Page 2 of Tipping Point

Finn glances at him.

“I placed fifteenth in the driver’s competition last year, for a team that placed ninth. What strategy?”

“Uh, could you look into the camera, please? And say that again?”

“No.”

“Okay, well. Ninth isn’t so bad, right?”

“Sure, there are ten teams.”

Oof.

The team behind me sniggered. I had a crew of two camera operators, a sound tech slash lighting tech, and a makeup artist, who doubled as the production assistant. I met them hurriedly when I stormed in earlier, shoving my luggage off to one side. I haven’t even had time to hit the hotel yet.

I need to buy time to do some research.

“Makeup? Can you just, uh, touch him up, please?” I jerk my head at Finn.

She scurries from the shadows behind me with a big pink beauty blender in hand and starts dabbing away at Finn’s face. His scowl deepens.

“It’s Casey.” She smiles at him coyly, throwing glossy red hair over her shoulder.

I whip out my phone, drop Dixon a plea for help, and, too late, wondered what time it was back in London. Here in Australia, where the first race of the season would start in two days, it was just past eight in the morning, and sweltering.

Since I can’t get my brain to figure out what time it was back home, I type in “Finnegan Brennan” into the search engine on my phone and glance up while I wait for the search results to come up.

He’s square jawed, a rugged five o’clock shadow against his neck. Tousled dark brown, almost black hair, shaved close on the sides, with the longer strands on top giving a slight curl.

Casey re-arranges a few curls artfully. He waits for her to finish before reaching up, unsnapping an elastic band from his wrist, and ties it up messily at the back.

The effect is striking. A loose strand escapes and falls across his forehead. Casey takes it in stride.

The guy is gorgeous.

His deeply tanned skin is rough, textured. He has to spend a lot of time outdoors.

He has a thicker bottom lip, one corner pulled up slightly in a scowl, with black eyes. The heavy brows above them cast them in shadow. He has a very straight nose, slightly flared in irritation.

He doesn’t take his narrowed eyes off me as Casey dabs at a shiny spot on his forehead.

She brushes the damp lock over his forehead aside. He’s feeling the heat, too.

I look down at my phone.

FINN’S LAST SEASON? Was the first headline that came up.

“Is this your last season?” I blurt out loud, glancing up.

He gives a slow, long exhale and a muscle in his jaw bunches up.

“Casey!” the camera tech whispers. “Get out of the shot!”

Casey steps back and slips back into the shadows.

The tech makes a minor adjustment, and the light dims almost imperceptibly, throwing Finn’s black eyes into relief.

Finn has his emotions under control now. He shrugs.

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