Gabriel huffs out a breath that says he’s not so sure and then turns and walks to the window. He stares out at the twinkling lights of the Canadian city. The Leonard Cohen mural has soft white lights illuminating it from the bottom, giving the soulful singer a melancholy glow. I feel like Gabriel has that same aura right now.
“I said it doesn’t have to be me.”
I stand up and walk the short distance to stand kind of behind him. He shakes his head without looking at me. “The fact that it’s you is the only part of this plan I like.”
Oof. I feel that deep in my chest. His words are like a warm blanket. But they can’t be. I’m the worst with men. Why is it the slightest compliment and I’m batting my eyelashes as my heart flutters wildly? “Thanks. I think.”
He raises an eyebrow again but I ignore it and continue my pitch. Louis warned me his son would need coaxing. "Look, we hang out a little tomorrow, in the paddock and around the track when you aren't busy. Then repeat it at the next few races. Then we may spend a couple days on a beach or boat somewhere if Damien hasn't rectified this by the time break comes around. Separate rooms, just some public shots."
“Well, where is the fun in that?”
I shouldn’t smile but I do. Because he’s smiling and it’s bloody contagious. I feel my cheeks start to heat too. “This is work.”
"If I had a fragile ego, you would have shattered it by now," Gabriel announces, and then he brushes by me, his arm rubbing mine and discharging that unexpected firework of desire in my gut like it did that New Year's. "Lucky for you, I don't. And I think you're a liar."
I bristle. “Excuse me.”
“This isn’t just work for you,” Gabriel says and puts the beer bottle to his mouth. I watch him swig back a mouthful with much more interest than normal, which proves his point. “You could have said no to this assignment. You seem like the type of guy who would. All morals and character and boundaries.”
If only…
“Look, I admit the fact that it was you made this easier, but I also get to be around Billy. And it's a position I've put other people in when I ran a PR company, so maybe it also felt like it was my turn to be in this position." I give him that. I don't want to tell him that the reward for this is also what drove me. I get promoted, immediately, when this is over and my career and my ego, which is much more fragile than Gabriel's, need that. "But I'm not looking for a relationship right now. I just came out of one that… well let's just say some rollercoasters have fewer ups and downs than we did. And I'm looking for smooth sailing right now."
“Okay.”
I move my eyes from the piece of carpet I was focused on while I gave that little speech and meet his eye. He's watching me curiously. "Okay, what?"
“Okay fine. I’ll go along with this stupid plan and pretend we’re dating,” Gabriel announces. “But I need to get on a call in five minutes with my strategists so let’s just pick this up in the morning. We’ll share a car to the track and you can hold my hand and make heart eyes at me. Sound good?”
I think he's kidding about the hand-holding. Maybe? I don't ask. I simply make my way to the door. I got what I came for—buy-in to this PR smoke show. I open the door and turn. He's right there, a foot behind me.
“So I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He nods, leaning on the door, keeping it open as I step into the hall. I should be walking away, but I'm stuck staring at him like his stare has pinned my feet to the floor. "If you're looking for a good night kiss, boyfriend, I don't do fake ones. Only real ones. And I don't want to kiss you good night. I want to kiss you good morning."
My face heats and my legs finally start working again thanks to fear. The fear that his flattering words will go straight to my head… or my dick.
I hear him chuckling to himself as I walk away. I hate that he's so amused by my awkwardness. I hate that I'm awkward. I have incredible business smarts. I built a successful company, made brands millions, saved the reputations of celebrities, but yet when it comes to men… emotionally I'm still a clueless teenager. And I let my inability to deal with a relationship cost me my business. It's humiliating and I am not going to let it happen again. So I keep walking away from Gabriel, never turning back.
8GABRIEL
It’s a cloudless,clear day. Hot and humid. Not the best conditions for me. I’m a driver who excels in rain and damp conditions, like during yesterday’s practice. I don’t know if I’ll be able to qualify as high as I placed in practice with these conditions. It’s not likely. Luckily no one seems to care what I do.
I walk over to my race car and pause to adjust my helmet before climbing in. I’ve got what I lovingly refer to as the Z-Squad working with me. Sterling Samuels has our top engineers, mechanics, hell even our best PR person by his side every day. I’ve got the rest. I mean, to be fair, you don’t get to work for a Formula One team unless you’re better than most at your given profession, but still, there’s a hierarchy and it’s clear I am not the crown prince. I’m the court jester who paid for his title so no one takes me seriously.
I can see Axel in the corner of the garage, he’s got his phone in his hands but he’s not looking at it. He’s eyeballing me. I wink at him and he gives me a quick, tight smile before he actually does move his eyes to his phone. See, that’s never going to work. The tightness on his features when we look at each other.
I climb into the car, slip into place, and get strapped in. Then I flip down my visor just as the stupid documentary crew for the reality show that follows the drivers turns its lens toward me. I hate them, mostly because they rarely give me any coverage. They’ve sat my father down for more interviews than they have me. It’s humiliating, but I signed on for it when I let my dad pay for this seat. I stupidly thought I would prove my worth. I haven’t placed yet this season. But, I mean, that’s actually not unusual for a rookie. It’s just I have to be more than usual. Average. Normal.
I get the all-clear to drive out of the garage and I go down the pit lane with laser focus. As my foot presses harder and harder on the gas, exiting the pit lane, I push thoughts of anything but the track out of my head. I let my heart and soul fall into 'the zone' as I call it.
Qualifying can be a brutal process in the best of conditions. The qualifying session lasts one hour and is divided into three knock-out stages—Q1, Q2, Q3, with small intervals in between. The five lowest times get dropped at the end of each round, giving them their place on the grid. I surprised everyone, even myself, by making it to Q1. That means I’m starting in the top ten no matter what happened this last round.
I feel like I’m in good form as I move around the track for Q1. Despite the humid air and the dry track I hit every turn just right but struggle in the chicane. My heart leaps into my throat as I slide a little coming out of it, over the line. If all four tires cross, my lap time won’t count. I can’t tell if they do from my position, so I focus on getting to the finish line so I will have enough time to go again. But then our race engineer, Pablo Paloma’s voice fills my ear through the radio. “Yellow flag. Yellow flag. A Mirabella car is in the wall by the turn eight.”
That means debris litters the track. We have to lower our speed. And it also means I probably won’t have time for another lap to improve my time and I’m kind of fucked if my previous lap gets thrown out. Still, I have bigger concerns.
“Who was it?” I ask through the radio.
