Page 10 of Formula Fling

Lex

I’ve got abanging head, the kind of headache that feels like it’s splitting my skull in two. I should be used to this feeling by now. God knows it happens often enough, and yes, I understand it’s my own doing. I groan, lifting a hand to rub my temples, eyes still shut as I lie there, trying to piece together where the hell I am.

I know I’m not in my own bed.

And… I know I’m on a settee.

My body aches in that way it always does after a night of drinking too much and making bad decisions. Except this time, something feels… off.

I open my eyes.

This isn’t my flat.

I sit up too fast and instantly regret it, the room spinning around me. I’m in a hotel room—narrow walls, a small bed with rumpled sheets and a desk. I see a shut door, presumably the bathroom, and hear the shower running.

I rub at my eyes, trying to make sense of it all. How the hell did I get here and where exactly is here?

Then slowly, it starts coming back to me. The nightclub. Ronan and I getting hammered. Ronan scrapping with those blokes—some cocky idiots who couldn’t handle the attention we always attract. Carlos pulling him away and reminding me to stay out of it as I was on thin ice with Spencer and Harley.

Flashes of recollection. More dancing. More side-eyes from those assholes.

The sound of Posey’s voice in the background, her arm around my waist to help me out of the club. Getting into a cab and then… nothing.

Posey.

I rub my head, piecing the puzzle together. I must be in her hotel room. I glance around, still dazed, possibly a little drunk, and look at my watch. It’s too bloody early as the sun’s barely up.

With a sigh, I stand and stretch, feeling the soreness in my muscles. My eyes search for medicine and I spot it on the drawers… a single brew coffee pot. Thank fuck.

I nearly lunge for the machine, knowing that one cup will make me feel better, only to be immediately frustrated by the realization I can’t get to the water with Posey in the bathroom. I’m almost desperate enough to test the lock on the door to see if I can sneak in to grab the necessary life liquid to make me a cup of java.

But then the shower goes silent and I decide to wait it out. I consider lying back down but I’ve always been the type, no matter how bad or hungover I feel, once I’m up, I get going. Caving into weakness is against all I stand for.

My eyes land on the desk near the window, a laptop open on it with a screen saver rotating photos of animals—fuzzy puppies, cute goats, tiny kittens. If I didn’t know this was Posey’s room before, I know it now.

A bit nosy, maybe, but my curiosity gets the better of me. She is, after all, writing an article about Crown Velocity and she’s doing it from the perspective of being at my side. What exactly has she said so far?

I glance back at the bathroom, count on the fact she’s a girl and will take a bit to come out, and without an ounce of shame, quickly tap on the mouse pad to disengage the screen saver.

Bingo… there’s an open document. Her security is abysmal, not even a login required, and well… it’s almost like she just left it out in a public place waiting to be read.

I scan the visible text and quickly discern it’s not a news piece at all, but I’m not quite sure what the hell it is.

The words on the screen jump out at me.“He pulled her closer, his hands roaming her body as she moaned against his lips, the heat between them unbearable…”

Chin jerking inward, only to extend forward so I can get closer to the screen, I frown at the laptop. What the hell is this? I scroll down, skimming over the sentences. It’s not just one scene—it’s a full-blown, spicy-as-hell sex scene. Names I don’t recognize, characters I’ve never heard of. It’s… a story?

“Well, well, well,” I murmur to myself, a grin creeping onto my face. “What cheeky bit of fun is this?”

Straitlaced, all-business with a side of fuzzy puppies Posey Evans writing a sex scene? I glance at the closed bathroom door before scrolling back up, wanting to make sense of it all, and that’s when I see the title:Formula Fling.

That’s when it clicks.

This isn’t an article. It’s a book. A sexy book… I guess what you’d classify as a romance novel. Or maybe it’s erotic literature. I really don’t know the difference and didn’t read enough to make a solid opinion, but a suspicion forms in my mind.

Posey’s not here to write a piece on Crown Velocity or FI at all. She’s writing a damn novel and if the title is any evidence, it’s based on the formula racing world.

And not just any novel—it appears to be a bloody romance novel, with me as her inside man.

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