MELBOURNE
THREE MONTHS LATER
NATALIA
It’s the evening after the season-launching grand prix, and I’m practically effervescent. Everything for my first race asARJ’s lead reporter has gone perfectly. Interviews have been great, I looked confident in the paddock and press room, and now I’m enjoying the payoff: an evening with my best friend, indulging in the jet-set pleasures of a glamorous job in Formula 1.
I just hope I don’t run intohimoff the clock.
It’s fine, I reassure myself.So what if you do? You have as much right to be here as he does.
As for Phae, she’s trying to be her usual nonchalant tomboy self, but I catch her checking herself out in one mirrored wall of the elevator as we make our way down to the hotel lounge to meet Cosmin Ardelean—Emerald’s new hotshot driver, for whom she’s the race engineer—for a drink.
“You look gorgeous,” I reassure her.
“Huh?” she asks, feigning bewilderment. “Oh. Like, the shirt? Whatevs.”
I bought the slinky white shirt for her when I was in Paris, because she’s always dressed like a twelve-year-old boy at math camp—ripped jeans, T-shirts with sciencey puns, sneakers—but I had to pretend I’d bought it for myself and it didn’t fit right. I knew if I just said, “I picked this out for you,” she’d scoff. There’d be a million reasons why the shirt was all wrong and I was a half-wit for having wasted my money.
“I don’t give a fuck how I look.” She jams both hands into her pockets. “As if I care what that narcissistic dickbag thinks.”
My smile is sly, and I maintain a taunting silence.
“Stop it or I’ll punch you in the tit,” she warns. “Ardelean may be ‘hot’ to some people, but the only thing I like about him is the ten points he bagged for Emerald. This ‘Let’s have one little drinkie with him’ thing wasyouridea. And thank God I’mnottrying to catch his eye—I look like shit next to you. Your legs are a light-year long and you have a rack like Jessica Rabbit. Who areyoutrying to impress? Did Formula Fuckboy’s charms during the post-race interview work that well?”
There’s a brittle edge of jealousy in her tone, but if I point it out, she’ll slaughter me. I tug the plunging neckline of my red velvet dress an inch higher.
The truth is, ever since Klaus spotted me at the press conference days ago, I’ve been nervous about running into him. His eyes that afternoon went forest-animal startled as he scanned the group of journalists and snagged on me.
Guess he remembers me after all, I thought.
I was rattled too. Usually Ed Morgan does the Emerald pressconferences. But to his credit, Klaus gave me some dynamic quotes in answer to my question for the panelists. No one would ever guess we had anything but a purely professional relationship.
For the past three months—since our “carnal collision” in Abu Dhabi—I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. I can’t deny that was the hottest sex of my life, even if I was disgusted by his throwing money at me afterward. (Okay, technically he set it down neatly, andIthrew it. But whatever.)
Something about the man is a puzzle I keep turning over in my mind. When the cyberstalking I did revealed him to be a tragic widower, my heart ached for him in a way that made me frustrated with myself for being such a damned cliché.
Beside me, Phaedra scowls down at the neckline of the white shirt, fussing with it like she can’t decide whether it should show off more or less of her pale, freckled skin.
The elevator bell chimes and the doors glide open on the opulent lobby. Standing there—being venerated by a blonde so hyperfocused on him that I could perform an appendectomy on her sans anesthesia—is none other than Klaus Franke.
His obsidian eyes settle on Phaedra.
“Good evening, Schatzi,” he greets her. With cool courtesy, he deigns to acknowledge me. “And… your name again was…?”
So that’s how we’re playing this?
Squashing down my annoyance, I straighten my shoulders and “reintroduce” myself.
“Natalia Evans.”
As revenge for having given her crap in the elevator about Cosmin, Phae razzes me about the interaction with Klaus, claiming I was blushing as we walked away. I make some excuse about not liking him because he was rude to me once; then I derail Phae’s teasing by pointing out Cosmin, who’s flirting with some racing fan across the bar.
We order drinks and make chitchat. It’s obvious that Emerald’s new driver is smitten with Phae, showing off for her. His surveyal of me is appreciative, sure. But more like the abstract admiration you’d show to a lovely piece of furniture that wouldn’t look right in your house.
My phone buzzes in my tiny cross-body purse. I dig it out, hoping it isn’t my boss Nefeli, inquiring about a story I have due at midnight.
Forgive my poor manners earlier, kleine Hexe, but I assume you’d prefer Phaedra not know of our degree of familiarity.
