Page 3 of Formula Fling

“You think you’re untouchable because you’re good on the track?” She leans forward, eyes blazing. “Well, guess what? The next best driver’s contract is up, and I can replace you tomorrow.” She puts her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “You’re this close to getting dropped.”

I swallow, the cockiness draining out of me just a bit.

“You’ve got one chance,” she continues. “Shape up or ship out.”

I grit my teeth. “Fine. I’ll behave.”

“Damn right you will and I’m assigning you a babysitter to make sure you stay on the straight and narrow.” She stands, towering over the desk. “I’ve got an American reporter who wants to write a piece on Crown Velocity and needs the behind-the-scenes tour of everything. She’s going to do a hype piece to get more Americans interested in FI—particularly females—and it’s publicity we can’t pass up. She’s going to shadow you for the next few weeks, up through the opening race at the Bahrain Global Prix.”

My jaw tightens. “What exactly doesshadowmean?”

“She’ll be with you for everything. Your day-to-day activities, training, team meetings, marketing and PR activities. Essentially, if you’re not in bed sleeping with your latest paddock bunny, I want her with you so she gets the full flavor of what it’s like to be an FI driver.”

“And what’s the point of making me do this?” I ask through gritted teeth, because this is going to be a severe cramp in my lifestyle. I sure as hell don’t want to babysit a bloody reporter, or worse, have her babysit me.

Harley’s smile turns almost feral as she leans her hands on her desk. “Here’s the best part. If she writes about you in glowing terms, you get to keep your job. If she writes an article that reflects pretty much the way you’ve been behaving lately, you’re fired. Easy as that.”

My jaw tightens. “Is this a bloody joke?”

“Afraid not.” She smiles sweetly at me. “You screw up and it’s over. No second chances.”

“When’s she coming?” I ask, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface.

“She’ll be here in about an hour,” Harley says, sitting back down, her tone calm once again. “Don’t go too far away.”

Harley puts her glasses on and leans forward to peer at her laptop. I’ve been effectively dismissed.

I don’t say a word. I stand and walk out, stewing over this unfortunate change in my circumstance.

CHAPTER 2

Posey

Sitting in theCrown Velocity waiting room outside Harley Patrick’s office, I feel the weight of my lie pressing down on me like a too-tight seat belt. My foot taps against the sleek, polished floor—nerves, mostly. I had no clue what to wear because this isn’t exactly an interview but it’s not quite a real job either. So I went with a pair of khaki wool pants and a cream-colored, oversized cable-knit sweater to ward off the England chill that seemed to follow me indoors. Paired with camel-colored booties, I feel somewhat fashionable but not overdressed.

It’s been a whirlwind week. I spoke to Ms. Patrick by phone ten days ago. It seems my pitch for an exposition piece about Crown Velocity made it to her desk. I was stunned when she offered me an opportunity I couldn’t pass up… come to the UK, hang with all the best at Crown Velocity and have exclusive access to everything. It was exactly what I wanted—no, needed—for my plans… and despite the fraud I committed to get this opportunity, I couldn’t help but think karma was smiling down on me.

I got my neighbor, sweet old Millie Padgett, to collect my mail and watch my house, then left rural eastern North Carolina behind for London.

So yeah… not exactly a job. More like an assignment under false pretenses, but I don’t regret my actions. In a way, I’m like an undercover journalist, except I’m not a journalist at all.

I’m a romance author.

A self-published historical romance author—thinkBridgerton—to be exact, although I’m not as good as the mighty Julia Quinn. Still, I’ve been doing this for the past three years and I’m making a decent income, enough that I was able to leave my job as a floral designer in my small hometown. While there was a bit of heartache in walking away from a job that held personal meaning, I never looked back.

It’s a risk I’m taking now, not only lying about being a journalist to gain inside access to the world of formula racing, but if I don’t make a successful jump from historical romance to sports romance, my career could literally shrivel up and die. This is a whole lot of effort and risk, and this might just implode in my face.

But as my dad always said, “You can’t catch rabbits if you’re chasing butterflies in a snowstorm.”

My lips tip upward at the memory, even as my heart squeezes with sorrow. My dad would make up the most ridiculous sayings, trying to impart wisdom, but they never quite made complete sense. I miss him so much, but I know one thing—he would have been fully supportive of me doing this. He was telling me that there’s no reward without risk.

Just… he passed the message on with butterflies and rabbits.

The dour executive secretary, Rosalind Pierce, sits at her desk, typing away, completely oblivious to the fact that I have no business being here.

She also has no clue how determined I am to see this through. I’ve come too far to back down now and I’m spunky, if nothing else. This is my chance to write something new, something authentic about Formula International racing. Sure, I had to fake credentials to get here, using my real name of Elizabeth Evans and not my nickname, Posey, but the sport is exploding in popularity, and if I want to write a convincing romance novel set in this world, I need to see it from the inside.

A door opens into the lobby and Harley Patrick steps through. I’ve done a lot of research into FI racing, which included devouring an intensely insightful documentary series on the sport. After getting this opportunity, I dove heavier into researching Crown Velocity. Ms. Patrick looks every bit as powerful as I imagined. She’s beautiful and tall, with sharp green eyes that look like they miss nothing. Her dark blond hair is in a casual ponytail, and she wears jeans, a Crown Velocity long-sleeve polo and Converse Chucks. Despite her laid-back appearance, she carries herself with the kind of confidence that can make or break someone’s career with a single sentence. I don’t imagine they come any tougher than a woman who raced stock cars for a living.

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