Page 39 of Spin Control

“So,” she says, amusement in her voice as she looks at me and what must be a completely shocked expression on my face. “How are things with you and your F1 crisis?”

The change in subject is so abrupt that it takes me a moment to wrap my head around the question. “Oh, fine.”

“Really?” Jane presses. “An international scandal that has rocked one of the poshest sports in the world is ‘fine’?”

While part of me wants to tell Jane that, for the first time in years, I feel like I don’t know how a job is going to end, I also don’t really want to get into it. Not right now. “It’s just really complicated. I’m tired of thinking about it.”

Jane huffs. “Fine, give me nothing. At least tell me you’ve got some good stories about Wes Grant.”

A montage of the last couple of months flickers through my mind. The gleam in his eyes when I didn’t recognize him at that first meeting. The flex of his hands as he expertly steered a sports car around a track at well over 150 miles per hour. The wicked grin when he admitted the rumors about him and Stas are true. His tight grip on my waist when he saw a man who very may well be a criminal in a Monaco ballroom.

Then, of course, there are the latest events. The night where he tried to piss me off so much I’d punish him and the morning after, when an elaborate room service breakfast and a gorgeous bouquet of hydrangeas and English roses were delivered to my hotel room. I said they must have the wrong room, but the staff member pointed to the card on the silver serving tray.

There’s no excuse for my behavior last night. I won’t even ask for your forgiveness because I know I don’t deserve it and you would never give it to me anyway. Still, I hope you accept this apology. I asked the concierge to create a breakfast based on what the hotel staff has observed you like. Bon appetit, Jacobs.

Yours in eternal humiliation,

—WFG

Though I wanted to be put out by the gesture, I was delighted. Flattered, even. I didn’t expect him to apologize at all, let alone to do it with aplomb.

“I definitely have stories about Wes Grant.”

“What’s he like?” Jane asks, her eyes bright. “He seems so…”

Handsome. Amusing. Clever. Thoughtful. “Annoying?”

She gives me a pointed look. “Complicated.”

“You think Wes Grant is complicated?”

Jane nods. “He comes across as some super affable playboy. But he’s also an elite athlete who has remained in a deeply competitive sport for over ten years. He’s disciplined. Savvy. Good at playing the game. Add all that up, and I think he’s probably really complicated.”

I gape at my sister, impressed by how she synthesized all of that and landed on “complicated” rather than “lucky,” as so many keyboard warriors do. “He’s definitely complicated.”

Jane shoots me the same cheeky smile Ellie has adopted. “Also extremely good looking.”

I shrug. “If you’re into the whole charming bad boy thing.”

My sister laughs loud. “As if you aren’t? Lizzy, he is precisely the right mix of all the attributes you’ve always found physically attractive.”

I start to argue, but then catch myself. I don’t want to be a lady who doth protest too much. Especially since she might have a point.

“Wait,” Jane says. “Have you two…are you…”

“No,” I say sharply, though my face immediately heats and my heart begins to race.

My phone rings and David’s name flashes across the screen. It’s well after midnight in London. “Hi, David. It’s late there.”

“Don’t worry, this isn’t a crisis.”

I exhale.

“It is, however, both an emergency and a favor.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, wondering what in the world is going on.

“Wes is a VIP guest at an engineering symposium in Washington, D.C. tomorrow, along with several members of our R&D team. Tate traveled with them to coordinate the press interviews, but she just called to say she is extremely ill.”