My shriek surprises me. I move to muffle it, and feel him lace his fingers with mine, drawing my wrist to his lips.
Hearing my own voice like this is hot in a way I hadn’t expected; I’ve created the soundtrack to my own erotic movie. I go all in with a shouted “Yessss!” as he finds his own release with a gritty cry, driving into me high and hard before dropping his head against my shoulder, panting.
After a minute, he kisses my neck and moves off me, pulling me sideways into one brief, firm embrace before getting up and walking to the bathroom. The sink runs, and I curl into a contented ball, cheek nestled against the rumpled duvet.
As the water turns off, I hear the unmistakable sound of Phaedra’s ringtone—Elton John’s “The Bitch Is Back”—from the other room.
“Oh,nowyou call…” I mutter.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and walk to the bathroom—passing him in the wide doorway, exchanging mildly bashful post-sex smiles—then pull on the loungewear I’ve left on the counter.
I go to my purse in the living room and call Phae back.
“Where the fuck are you?” she snaps.
“Excuse me? I should be askingyou.”
“I came downstairs, and the bartender said you split with some rando!”
I throw a glance at the bedroom and walk toward the smaller guest room, dropping my voice. “Well, I dumped Josh, and—”
“Oh, good call,” she interrupts, raising her voice over the swell of background music in the bar. “A total wanker.”
“So, you could say I celebrated that decision with… a sexual ‘palate cleanser.’ Anddon’tbe judgy about it.”
There’s a long pause. “What the hell?” Her laugh is shocked. “Nat, you wildcat! What’s his name, and where’s he from? Are you gonna see him again?”
I wince, knowing the flak I’d get for the no-names thing.
“He’s, uh, English.” I struggle to make up the most English-sounding name possible. “His name’s Reginald… um, Throckmorton.”
“Oh my God.Sure!” She brays out a screech of laughter. “You got played! ‘Reginald fuckingThrockmorton’? Guess that answers the question of whether you’re gonna see him again.”
“Shut up.”
“If he’s a Brit, maybe he’s with Allonby Racing. They’re on floor eleven; I’m on eight. Not the big suite at the end of the hall—that one’s my boss, Klaus. I’m in the last room on the left before his. What floor are you on?”
I swivel to peek back again and nearly jump out of my skin to find “Reginald” standing in the guest room doorway. I mute the phone.
“What floor are we on?” I whisper.
“Eight.” He gives me a cool smile and walks off.
My stomach drops, and a tide of panic floods over me as I realize why he looks so familiar.
Though already a racing fan, I’ve been studying F1 history, strategy, and drivers since landing the new job. But somehow I neglected to recognize the Emerald team principal, billionaire 40 percent stakeholder Klaus Franke. To be fair to myself, Emerald’s TP isn’t their “public face”—that role is held by Phaedra’s dad, charismatic owner Edward “Mo” Morgan. Mo loves to talk, and fans love to listen to his folksy, idiomatic sass, delivered in his signature Southern drawl and punctuated with quotable catchphrases. Klaus is more a “strong, silent type,” in the background.
Oh God. What the hell have I done?
Apparently I’ve had a one-off with one of the most important non-driver figures in the sport that’s about to become my life.
Goodbye, professional credibility.
I unmute the phone. “I’m not sure what floor I’m on.”
Phaedra’s pause all but screams,I didn’t want to have to ask this, but…
“So, uh, he’s probably another married one, right?” she ventures.
