Page 103 of Close Contact
The physical reaction to it was visceral and nearly painful. My hands started to tremble, and I folded them together to try to conceal it. My skin prickled with heat, my mouth suddenly dry, and I bit down on my bottom so hard tears sprung to my eyes.
Oh, God. I probably looked like a fucking disaster, too. Who knew what my hair looked like—and did it have grass in it? Was my slip wrinkled? Was my makeup a wreck? Jesus, I hadn’t even seen myself, but Callum hardly ever left me put together.
This was it. I was going to lose my job before the season was over. Our secret would be out and my dream would slip from my grasp. Would Ferrari drop me?
“I, um,” I stammered, but I suddenly couldn’t breathe. Callum put an arm around my shoulders, and I almost shruggedhim off. Panic rose like bile, but before I could say anything, the woman spoke again as she turned fully in my direction.
“There you are,” she said, tone level, as if she didn’t hold my fate in her hands. “I’ve been looking for you.”
I blinked at her, unable to form a sentence. I glanced at Callum for help, but he was just watching me, expression perfectly unreadable, save for the way his thumb rubbed soothing circles on my shoulder. He was going to support however I wanted to handle this, butwhat the fuck was I supposed to do?
I nodded at him once, silently telling him I’d handle it. He seemed to understand because he returned the nod and dropped his arm, placing a short but sweet kiss to my temple with his swollen, kiss-bitten lips. With a final parting smile and a glare in the woman’s direction, he disappeared into the shadows of the night.
And I stared at his back until I could no longer see him. He was both my salvation and my ruin. But right now, only I could save myself.
Finally, I pivoted to face the mysterious woman, forcing myself to breathe even as my mind spiraled. Who was she? The FIA? Team PR? Security? I scanned her from head to toe, spotting a press pass hanging around her neck, and fuck, I really thought I was going to vomit all over her Prada heels.
Press?
Mon Dieu, this was going to be in headlines by tomorrow morning. There was no getting out of this one. May as well rip the Band-Aid off.
She met my gaze without flinching. I had never seen her before in my life.
With my heart pounding in my throat, I asked, “I’m sorry, do we… know each other?” My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
Her mask slipped, and she grinned wickedly, bright green eyes gleaming with excitement. It only confused me more. “No, but can I just say, I’m ahugefan?”
I crossed my arms over my stomach, feeling rather exposed in my slip with nothing but lingerie under it. “Th-thank you. Do you mind if we go inside? I have a photoshoot I need to be at.”
She nodded eagerly, stepping aside. I brushed past her and turned to go up the stairs right inside the entrance. She followed.
“Don’t mind the outfit,” I mumbled, brain an absolute mess.
“Oh, I think it’s hot,” she said.
I paused on the steps and turned to her, gesturing to her badge. “If you’re here for a story, I’m off the record.”
Her full, thick lashes fluttered before she looked down at her chest and burst out laughing. “Oh, shit, I’m so sorry.” She pulled it off and handed it to me. I warily took it from her, and looked at it but failed to understand what I was supposed to be looking at. “It’s not real. I had to get through security somehow.”
What. The. Fuck?
Was she some sort of super fan? A stalker? Oh, my God, was I in an empty stairwell with a serial killer?!
“My name is Ivy Sinclair.”
My brain scrambled uselessly through every memory I had of press conferences, FIA bulletins, grid parties—nothing. No Ivy Sinclair rang a bell.
“I do PR,” she went on breezily, as if breaking into a paddock under false credentials wascompletely normal behavior.“Currently with Halberd & Royce. They’re big in global sports branding, mostly tennis and football. I’ve been trying to break into motorsports for years.” She glanced up the stairwell, then back at me, her voice lowering slightly. “But as a woman… well.” Her smile thinned. “You know how it is.”
I did. God,didI. The tension in my chest loosened slightly. “So, you’re not here to… kill me?”
She snorted. “Not unless you blow me off after I finish my pitch.”
That earned her a half-smile. “Pitch?”
“Look,” she said, her tone shifting from cheeky to serious as she took a step closer. “Until now, the only stories about women in F1 have been about girlfriends, exes, grid girls, and paddock scandals. Butyou—you’re changing the narrative. You’re competing, winning, speaking out against sexism. And despite all the politics, you’re still gettingresults.”
I swallowed hard.
