When she handed it back, the contact read:
Danger
“Progress,” she said softly.
“It’s a start.”
I hit the call button and her phone buzzed with my incoming call. I cancelled it and watched her add my number to her contacts. I snorted when I saw how she’d saved it as a string of emojiis: a car, an explosion, and the sweating face.
We drank in silence for a moment, shoulders just brushing. Not quite touching.
Then, softly, she asked, “So… are you always this intense after a crash, Champion?”
“I’m always this intense,” I said. “The crash just stripped away the last of my self-control.”
She smiled. “I kind of like it.”
“Elena.”
She turned, and our faces were too close.
I didn’t kiss her.
Not here.
Not yet.
But I wanted to.
God, I wanted to.
So I whispered instead. “This is bound to be trouble.”
Her breath hitched.
“Yep,” she said. “But don’t think I’ll go easy on you, professionally.”
“I wouldn’t respect you if you did.”
Another beat.
Then she clicked her laptop shut and got to her feet. “Text me when you’re not brooding. Or when you are. I might answer anyway.”
She walked away without looking back.
And I sat there with my drink, heart pounding. I added a note to her contact information:Journalist. Nuisance. Dangerously hot.
Yes, this was definitely going to get messy.
Chapter Twenty – Seoul Media Day
Elena Archer – Media Day Press Conference
The press room buzzed with anticipation long before the drivers arrived.
Cameras were already trained on the stage, screens lit up with the F1 logo looping over and over. Journalists clutched branded notepads and coffee cups, murmuring predictions about who would crack first. The front rows had been filled for twenty minutes, which told you everything you needed to know about the state of the championship—and the scandal.
Aleksandr Volkov and Luca Moretti were both on the line-up.
