Sarcasm, I presume.
I nod, and push through the glass doors and out onto the roof terrace, walking as confidently as I can directly to the bar to order a martini.A drink that hopefully says, “I know I made my shit team the laughingstock of F1 but I’m a chic professional who’s still here to do her job.”
The terrace is spectacular with its fairy lighting, subtle F1 branding, complimentary bottles of champagne on every high-top.I wish Keyla was here, I think, as I clutch my drink, the liquid sloshing around in my unsteady hand.
I see the team principal of Rossini chatting in a circle, and the McLaren management a little farther down, looking across at the view.I should have done this more.I should have been brave and stepped out into the circus just as Matt had pushed me to do.I may have become more at ease with the press, but it’s this room, full of these people, where the deals happen, where the teams are built.I owe my team that maximum effort.
“Hey there, Chloe Coleman.”I turn my head and see two definitely not F1 men, suited and booted in matching pinstripes.One of them holds out his hand.
“This is Darryl and I’m Ali,” he says, smiling.
“Am I under arrest?”They look like a couple of undercover policemen, to be honest.“You gonna pull out a badge?”
Darryl, the taller one with blond hair, laughs a warm,open laugh.“I know, I know.We somehow bought the same suit,” he says.
“Somehow?”Ali says.“You stole my motherfucking tailor.”
“Excuse him,” Darryl says, pushing Ali slightly, before turning to me and clearing his throat.He seems...a little nervous.“We wanted to meet you because we’ve been following your success at Arden.”
“Oh?”I say, feeling the drink start to rattle in my hand all over again.I turn back to the bar to put it down.
“Yeah.We represent a few brands back in the UK, and one of them—Burberry—was interested in coming in.”
I scoff.“Burberry?You’re kidding.”
“Not at all.A British gal at the top of her game in a men’s sport?The dog logo?It’s all very Burberry.”
“I’m sorry.”I frown, confused.“You’re saying you’d be keen to sponsor the team, or me?”
“The team,” Darren says quickly.“But we’d love to bring you into the press campaigns.Matt and Noah are strong, of course, but no one focuses on the team principal, and you’re as much a part of the Arden story as anyone.”
“You’re actually therealstory,” Ali says.
“He’s right.I don’t want to take anything away from the boys.But the story is you.”
“Especially with Matt’s performance last race,” Darren says, pulling a sympathetic face.
“He’ll give it everything this weekend,” I say, panic starting to claw at me.
“But you’d replace him for next season, anyway, right?I mean, you didn’t want him.”
“Are you referring to the article inF1 Daily?”I gulp.Thatfucking article.It’s done more damage to Matt than I realized.
“Well, sure.Sounds like you want to take Arden in a different direction.”
“But he’s one of the best drivers of his generation,” I say.“Was,” Darren says.“With all due respect.”
“It would be great to see someone fresh, don’t you think?”Ali says, before chuckling.“But you’re the expert.Maybe he’ll pull something out of the bag.”
I glance over at Barry, who is deep in conversation.And then, one of the men steps sideways and I realize Matt is there next to him.I suck in a breath, my heart in my throat.
He looks beyond sexy, almost unreal in a black velvet dinner jacket and open black silk shirt, with a silver chain just showing against his tanned skin.But he also looks tired, drawn.I cannot believe I had him, really had him in my arms, and fucked it up so royally.
“He’s a hot—I mean huge, experienced asset,” I say, sipping on my drink.“But yeah.We need results.Every team needs results.”
Darren exchanges a satisfied smile with his colleague.“Well, we don’t want to keep you,” he says, following my eyeline back to Matt, who has seen me now; our eyes are locked in an expressionless standoff.His eyes drop down to my feet and then make their way back up to my face, slowly, his gaze leaving sparks along my skin in its wake.
Please smile.Please smile.Please smile at me.
