Page 54 of Formula Fling

We take an express elevator to one of the sky lobbies where the party is already in full swing. The walls are floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a breathtaking panoramic view of the Manama skyline beyond which stretches to the Arabian Gulf, its dark waters shimmering with reflections of the lights from the towers.

It’s hard to reconcile the conservative nature of this Islamic country with this ultramodern event. I had learned that while alcohol is prohibited to Muslims, in some circumstances it is allowed in specific licensed establishments such as hotels, bars and clubs, primarily for tourists and expatriates. Maeve explained to me that this allowance was balanced with the country’s Islamic laws, which encourage moderation and have strict punishments for drunken behavior. As such, I plan to only have one drink tonight.

The lights are low, illumination provided by neon orbs, and techno music pulses softly in the background so as not to disrupt conversation. It has a dance club vibe to it and everyone is dressed in designer clothes and sparkling jewels. Sleek, polished floors reflect the light, and large, abstract sculptures made of chrome and glass stand strategically throughout the room, adding to the cutting-edge atmosphere.

“There’s the crown prince,” Lex says, pointing to a man in the traditional long flowing robe known as athobe, complete with theghutraheadscarf. I did my research on Bahrain, as it will make a beautiful, culturally vibrant addition to my novel and I want to paint a vivid picture.

Lex and I walk around and he shakes hands with people, introducing me to everyone simply as “my friend, Posey Evans.” The room is filled with drivers, team principals, sponsors and enough media to make it feel like we’re at the Oscars. The hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses fill the air, and I’m a little breathless as I take it all in. There are tables adorned with glowing centerpieces—clear glass vases stuffed with illuminated crystals, their soft blue and gold hues providing ambient light. Plush, angular couches and chairs are scattered around the edges of the room, inviting guests to lounge in style.

Everything is ultramodern with the pulse of glamour, which is so anti-Posey that I want to giggle over how strange it is for me to be here.

“Come on,” Lex says, steering me toward the bar. “Let’s get you a drink.”

“You’re not going to have one?” I ask. I know he’s been abstaining, but I figured he’d partake of at least one cocktail.

He grins at me and shakes his head. “Don’t you remember… I’ve turned over a new leaf since Posey Evans came into my life.”

I blush to the roots of my hair, not from the words, but rather from the actual happiness I hear in his tone. I can hear just how real this is for him and if my heart wasn’t already dangerously on the precipice of being lost to him forever, it’s hanging by a thread now.

Then Lex does the unthinkable. He takes my hand in his and winds through the crowd in search of a bar. I glance around, afraid of the messaging, and curious eyes follow our movements. I have the urge to pull away and yet, I love the feel of him against me too much to do so.

A familiar voice calls out and I turn to see Carlos Moreno heading our way. His warm smile instantly puts me at ease and I tug my hand from Lex’s.

“Posey!” Carlos exclaims, pulling me into a friendly hug. “It’s good to see you again. How’s the article coming along?”

“Good,” I say as we pull apart, but I can’t think of anything else to say about it since I haven’t even attempted to write anything yet.

But that’s good enough for Carlos. He turns to Lex, the men clasping hands.

“Ready for the race?” Lex asks.

Carlos shrugs casually, but there’s a twinkle in his eye. “As ready as I’ll ever be. But let’s be honest, it’s not about being ready—it’s about being lucky, right?”

Lex scoffs, but there’s affection in his tone. “You’ve never needed luck, mate. Just try not to run me off the track.”

Carlos chuckles. “No promises.”

Before the banter can continue, another driver approaches, and I recognize the tall, striking man with sun-kissed blond hair and sharp blue eyes.

Aussie Reid Hemsworth—he was one of my documentary crushes—who drives for Matterhorn FI Racing based out of Zurich. He’s dressed in a tailored suit that fits him perfectly, and the laid-back smile he flashes like he just got done with a surfing competition is enough to make anyone swoon.

Lex introduces us and apparently word has gotten around. He nods at me with sparkling eyes. “The beautiful reporter I heard is shadowing you.” He takes my hand, giving a firm, yet gentlemanly shake. “Pleasure to meet you, Posey.”

I immediately like him in real life as opposed to what I saw on TV. He seems like the type of guy you’d sit down and have a few beers with while discussing climate change or endangered species.

Reid turns to Lex and pokes at him. “Now I see why you’ve been hiding her.”

Lex chuckles, shaking his head. “Merely keeping her safe from the likes of you, Hemsworth.”

Reid laughs, the sound deep and infectious. “Oh, come on, mate. I’m harmless.”

“Harmless, my ass,” a deep voice with a distinct German accent says.

I turn to see a broad-shouldered man who’s a bit older than Lex, Carlos and Reid, with dark hair and piercing gray eyes. He’s dressed in a sleek black suit, his expression serious but with a hint of amusement in his eyes as he shakes Reid’s and Carlos’s hands.

“Stefan Wagner,” Lex says to me, motioning toward the German driver, although I recognized him too. “Racing for Rosso Corso GTX. And he’s a menace on the track.”

Stefan turns to me. “Don’t listen to him. I’m only a menace to people who can’t keep up.”

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