From somewhere he also recalled hearing that Millie had left her job at a PR firm in London to work as his press liaison officer. So she clearly knew her stuff.
Decision made.
‘I’m promoting Millie from being my press liaison officer to being my PR officer. You need to speak to me, go through her.’
Millie’s mouth fell open as a chorus of disapprovals rose in the hallway. She looked as shocked as everyone else. Tough.
‘Millie, get the team doctor up here.’
‘Um… I think we need to discuss this,’ Millie said, with more than a little panic in her voice.
He was tired, he felt like he’d been hit by a truck, and his hand was on fire. ‘Doctor,now.’ Then he stepped back into his room and slammed the door, welcoming the silence.
He walked over to the couch and lay down on it, gently resting his injured hand on his flat stomach and placing his other forearm over his eyes.
How was he going to dig himself out of this hole?
CHAPTER THREE
MUCH LATER THAT NIGHT, Millie slipped inside Taz’s private hospital room, wincing at the plaster encasing his hand from the tips of his fingers to an inch below his elbow. A few hours after the team doctor looked at the X-ray of his hand, he was wheeled into a state-of-the-art theatre and had the best orthopaedic surgeon in China operating on his hand. Now his cast lay next to him on the bed and his other hand cupped the back of his head. His eyes were closed and he didn’t look like he was in pain.
Millie hesitated. She didn’t know Taz well enough to visit him in the hospital, to be in his room so late at night, but she needed to ask how he wanted her to respond to the incessant demands from reporters desperate for a comment, update or interview. If he’d threatened to fire her for sharing her thoughts on a photo, taking the initiative and putting out a press release without Taz’s approval was surely a fireable offence.
But as much as she wished she could say that she was here solely as his press officer, she couldn’t. Since their conversation in the corridor, she’d felt unsettled and unsure why. Working for Taz had always been a challenge—demanding, relentless—but manageable. Her attraction to him had been little more than a quiet hum beneath the surface. That vague hum was now a strong current—sharp and impossible to ignore. Why did she suddenly feel super aware around him? What had changed between them? Was she being overly imaginative? Highly possible.
During the race, she’d been on edge, hyper aware, waiting for something—anything—to happen. And it had. He crashed, lost his temper and then, out of nowhere, announced her promotion. It floored her, and she didn’t understand it. Neither did anyone else. But as she stood in the doorway, she froze. His closed eyes and pale face suggested this wasn’t the time. He was injured, and she and everyone else could wait.
She turned to tiptoe out, but then Taz’s deep voice floated across the room. ‘Millie.’
She wrinkled her nose. Busted. Millie looked down, but instead of sporting glassy eyes and a loopy smile he looked fully alert. ‘How long have you been out of the theatre?’ she asked.
‘Two or so hours,’ he replied. ‘What are you doing here?’
Millie jammed her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and rocked from side to side. ‘The press is all over you for pushing the rookie driver, and they are not being kind. I need to know how you want me to mitigate any possible damage to your brand. And I really need to talk to you about my unexpected promotion.’
He looked at the cast on his hand. ‘And this couldn’t wait until morning?’
‘Well, the sooner I start spinning the story, the sooner this will blow over.’
‘Again, it could’ve waited.’
Millie shuffled on her feet. She couldn’t tell him the third and last reason she was here. It was super simple: She wanted to see how he was and felt compelled to visit him because she didn’t think any of his staff would bother. Taz was their boss, and they respected him, but she knew they didn’t particularly like him. But nobody should be alone after an operation. Not even the incredibly self-sufficient Taz De Rossi.
‘Are you in any pain?’ she asked, walking over to stand next to his bed.
‘Despite the anaesthetic and the drugs, I feel remarkably clear-headed.’ His lips curved into a disarming smile. He looked so much younger when he smiled. ‘And pain-free.’
When the meds wore off, his injured hand would let itself be known. ‘What did they do?’ she asked, nodding to his hand.
‘Put in a pin to stabilise my middle finger,’ he replied. ‘I also have a minor crack in my wrist. I punched that wall pretty hard, but they both should heal within four to six weeks. It wasn’t my finest hour.’
Millie lifted her eyebrows at his self-criticism. It had been a foolish thing to do, but she’d never expected Taz to admit it. It was late, the hospital ward was quiet, his private room felt like a cocoon, and Millie felt like they were the only two people around. His navy T-shirt—no hospital gown for Taz De Rossi—covered his broad chest and hugged his muscular shoulders, and his cast was blindingly white against his tanned upper arm. His stubble was thicker, his grey eyes tired but still sharp. Assessing. It would take more than a high-speed crash, a media PR disaster and an operation to make Taz De Rossi break out in a sweat.
‘How bad is the fallout? On a scale of one to ten?’
She considered lying but lifted one shoulder instead. ‘Twelve?’
He cursed. ‘And what have the stewards decided?’
