Page 13 of Formula Fling

“Deal,” I repeat. “Looks like we’re stuck with each other, then.”

She glares at me, but there’s no fight left in her. She knows I’ve won this round.

“Now,” I say, rising from the couch, “I’ll see you at headquarters later. Don’t be late.”

“Late for what?” she asks, following me to the door.

“We’re meeting with strategy engineers to review last week’s simulator and track testing. I’m going to work out and I think you should join me for that.”

Posey crosses her arms over her chest. “Are you making a backhanded slam at my weight?” she accuses.

I blink at her in surprise, the vehemence in her voice revealing an insecurity that I didn’t know existed. “No,” I assure her with a pointed look. “I’m just saying if you want to delve into my world, you need to do everything with me. Attend meetings, get in the simulator, babysit me at the club and work out with me.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, casting her eyes down. “Sorry for jumping to conclusions.”

Weird girl. Not sure why she thinks her weight is a problem. She’s got curves in all the right places as far as I’m concerned.

Not that I’m looking at her that way.

Except now… I am looking at how her full boobs plump up over that defensive arm cross and how slamming her ass looks in those jeans.

I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away. “I’m out of here. Be at HQ in two hours.”

Without waiting for her response, I walk out the door, leaving her standing in the middle of the room, knowing she’s got no choice but to play along.

CHAPTER 5

Posey

The Crown Velocityheadquarters is equally impressive when I pull up today in my rental vehicle. It was a bit easier navigating out of London to Woking and I’m more confident in driving on the opposite side of the road, but I’m resolved today to find an Airbnb around here.

The skies are dark and overcast and it’s downright cold. The threat of rain feels like it’s seeping into my bones. As a born and raised Southerner, I don’t take well to the cold and today I bundled up in my big puffer coat with a hat, mittens and a scarf.

Yes, I know it’s only forty-six degrees Fahrenheit—or eight degrees Celsius, as my car temperature registered—but that’s frigid to me.

The massive glass and steel building looks even more imposing with the dark clouds swirling above. I hurry into the lobby to find Lex is already there, looking every bit the impatient driver. Of course, I can’t help but notice how unbelievably gorgeous he is, especially with a few days’ stubble and his hair tousled like he just rolled out of bed. He’s dressed in clothes that scream luxury and yet effortless style—a tailored wool overcoat in charcoal gray, a cashmere crewneck sweater in a lighter gray and black slim-fit jeans. The Chelsea boots in black leather complete the ensemble and I feel dowdy and unsophisticated in my forest-green parka with faded jeans and a fuzzy baby pink sweater underneath, although I take some level of pride in my silver sparkle tennis shoes because they make me smile.

“You’re late,” he says drolly, though there’s a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Am I?” I stammer, feeling slightly intimidated by the confident race car driver standing before me and not the drunken fool I saw last night. “I thought I was right on time.”

He starts walking, and I scurry to keep up, mentally kicking myself for being a bit frazzled. “Close enough,” he says with a smile. “We’ve got a meeting with the engineers in five minutes so I hope you have lots of questions ready.”

My head is already buzzing with a thousand things I’d like to ask, but I don’t want to sound like a complete idiot. “So, um… can I ask a few questions before we go in?” I venture cautiously.

Lex raises an eyebrow but doesn’t stop walking. “Go on.”

“What does ‘formula’ even mean? Like in Formula International?”

He does a double take, as if he can’t believe I’d ask such a thing. “You don’t know?”

“Well, I have a rough idea, but I want to make sure I get it right.” I cringe, hoping I don’t sound as clueless as I feel. While I know a lot about the drivers and teams from watching the documentary, there are still so many small details I’m light on.

“All right,” he says, slowing his pace enough to explain. “It refers to the set of rules that all teams must follow. In other words, the formula. Everything from the car’s design to the engines to the amount of fuel we can use during a race is regulated by the governing body—so all the teams are competing on a level playing field.”

I nod, furiously scribbling in my notepad as we walk, hoping I don’t trip and fall on my face. “So, the cars aren’t all that different?”

“They’re different in some ways, but the differences are within strict limits. Aerodynamics, engine performance, tiremanagement—those are the key areas where teams try to gain an edge, but we all work within the same formula.”

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