Page 16 of Formula Fling

He has a brain.

The information dump is thrilling because it means I can add substance to my novels. As an author who wrote historical romance, I loved the research into the different time periods and portraying the relationship that couldn’t be constrained by societal norms. It was important for me to be accurate, just as writing about a sport is important.

Regardless, I have a whole new appreciation for this sport and even more respect for Lex Hamilton.

CHAPTER 6

Lex

The cafeteria atCrown Velocity isn’t what you’d expect from a racing team’s headquarters. It’s modern, sleek—like everything else here—but with an open, relaxed vibe. It’s not some five-star restaurant, but it’s damn good. The place buzzes with staff, mechanics and engineers, all grabbing their lunch before heading back to their departments. The smell of roasted chicken and something spiced wafts through the air, making my stomach growl.

Posey and I grab trays and move down the line. She picks out a sandwich, a simple ham and cheese on brown bread, while I grab a bowl of spicy Thai noodles with grilled chicken.

She watches me with a raised eyebrow as I load up, and I snicker. “What? I’ve got to keep up the calories,” I say, shrugging. “Race car drivers eat more than you’d think.”

I get an awkward smile and I’m suddenly reminded of the fact that we barely know each other. We’ve been thrown together by Harley and the team for this “article,” but I haven’t really had the chance to figure out who Posey is. I gesture to an empty table by the window, and we sit down.

“So,” I start, stirring my noodles, “tell me more about this romance gig. How did you get into that line of work?”

Posey shifts in her seat, looking a little unsure, then straightens her posture like she’s giving herself a pep talk. “Um… I guess I started as a reader. I’ve always loved reading romance novels,” she says, unwrapping her sandwich and I don’t miss her cheeks turning red, as if that admission is embarrassing.

“Don’t they label those types of booksbodice rippers?” I ask with a smirk.

Her cheeks flush a deeper red, but her eyes narrow on me. “Don’t call them that. That’s an antiquated term.”

“Mommy porn?” I say with a chuckle.

She’s poised to take a bite of her sandwich, but she sets it down. “Ewww… no. That’s not what romance novels are about.”

“But there are porn scenes in them, right?”

“No! Where are you getting this?” she demands.

I lift a shoulder, holding up a forkful of noodles. “I did some research on romance novels today. Looked at your website… which is very nice, by the way.”

“Well, I’m so sick of people saying stuff like that, or referring to it as nothing but smut. There are some wonderful stories out there full of complex and rich plots, amazing character arcs and emotional experiences.”

“And sex,” I add before taking another bite of my lunch.

She rolls her eyes, cheeks still red, but waves her sandwich at me threateningly. “Yes, sex, but what are you? Like, twelve or something? Sex is a natural and essential part of a romantic, loving relationship. I portray it in a positive way—”

Holding up my hand, I swallow my bite. “Relax, Posey. I didn’t mean to offend you. I think what you do is cool. So you went from reading to writing?”

She eyes me warily, as if she doesn’t trust my earnest interest, but there’s no doubt… I do find her fascinating. I keep my smile in place, swirl some more noodles, and I notice her shoulders relax a little. “I never thought I could actually write one but my dad kept encouraging me to give it a try. I was working in retail—a floral shop, actually—and I decided to give it a go.”

I lean back in my chair, curious now. “A florist? I can see you doing that.”

“My mom was a floral designer. I guess I inherited her talent.”

“You saidwas,” I point out gently, coming to an obvious conclusion.

Posey nods but I don’t hear a lot of emotion in her response. “She died when I was three years old. I don’t really remember her but that’s what she did for a living and well, I guess that was my way of maintaining some connection to her. She’s the one who nicknamed me Posey.”

“A bunch of flowers,” I quote, remembering when she said that before. “Did your father remarry?”

A sadness creeps into her eyes. “No. He never remarried. Raised me on his own. Just the two of us.”

There’s too much sorrow in her tone. “And he’s dead too?”

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