Also true. I can’t argue with that one. So I don’t bother trying. “It was a mistake. I’m sorry. It never should have happened.”
The hang-dog look is gone, replaced by an icy glare that could freeze hell ten times over.
He shrugs, displaying an indifference that’s at odds with his hell-freezing stare. “Your loss. I’m sure I’ll find someone else to play nice with at the after party.”
I’m sure it is. And I’m sure he will. The thought hits me like a formula car barreling down a straightaway at 220 miles per hour. I’ve got no right to be jealous. He can do whatever he wants with whoever he wants. But my brain—and maybe some other body parts—don’t seem to get that message.
Without another word, he drops the papers back on my desk and leaves my office the same way he came in—mad as hell. I stare at the door as it swings shut in his wake.
“Boy, when I fuck up, I fuck up royally.”
I say the words out loud, but there’s no one there but me to hear them.
CHAPTER8
Grady
Well, that was—awkward. Frustrating. Humiliating.
Take your pick. Or better yet, go with option D. All of the above.
What the actual fuck was I thinking, coming on to him like a dog in heat? Oh, wait. That’s right. I wasn’t thinking. Not with the head above my belt buckle. If I was wearing a belt. Which I’m not, because I’m still in my race gear. And I’ll be in it even longer, since I’m headed back out on the track to talk to the press.
Dammit.
I continue to mentally kick myself in the ass on my way to the what I’m sure is going to be one of the most awkward media sessions of my racing career. Not just because of my shittastic finish today but because I’m finding it hard to concentrate on anything other than what just happened with Ben.
Did I seriously suggest that we could fool around and still work together? And was I serious when I suggested it? Or was it just my hormones talking? Or my frayed nerves after my lousy race result?
Oh, well. I guess it doesn’t matter. Ben made it painfully clear that he wasn’t interested in continuing what he started with that kiss. Okay, what I started, but he sure as hell wasn’t objecting, not until Elodie and Kip showed up.
His rejection shouldn’t bother me nearly as much as it does. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been turned down before. And objectively, he’s right. Him and me as anything other than coworkers is a really bad idea. But that’s not stopping me from wishing he’d locked that damn door and bent me over his desk. Or at least have let me give him that blow job I was working toward when we were so rudely interrupted.
I pry my thoughts away from butt sex and blow jobs and enter the paddock. It’s easy to spot Kip. Those bright blue pants really set him apart. And the hair doesn’t hurt either, so blonde it’s almost white and sticking up in artfully arranged spikes.
He’s leaning against the pit wall, talking animatedly to a woman I’ve seen around the circuit. I’m pretty sure she’s Samantha’s minder. I tap him on the shoulder, and he spins around. When he sees it’s me, his face lights up.
“There you are,” he exclaims, wagging a finger at me like a parent scolding their child. “I was on my way to find you. Nico Hilliard wants an interview. He’s just finishing up with Raj.”
And here I thought this day couldn’t get any worse.
“Lead the way,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. Which would barely fill a shot glass. But it’s not like I have a choice. Media obligations are part of my contract, just like they are for every other driver.
“I’ll catch up with you later, Angie,” he says to the woman as he grabs my hand and drags me toward the tents where the reporters have set up camp. Does he I can’t find my own way to the media zone? I’ve been doing it since I debuted in F3 at 17.
I disentangle my hand from his and walk alongside him. For now, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. Chalk his impatience up to first-day-on-the-job jitters. “Did Nico give you any kind of heads-up on the questions he’s planning on asking me?”
“No, but I think it’s safe to assume he’ll want to talk about that last pit stop and whether you think it put you out of the points.”
Yeah, that’s probably a given. And exactly what I’m afraid of. It’s the one question I don’t want to answer. Too many chances to slip up. Too much room for Nico to twist my words.
I try to remember what Ben said in his office. About the race, not that kiss. Something about luck and opportunity and preparation. But thinking of him only makes me remember the feel of his mouth on mine—soft but masculine—how his nails dug into my ass, the husky, needy sounds he made when I pulled him flush to me, pressing our hardening cocks together. And none of that is going help me in this interview.
Nope. I’m going to have to pull this one off all by myself. There’s a sex joke in there somewhere, but there’s not enough blood in my brain to figure it out. And, as I’ve already established, sex isn’t what I’m supposed to be concentrating on right now anyway.
Only a handful of reporters, drivers, and staff are left in the press area when we make it there. Not surprising given how long it took me. I guess it’s easy to lose track of time when you’re tangling tongues with the sexy silver fox who holds your career—and, occasionally, your ass—in his strong, callused hands.
Nico spots us almost immediately and bears down on us, his camera man and sound engineer in tow. “Grady. Nice of you to join us.”
