Once they realized their beloved playboy was off the market.

Her mind swirled with thoughts like these, trying to foresee and predict all sources of trouble before it happened. She’d always been like this, a proactive thinker. What if someone dug up the fact that their relationship was a sham? Did Bridgette know? What about the driver? What had he overheard so far? What had Gregor told his friends about this setup?

Her cheeks burned as she mulled over the implications of other people knowing about this. Maybe it was better to just roll with it for now. Trust that Gregor was handling his people, as long as she handled hers. And for now, it was being handled. She’d told Lexie that Gregor had been a long-ago lover showing up unexpectedly at her class to surprise her. Lexie ate it up like chocolate-covered coffee beans.

Then suddenly it was the final ten laps. Kara pressed herself against the window, watching Gregor’s car closely. He’d been jockeying for number one for a while now. She gritted her teeth as Gregor tried to pass the leader and failed. Another lap went by, and then another. Gregor and the other driver pulled away from the pack, the distance between them closing. Gregor attempted another pass. Failed.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. She hadn’t expected this to be so tense. “Come on Gregor! You can do it!” She touched the glass, riveted on the scene below as they came down to the final five laps. The crowd below seemed to be a roiling, anxious mess. Fans leapt and screamed, which she could hear even over the roar of the cars. The nose of Gregor’s car barely missed rear-ending the car in front of him, and the crowd made a collective gasp. Kara squealed.

“Come on, Gregor!” She tapped her nails against the glass, as though this would help anything. Heart in her throat, she watched as Gregor prepared for another attempt to overtake around the third curve. This time, he sailed past the first-place driver, his rear-end fishtailing as he took the next jag at a higher speed than normal. She gasped when it looked like he might not slow enough to complete the turn, but he emerged safely and straightened out.

She almost couldn’t breathe for the last three laps, waiting to see if Gregor would hold his position. She didn’t need to be a Formula One fanatic to know that winning this race would be a huge deal for anyone, but especially for the designer of a performance engine system. The last two laps blurred by, and when Gregor finally crossed the finish line, Kara jumped up and down, screaming her throat raw.

She drew a shaky breath, watching with a hand over her heart as Gregor pulled into the pit. Shit. She had to get down there. Snatching up her purse, she hurried out on shaky legs, fumbling down the stairs, trying to remember the direct route to the pit. She only made one wrong turn, which landed her near the concession stands, and then corrected herself. As she approached the heavily barred gates, she showed her pit pass to the guard, who let her in with a nod.

People swarmed the pit area, a hullabaloo of conversation and laughter and engine noises. She squinted through the crowd, trying to figure out where Gregor might be, where she should materialize. This wasn’t her world; these weren’t her people. Everything felt foreign and strange, like wearing an oddly-shaped dress that was both too large and too scratchy. She crept forward tentatively, her breath lodged in her throat.

She stood on her tiptoes, trying to see over the sea of heads. In the distance, she spotted the bright red paint of Gregor’s car. There you are. She pushed past people with elbows and all, making her way to the winner’s podium. As she neared, she saw Gregor standing tall and lean in his white body suit, the logos of sponsors and his own company plastered across the chest and shoulders. He was grinning like a fool. Somebody handed him an oversized bottle of champagne.

Kara jumped up, waving to get his attention. Nobody seemed to notice her, much less know who she was. She pushed closer. A camera crew was setting up near Gregor and the second- and third-place winners on the lower steps to his left and right, no doubt for the post-win interview that he’d told her was par for the course.

As people in front of her shifted, she caught a glimpse of some girls entering the winner’s circle. Pretty brunettes in hot pants and bikinis, headed straight for Gregor. She stilled as they shimmied up to him, wrapping arms around him, whispering into his ear. Gregor tossed his head back and laughed. One even planted a kiss on his cheek, and he said something to someone nearby, apparently eating it up.

What the fuck is that? Kara clenched her jaw for a moment, debating her next step. Showing up on the heels of that display would be pretty embarrassing for her. Gregor certainly didn’t seem to mind the attention while his girlfriend stood only feet away. The girl with a long, dark ponytail grabbed at his chin, stroking the bottle suggestively with her free hand.

“Oh, God.” Kara elbowed her way closer, intensely curious to see what happened next. This was the side of his life she needed to learn more about. Maybe Formula One drivers had side chicks. Maybe she was already the laughing stock of the race world. Poor little Seattle Girl thinks she has a faithful racing boyfriend. The imagined headlines wouldn’t leave her be.

The girls finally drifted away, or maybe they just got bored not being able to give him a hand job in public. Kara broke through to the front row, breathing heavily. Would every race be this way? Gregor’s gaze landed on her, and his face lit up. He waved her forward.

She hesitated, suddenly unsure about being in the spotlight. This win was a big deal. Why did he even want her there? And who the fuck were those girls? He gestured again, more forcefully this time, the noise and clatter of the people around her growing to a deafening buzz. She moved toward him jerkily, painfully aware of every set of eyes on them, of every camera lens aimed their way.

“Kara. Come.” Gregor’s voice cut through the noise, and he sounded annoyed, like calling for a stubborn dog. She gritted her teeth, sliding into his embrace. His arm settled around her shoulders but he didn’t talk to her, simply beamed out at the crowd of people surrounding them. In his other hand he held a strangely shaped object, something that looked like fireworks bursting out of a garbage can. It’s his trophy! She stared at it for a moment, trying to discern what it represented.

This is fucking surreal. She couldn’t make heads or tails of what was going on around her. This was so different than facing a theater full of thousands of people. There, at least, the energy was calm and directed. Here, it was a few shouts short of a mob.

“You did a great job,” she said, looking up at him and patting his chest. But her voice withered in the noise around them. Gregor glanced down at her, the heat of his embrace making her sweat where their bodies touched. She could only imagine what it might feel like inside that suit of his after two hours of racing.

His squeeze around her shoulders intensified while he shouted back and forth with someone nearby then erupted into laughter. He turned to her, face shining and flushed, and then leaned down for a kiss.

Kara’s whole body froze, time slowing to a stop as she registered his nearness on a visceral level before becoming fully conscious of what was happening. She tried to respond, to force herself to lean into it and relax, but the thought of all the thousands of eyes on them, the potential headlines swirling in her head, made her feel like a robot.

Their lips met awkwardly, like a little kid jamming together doll faces in an attempt to make them kiss. Kara’s mouth jerked open, horror slithering through her as the failure of a kiss dragged on. Gregor pulled away suddenly, leaving her gape mouthed in the air.

Somebody tugged her away, and Gregor was led to the side, where the cameras were ready. Kara tried to keep the embarrassment off her face, treating this like a flub in a production—the show must go on—but with so many curious eyes around her, the attention felt suffocating.

She’d failed. Big time.

Everyone and their brother would know this was a sham after that kiss. And in today’s world, that single moment might define her for the rest of her life.

The embarrassment grew with each second, prompting the pulse in her chest to turn into a throb: It’s time to leave. You can’t do this. You made the wrong choice.