Page 11 of Formula Fling

I step back from the desk, rubbing my chin as the realization sinks in. My amusement turns into something more like disbelief as I pull out my phone and type into the search bar:Elizabeth Evans.

Yes, that’s how Rosalind first introduced her even though I acted like I didn’t hear it. I’m not the oblivious sort.

I add the wordsromance authorand hit enter.

My eyes roam the results but I can’t see anything that fits. I quickly amend the search to Posey Evans, romance author, and bingo… her profile comes up with a website and what looks to be several listings of books on various retailer sites. I navigate to the website, another quick look at the closed bathroom door, and start reading.

I first take in her professional photo and there’s no doubt she’s incredibly pretty. Not in a sexy, get my dick hard kind of way, but she’s sitting outside on what looks like a porch swing. She’s got on faded jeans, bare feet and a flowing blouse. Her eyes are beautiful as she smiles into the camera, head coyly tilted. No makeup… just freckles and lip gloss.

I glance at the books she’s written. The covers all have shirtless men locked in a passionate embrace with busty women in long gowns. Titles that make me snort.

Un-fucking-believable.

“Priceless,” I murmur, chuckling to myself. “This just got intriguing.”

Somehow, she’s wormed her way into Crown Velocity and as I continue to add things up, I’m guessing she’s no journalist at all. None of the Google results indicate she has anything to do with journalism or sports reporting. She’s just a woman who writes smut and for some reason, this seems like the best thing to have happened to me in ages.

This could actually be quite fun.

The doorknob rattles behind me and I jump away from the desk, practically throwing myself down on the settee. Posey steps out, her hair wet, dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I glance at the laptop and it’s still got her manuscript showing, the screen saver not having activated yet.

Her eyes come to me and I get a censuring look of disapproval but she remains silent.

I’m up for a bit of a fight though. “What?” I demand.

Lips flattened, she shakes her head as if disappointed. “Your behavior last night was abysmal. You were so drunk you couldn’t tell me where you lived and I had to cart you up here to pass out on my couch. Your job is to help me learn this sport over the next few weeks, not follow you around on drunken expeditions. I’m going to have to insist that doesn’t happen again or else I’ll have to write about that.”

It’s a threat.

It’s cute and without teeth.

I shake my head, smiling knowingly. “Is that so? You’re going to write about it in your article?” I use air quotes around the termarticleand that causes her to narrow her eyes at me.

Posey’s gaze slides from me to the laptop and she freezes as the color drains from her face when she takes in her novel on the screen. She knows I’ve seen it.

“Okay, look,” she starts, her voice shaky. “Before you say anything—”

“I’m not gonna say anything,” I cut her off, my tone low and amused. “But you’re the one who’s got some explaining to do, don’t you think?”

She crosses her arms, glaring at me, trying to put on a brave face. “I don’t know what you think you know, but—”

“I know you’re not a journalist,” I say, grinning like the cat that caught the mouse. I mean, I don’t know that with absolute certainty, but it’s a good bet. “You’re an author. A romance author, to be exact. At least judging by that sexy scene I read on your computer.”

She blinks, stunned, then tries to recover. “So what if I am?”

“So what?” I laugh. “You blagged your way into one of the top teams in Formula International by pretending to be a journalist, and now you’re writing a bloody romance novel about it?”

She doesn’t answer, just glares at me, her jaw clenched. I can tell she’s scared, but I’m impressed she’s got a straight backbone going. I’m not about to let her off that easy.

“How long did you think you could keep this up?” I ask, still smug. “You must’ve known you’d get caught eventually.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t think it would matter,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, I write romance but I make a good living at it. I want to write a romance about formula racing.”

“But why?” I ask, brows furrowed because it seems ridiculous.

She sighs in exasperation. “Because sports romance is big and I think there could be a market for FI racing. I started watching that documentary—”

I grin broadly. “Oh, yeah… always fun filming that.”

---