Page 19

Nicky

“It’s getting worse,” I moan into my empty room.

Since our day in Kyoto, I’ve tried my hardest to keep my distance and get things back to the way they used to be between us.

I was hoping to recapture the status quo: Cherry as the younger sister-type person, and me not feeling this way about her.

And then we land in Miami and after just one minute with her, I realised I can’t stay away.

I’m doing things I don’t normally do, just to be near her—volunteering, going out to a club, dancing in public.

And things are getting worse. I’m even more drawn to her than I was before.

My phone vibrates on the bedside table next to me and I scoop it up, grateful for any distraction from my memories of Cherry’s soft body pressed up against mine .

Frieda

Call me.

Great. This is not the distraction I was hoping for.

Frieda is my publicist and kinda intense.

She’s good at what she does, curating my public image in the best light, but the last thing I want is to speak to her before the sun has even risen.

The mere fact she’s messaging me this early means something is wrong.

And I’m pretty sure that something has to do with Cherry.

Ever since the public caught sight of her in Melbourne, they’ve been speculating about her role in the team.

Her role with me. It’s mostly been quiet murmurs, a few gossip sites commenting on how ‘close’ we seem, like two adults of opposite genders can’t be just friends.

It almost all went away after the team launched Cherry’s Corner and people got to see how talented she was at her job.

Not only does she post the most striking photos every race weekend, but she’s started doing behind-the-scenes interviews with team members that aren’t ever heard from.

As is her way, she finds the best in people and puts it on display; humanising a sport that often feels unattainable.

By doing her job well, Cherry proved she was here because she’s great at what she does. It doesn’t matter that I hired her to join the team as a favour to her brother; she’s creating a niche for herself in a crowded space and that’s not an easy thing to do.

“I can’t deal with this right now,” I tell the ceiling fan. Swinging my legs off the bed, I stand and grab my exercise gear. Before I can even contemplate ‘talking’ to my publicist this morning, I need to burn off some of this restless energy that seems to live inside me now.

Dressed in shorts and an exercise t-shirt, I take the lift down to the first floor and head to the first treadmill I see. At this time of day, the gym is half empty, with only a few other early risers or insomniacs like me getting their workout in.

I settle into a steady pace and attempt to lose myself in the music blasting in my ears.

It’s not working though, because the music just reminds me of the club last night, and now all I can think of is Cherry pressed up against me, her hips moving against mine.

I can still feel her small hands wrapped around the back of my neck, her fingers playing with my hair at the nape of my neck, sending me slightly insane in the process.

If I concentrate hard enough, I can smell her coconut scent floating around me while her hair tickled my skin.

I can picture her face as she fluttered her inky eyelashes at me and flashed her dimple.

It had taken an act of superhuman self-control and a helping of Serena’s terrible celebrity spotting to stop me from kissing her right there and then.

Gosh, when did it become so impossible to not kiss her?

After forty minutes, I give up using exercise as a distraction. Usually, I get lost in the monotony of running and this clears my mind. Today, however, my mind is filled with only one thing.

One petite woman who has no idea how she’s infiltrated my every thought.

I wipe down my treadmill and finish a bottle of water as I head back to my room. It’s now past 6.00 a.m., which is a more reasonable time to call Frieda and get it over with.

“Hey, what’s up?” I say when she answers after one ring. She lives with her phone glued to her hand, so it’s not surprising she answered so quickly.

“We have a problem.”

My stomach clenches as she gets straight to the point. “After you posted that photo of you and Cherry at the hurricane relief centre, you know the chatter about you two picked up. ”

I nod. Boy had Frieda been unhappy about that post. She’d lectured me for a solid twenty minutes about supporting a charity ‘we know nothing about.’ Usually, as a very public figure, I’m careful about who and what I throw my support behind, but on that day, I hadn’t cared.

Cherry had wanted to make a difference and my post about it got that done. It shouldn’t have been a big deal.

My publicist had vehemently disagreed. But what she was most concerned about was the picture of the two of us, looking ‘very much like a couple.’ Her words, not mine.

She’d been livid that I’d been so reckless when we’d just got the rumour mill under control.

That photo had shot us both back into the spotlight, and that’s where she likes to be in charge. My spotlight is her domain.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Her huff rings with annoyance through the phone. “You should know better.”

I do know better. Cherry has scrambled my brain.

“What’s the damage?”

My phone vibrates against my ear. “I’ve sent you a couple of articles. None from anywhere we have to worry about—no TMZ or Daily Mail —but there is a photo of the two of you dancing together that isn’t helping our narrative.”

Now it’s my turn to let out an annoyed huff. I was careless last night. “Sorry about that, too.”

Frieda’s silences are scarier than her outbursts and I pace my room, waiting for the next shoe to drop. Something she’s not telling me yet.

“People are digging into Cherry. Into who she was before she joined the team, who she worked for, who she dated. Luckily, she’s pretty boring, so nothing much has come from it.

But she needs to be prepared. If the two of you continue to be friendly in public.

” I don’t miss the emphasis on the word friendly. “Then this is only going to get worse.”

My heart sinks. I knew this was something to worry about before she joined the team; it was a concern I raised with Matt.

We live life in the public eye, travelling with the media watching our every move.

It’s the part of this sport that I hate.

We’re not just race drivers, sometimes we’re like performing monkeys.

And Cherry? Well, she’s young and achingly beautiful, there was zero chance of her fading into the background. Of her escaping this scrutiny.

It's up to me to help her manage it.

“I’ll talk to her. Make sure she’s prepared.”

More silence.

“Anything else?” I press.

Her sigh is less annoyed, wearier. “Just be careful with her, Nicky. No one can be prepared for this.”

“Yeah, I get it.” I know what she’s saying. It’s hard enough to deal with the gossip about my love life when it’s true; it’s brutal when people are spreading lies.

Though, given how I feel about her, the lie is looking a lot like the truth.

“Thanks.”

I end the call and pull up the text message chain with Cherry.

Chuckling at our last exchange, I check the time to see if it’s too early to contact her.

When I’d left the club, she’d been tipsy and happy, and according to James who messaged me after he got her back to the hotel safely, she’d been in bed around 2. 30 a.m.

Hmmm, she may not appreciate a 6.30 a.m. wake-up text from me. I better sweeten it with an offer to bring coffee.

Nicky

Morning, sunshine. How’s the hangover ?

Three dots appear on the screen, matching the bubbles dancing in my stomach at the thought of hearing from her. Of getting to see her again soon.

This is now the man I’ve become. Eagerly watching dots on a screen.

Cherry

Want to die.

Poor thing. I rarely drink anymore—hangovers in your thirties hit differently—but I can imagine after the champagne and tequila she was downing last night; she’ll be pretty rough today.

Nicky

Want coffee?

Cherry

More than anything…

I grin.

Nicky

I’ll be there in 20.

Cherry

thumbs up emoji

I race through my shower routine, before googling best café-style coffee nearby .

The Melbournian in Cherry will be expecting the best coffee and I plan to deliver it to her.

When I find a place that is owned by an Aussie, I know I’ve struck gold and hurry to get there.

After ordering her a large skinny latte with two sugars (just as she likes it), some pastries (she loves sweet stuff) and an egg and bacon roll (best hangover cure ever), I make my way to her room with one minute to spare.

Taking a deep breath and using the spare sixty seconds to get myself together, I knock on the door and listen to her shuffling around inside.

“Morning,” she mumbles, her voice croaky.

She’s rumpled, wearing a long Vortex Motors t-shirt that hits her mid-thigh and what looks like no pants (gulp).

Her masses of silky red hair fall in messy waves around her shoulders and down her back.

She has mascara under her eyes and last night’s lipstick still staining her lips.

In a word, she’s breathtaking.

I hand over the coffee and food, shoving my hands in my pockets, and lean against the doorframe.

“Are you coming in?” She peers over her shoulder as she walks to the couch in the middle of the room.

I need a minute.

“Yep,” I say with a nod, not moving.

She gives me a ‘You’re acting weird’ look and flops back on the couch, sipping her coffee and letting out a loud, satisfied moan.

I’m going to need another minute.

“Great coffee, thanks.”