“Yes?”
“Did you know the Latin for ‘sage’ off the top of your head, or did you look it up”—she grins before concluding—“because you kinda dig me?”
I place both hands on the car’s roof. “You have a fantasticallyhigh opinion of yourself, pet. I knew the term because I’m very smart.”
Ah, fuck… she’s already got me dead to rights. I did look it up.
The hotel in which I’ve been installed is three miles from the Ritz-Carlton, where Sage and the rest of the Emerald team are staying. I am, however, expected to arrive at Ms. Sikora’s suite by six o’clock in the morning on the first day.
When I asked for a car fare per diem, I was told torent a bicycle. Left with either the option to walk or pay my own car fare, I chose the latter. It galls me to cover the expense myself, but I’m at least still rich and can scarcely be expected to wear out the leather on my Berlutis.
Sage’s suite door is opened by a tall woman with skin the color of warm sandstone, clad in a saffron-bright silk robe. Unfortunately, there’s not much more that’s sunny about her—she responds to my winning smile with an eye roll and a flip of the door, leaving me to walk in and shut it behind myself. A long, dark braid trails down her back.
“Not a morning person?” I say with amusement.
She heads for the U-shaped sofa area and sits, then plucks up a tiny ceramic cup and takes a sip before donning a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses and leaning toward an open laptop. “I’m not ayouperson,” she replies. Flicking a hand toward the bar, she adds, “Espresso maker’s over there if you need.”
“I had tea already, thank you.”
She shrugs, typing on the laptop without looking up. I go to the sitting area and settle on the love seat perpendicular tothe woman. She’s lovely, and by reputation, Sage is fluid in her dating preferences. I wonder if they’re an item.
Throwing a glance at the closed bedroom door, I ask, “Are you… Ms. Sikora’s girlfriend?”
She looks at me over the tops of her glasses. “No, doofus. I’m her best friend and PA, Priya.”
“I assumedI’dbe playing assistant.”
“More like a gofer. You’re whatever we feel like making you,intern. First assignment: Don’t talk to me. I haverealwork to do.” She nods toward the bedroom door. “Sage’ll be out in a sec.”
The bedroom door flies open as if on cue. Sage bounds into the room like an actor taking center stage in a musical—she’s even singing, off-key and loud, wireless earbuds in her ears framed by a profusion of piercings. She’s wearing neon tracksuit bottoms that swish as she walks. Her upper body is in a formfitting tank top, and the tracksuit jacket is draped over one forearm. My eyes follow the peacock feather tattoo that starts below her ear and trails down to disappear under the shirt’s neckline.
She catches me staring (though “catches” isn’t quite the word, considering how she courts attention) and does a dramatic twirl, throwing a mock-seductive look over one shoulder before putting on the jacket—sliding it side-to-side like a burlesque dancer with a feather boa—then zipping it. I lift an eyebrow, undeterred, my gaze dropping to her arse, obscured though it is by loose nylon fabric.
“Mornin’, Sandy,” she says, popping her earbuds out and zipping them into a pocket. “Ready to do my bidding like a good widdle boy?”
I pick a bit of imaginary lint off my cuff. “Tread carefully, Salvia officinalis.”
She clucks her tongue, crossing to where I’m sitting and trailing a fingertip along my shoulders as she passes. “You take yourself way too seriously. It must be exhausting.”
The scent of her hits me, clean and warm. She ducks into the fridge behind the bar, bobbing up with a bottle of mint-essence water.
Priya clears her throat. “So… little development withSports and Tortes?” She darts a look from Sage to me, as if unsure whether she can speak freely.
Sage grips the water bottle hard, making it crunch. “What’s that harpy posted about me?”
“It’s not a new post; it’s that she’s about to nab a bazillion new followers. Y’know that hothead chef with the TV shows, Gavin Yates? He gave CJ Ardley a shout-out in a video and linked her blog to an Insta post of his because he loves her cakes.”
“Half the internet ‘loves her cakes,’” Sage says with a smirk. “They’re always on display in bikini selfies.”
“She can show off her boobs if she wants,” Priya scolds. “That’s not the issue.”
“Why are you defending her?” Sage snaps. “Are you guys best friends now or something?”
A brief, awkward staredown follows, in which I note a surprising vulnerability in the typically prickly Sage. The ripple of anxiety on her brow is like water disturbed.
I’m used to seeing her at grands prix, in the paddock, and in press gatherings, where her hotshot energy is nothing short of preening. But here, in a less structured sphere of her life,it’s as if she’s not sure who to be away from racing. There’s a nakedness in her essential nature, like a hermit crab dashing for the next shell.
It reminds me of myself a bit.
