“Just breathe,” he says, and I draw in a deep breath at his prompting, inhaling his clean scent along with the cool night air. “I’ll be right beside you.”
His words take the edge off, and I don’t drag my feet when he guides me toward the paddock’s security checkpoint. We both nod and smile to the staff there as we tap our passes against the checkpoint sensors. The fact that I even have a VIP pass on a lanyard draped around my neck makes me want to laugh, because who the hell would have thought I’d end up here?
I’m no stranger to red carpets or high-profile events, but this isn’t justsome event, despite the handful of celebrities I’ve already spotted. I’m here to support my husband—God, that’s still wild to say—at his job. My role today is doting wife, the kind who keeps her mouth shut and smiles and sticks to the sidelines…or whatever the motorsport equivalent of the sidelines is.
Thomas and I agreed that we’d walk in together so we could be seen by photographers and fans, but after that I’d slink away to the McMorris hospitality suite. Which is fine with me, because as we make our way into the chaos of the paddock, I’m realizing this is…a lot. It’s loud and crowded and there are so many things happening at once that I don’t even know where to look. But there are plenty of eyes on us.
“Everyone is watching you,” I murmur from the corner of my mouth, keeping a practiced but pleasant smile on my face.
Thomas gives a slight shrug, like all of this mayhem is perfectly normal. “You get used to it.”
I’m skeptical. “Really?”
“Well, you learn to ignore it,” he corrects, lifting a hand and grinning broadly at someone on the other side of the busy pathway. “And you learn how to deal. It’s part of the game.”
I thought I was playing the game already, but clearly not. This is a whole different level.
He greets everyone we pass, from fans with paddock passes to members of rival teams. He jokingly salutes a few people wearing hideous red-white-and-blue uniforms and good-naturedly slaps Dev Anderson’s shoulder. He even stops to take a picture with a gaggle of children who can’t be more than eight years old and should be in bed by now. For supposedly being hated, he’s faring pretty well around here as far as I can tell.
But that changes when a group of people in head-to-toe red uniforms walks by us, and all Thomas gets when he attempts to offer them a smile are cold silence and disgusted glances.
“Let me guess,” I murmur. “That’s the Scuderia D’Ambrosi crew?”
I already know it is, just like I’ve known a lot of the faces and team colors so far—I’ve done my research. But Thomas’s sigh and his slumping shoulders tell me more about the situation than any website or article ever could.
“They don’tallhate me,” he tries to reassure, though he’s clearly saying it more for his benefit than mine. “Reid Coleman, their other driver, knows I didn’t mean what I said. Although, he’s not talking to me at the moment either, so I can’t really say for certain that he hasn’t been convinced to hate me.”
I file that detail away. It might not ever be relevant, but it’s probably good to know the dynamics between him and the other drivers.
“Have you tried making nice with the guy you talked shit about?” I ask, clinging a little tighter to him as we pass by a group of people with their phones raised, recording every move we make.
Thomas shakes his head. “I apologized and explained myself after the video came out, and he laughed in my face. I haven’t been able to get in contact with him since the crash,though. I don’t think any of the drivers have. And no one from D’Ambrosi will even acknowledge me, as you just saw, so I can’t ask them anything. I just want to know how he’s doing.”
There’s a new forced quality to Thomas’s smile. He’s not happy with the situation, and I wouldn’t be surprised if guilt was eating away at him. He probably hates himself more than anyone else out there ever could, and the gut punch I get thinking about that makes me almost stumble.
“Is there anything I can do?”
A dip of surprise appears between his brows before clearing away. “No, I don’t think so. But I appreciate the offer.”
I nod, trying to brainstorm how I might be able to help, though I’m pulled out of my thoughts when he slowly draws me to a halt in front of a set of stairs leading to McMorris’s hospitality motorhome, the team name lit up in green neon lights.
“Unless you want a garage tour, this is where we part ways,” he says, and I slip my hand from his, my heart rate ticking up.
But instead of bidding me adieu and leaving me to fend for myself, Thomas turns toward me and cups my shoulders, waiting for my answer. I glance across the paddock toward the back end of the team garages, noting the team members flowing in and out. A tour means being introduced to everyone working in there, so that’s a bigno thank you.
“I’d rather go hide now, if that’s okay,” I reply, strangely comforted by the contact of his hands on me. He’s had them in places far less appropriate, and yet this has me melting a little bit.
Maybe he’s just doing it for the cameras. Or maybe he’s just a touchy-feely kind of guy who doesn’t think twice about this stuff. Whatever it is, I’m thankful for it.
“Perfectly acceptable. I’ll get my assistant to take you up tothe suite.” He glances around, frowning as he looks for someone. “She said she’d meet us here, but—oh shit.”
I jump when a woman practically materializes out of thin air beside us. The brunette can’t be taller than five feet, but she has the energy of a six-foot-six linebacker.
“You’re late,” she snaps at him, eyes narrowed. “You were supposed to be here half an hour ago.”
She’s speaking English, but it takes me an extra beat to comprehend the words in her thick Irish accent. Despite her tone, which I’d never allow anyone who worked formeto use, this must be his assistant.
I should apologize since I’m the reason he’s late. He would have been here sooner if he didn’t have to worry about sliding a ring onto my finger. But before I can speak, Thomas shifts so his arm is around my shoulders and I’m tucked into his side.
