Page 5 of Formula Fling

“Perfect.” Harley throws her legs off her desk and stands with a beaming smile, signaling that the conversation is over. “I will set aside a day for you to shadow me, and I think Spencer is going to block time for you.” That’s even better than I expected. An in with the team’s owner is a real coup because I intend to write a future story about a dashing and sexy team owner and Spencer Montgomery is totally that. “Rosalind will give you a brief tour of the facility, and then I’ll have her take you to Lex.”

We shake hands and I follow her back to the waiting room, where Rosalind is already standing, ready to take over. Her face is unreadable, but I can sense the efficiency and no-nonsense attitude in her posture.

“If you don’t mind showing Ms. Evans around, Ros. Then hand her off to Lex.”

“Of course, Harley,” Rosalind says, her clipped accent making me feel like I’m in a proper British film. She turns and I get an actual warm smile, and I’m wondering if that’s for Harley’s benefit who seems to be rolling out the red carpet for me. “Right this way.”

I wave goodbye to Harley and fall into step behind Rosalind.

As we walk through the corridors of Crown Velocity’s headquarters, I’m struck by how futuristic it all feels. Everything gleams—chrome, glass and state-of-the-art technology. I’m taken deep into the design facility as Rosalind efficiently explains things, although she doesn’t do it in a way that makes me feel like I’m impinging on her time. She seems quite proud to be part of the team, and it comes through in a way that softens her demeanor. Engineers buzz around in their pristine white overalls, and I see a few of them working on what must be the heart of the operation: the cars.

“Racing is nothing without our design and development department,” Rosalind says, pointing through a massive glass window to a room where engineers are hunched over computers, simulations running on multiple screens. “Every inch of the car is meticulously tested and reengineered here. If a driver mentions a single flaw in handling, they’ll work all night to fix it.”

I nod, trying to absorb it all. It’s a far cry from the world of indie romance novels and so much more than I have been able to learn by watching documentaries and reading articles.

We move farther down the hall, past a room with a large glass window and a massive cylindrical piece of equipment within.

“What’s that?”

“Our wind tunnel. It’s where we test the aerodynamics and efficiency of the body design.”

“Oh,” I say, my head reeling with the science behind it all. I have a feeling this is only the tip of the iceberg.

We pass more rooms—carbon fiber design, strategy engineering, a data center filled with dozens of people behind computers—before finally reaching a quieter part of the building.

“This is where the drivers train,” Rosalind explains as she holds up a badge to a scanner that unlocks a door. “Lex spends a lot of time here when he’s not out in the car or working with the engineers. It holds our simulators, a state-of-the-art physical fitness center, medical personnel, a relaxation room, private sleep areas for rest and even a full-time psychologist because racing is as much mental as it is physical.”

“Wow,” I murmur at the resources available. I try to compare it to American sports, and I just can’t comprehend it.

Finally, Rosalind leads me through another set of doors and into a more secluded area. “This is the relaxation area.”

And there he is—Lex Hamilton—on a couch, surfing on his phone. He’s even more gorgeous in person. His messy dark hair, sharp jawline, and piercing blue eyes make him look like he walked off the cover ofGQ. Even though he’s slouched on the furniture, long legs sprawled out, I can immediately sense the confidence—and arrogance—rolling off him. It’s a definite vibe.

“Ms. Evans, this is Lex Hamilton,” Rosalind says, her tone neutral. “Lex, this is the journalist who will be shadowing you, Elizabeth Evans.”

“But I go by Posey,” I add.

His eyes flick to me, and for a split second, I think I see a spark of something—interest? Amusement? But it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared, replaced by boredom.

“Pleasure,” he says, his accent dripping with faux charm. He doesn’t even stand from the couch to greet me.

“Likewise,” I manage, my voice timid. I berate myself for that weakness.

Rosalind clears her throat like a disapproving schoolmarm. “Ms. Patrick wanted me to remind you of the importance of Ms. Evans’s stay with us and the article she’s writing.”

I’m pretty good at reading moods, tones and vibes and if I’m not mistaken, there was a hidden warning in that reminder.

Lex’s head swivels and he engages in a staring contest with Rosalind. Her face is like carved stone, her eyes lasered onto his. If I had to choose someone to win the battle, it would be Rosalind, hands down. Eventually, with a sigh, Lex stands from the couch and pockets his phone.

He even manages a smile, although it doesn’t reach his eyes, and holds out his hand to me. “It’s nice to meet you… um…” His eyes cut to Rosalind. “What did you say her name was again?”

My jaw drops slightly as that was passive-aggressively rude and dismissive. Why not just ask me my name?

Hackles raised, I refuse to take his hand and answer his question. “Posey Evans.”

His regard comes back to me and he sees my hands clasped firmly, refusing to shake his. One side of his mouth quirks up slightly as his hand lowers. “Right. Posey. Like the flower.”

“A small bunch of flowers, actually,” I murmur, but he stares at me blankly.

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