Page 2

Cherry

“Access denied!”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I swipe my pass over the scanner again and see the same red flashing light, the same loud buzz of rejection.

“Access denied!”

With a shaky hand, I wipe my pass on the front of my jeans, hoping this will be the magical answer to my woes. Today is the first day of my new job, my dream job , and it’s already turning into a nightmare.

“Excuse me!”

I turn to the owner of the loud, impatient voice and step to the side with an apologetic smile, watching as they scan their pass and are promptly let through with a serene green light and a melodic “Have a nice day.”

“So, you do work,” I mutter to the scanner in front of me. It’s my new nemesis and as I once again scan my pass, unsuccessfully, I think it may be out to get me.

“Having some trouble? ”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention at the growly voice behind me and I take a beat to get my racing heart under control. I’d know that voice anywhere—it had featured in every one of my teenage (and beyond) fantasies. And it now belonged to my boss.

It’s not appropriate to have a crush on your boss, Cherry , I lecture myself. Even if said boss has been a part of your life since day one. Even if said boss was the person responsible for naming you. You must be professional.

“Nicky!” I launch myself at him, failing at the first opportunity to behave like a professional. This is not appropriate behaviour for the employee/employer dynamic I know we are supposed to adopt.

“Cherry.” His arms wrap around me, holding me close for several blissful seconds, before taking a step back, his gaze scanning the crowd around us.

My cheeks heat and I know I’ve already messed up. When you’re as famous as Nicky—Nicolai—Dimitrios, you can’t be seen in public hugging random women. Even if the random woman is an old family friend.

“Sorry,” I mumble, fanning my face to get my cheeks under control. It’s the bane of my redheaded existence, the ability to blush at the drop of a hat. I’d rather have been born with just about any other talent, but here we are.

“It’s fine,” he waves away my apology, his warm brown eyes sweeping over me, giving my cheeks another reason to heat.

I’d agonised for hours, days, weeks, over what to wear for my first day with the Vortex Motors team at the Albert Park racetrack and had settled on simple is best. Simple means jeans and a white t-shirt. Nothing to scream, “Look at me!”

“Do I look okay?” I ask when he continues to stare and not say anything.

I hate the note of uncertainty in my voice and want to blame Troy for putting that self-doubt there in a place it had never been, but really, it was my fault for letting him treat me like that.

For not being strong enough to stand up for myself. For not getting out sooner.

Nicky blinks slowly, tilting his head, his eyebrows slanting. “You look more than okay, Cherry.”

I beam at him, soaking in the fact that the world’s sixth sexiest sportsman (yes, this is an actual thing) thinks I look more than okay.

“But,” he continues, and my shoulders round inwards, ready for the blow.

Great. Just like Troy said, there’s always something I need to improve on.

“Yes?” My voice quivers on just this one word and I breathe in deeply to brace for what’s next.

He traces his finger over the sleeve of my white t-shirt. “You need to wear our team colours.”

I try but cannot hide my grimace. What he doesn’t know is I have half a wardrobe filled with his team merchandise and paraphernalia; I just can’t bring myself to wear any of them. Fire engine red just does not work with my hair colour.

I keep this bit of vanity to myself and nod. “Will do.”

His lips tip up into that half-smile of his that drives the F1 female audience wild.

It’s part of his brand, the elusive Ice Man who rarely deigns to give a full laugh or smile.

They’ve rarely been gifted with a full Nicolai grin, one that’s been shared with me generously throughout my life growing up.

“Shall we go in?” He motions to my enemy (the security scanner) and I hang my head. I’ve faltered at the first obstacle; unable to even get my pass to work .

“You go,” I urge, noting the pack of people waiting for him just through the gates. We’re at the paddock entrance, away from the public, and I’m sure he has somewhere much more important to be.

Me? I need to find another way in.

“Come on, Cherry.” He takes my hand into his much larger one and pulls me along behind him. “She’s with me,” he tells the burly security guard who waves us in without so much as a blink of his squinty, scary eyes.

She’s with me . Three little words that mean nothing to him, but have my heart dancing. What would it be like to have that be true? To have someone like the man who’s just dropped my hand like a hot potato claim me as his own?

Never going to happen, Cherry . You need to get out of your head and grow up.

I nod, so entrenched in my internal lectures I lose sight of Nicky being swallowed up by the pack of media around him.

They’re sticking microphones in his face and taking photos of his every step, and he moves through them like a boat cutting through water: his handsome head is held high, sunglasses now down over his eyes, and his profile (the only part I can see of him) carved in stone.

What must it be like to live under a microscope like that?

I’m jostled to the back of the pack and almost lose my footing due to the sheer volume of people clamouring to get to him when a hand darts out—fast as lightning—and grabs my wrist.

Startled, I look up to find Nicky pulling me up close next to him, sparing me the swiftest of glances, like he’s reassuring himself I’m unharmed, before placing his hand on the small of my back and hurrying us into the team hospitality trailer, leaving the trail of media behind us .

“Thanks,” I say as the doors close behind us.

He raises his sunglasses and looks around. “You can find Serena back there. She’ll be your point of contact while you’re on the team.”

I tip my head back and smile up at him. “But you’re still the boss?”

His gaze sharpens on my face and my stomach does that swooping thing it does when he’s around.

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

I watch him walk away, wondering at the gritty tone in his voice. Does he not want me here? Has Matt forced me on him? Is this a pity job?

Drowning in a pool of self-doubt, wondering if my brother’s best friend is already regretting having me here, I turn to find a stunning woman with caramel skin and the most enviable dark ringlets dancing around her perfect face, smiling at me.

“Hi, I’m Serena,” she says in a posh British accent that makes me want to swoon. She sounds like Kate Winslet and I have a crush on her already.

“Hi!” I wave and immediately feel stupid. Why am I this way? “I’m Cherry—I mean Cherie Brenner.” My cheeks flame as I stumble over my name, and I wish I could start the day over.

Serena’s smile widens, and she pulls me in for an unexpected but welcomed hug. “I’ve heard so much about you, Cherry.”

She has?

“You have?” I’m dumbfounded that someone who looks and sounds like her has even heard of me.

“Of course,” she laughs, a deep husky sound I adore. “Your brother spoke about you all the time. ”

Well, that makes sense. Matt had been part of the team since the very beginning. Of course he’d have mentioned me over the years.

“We’re so happy to have you join the team. Nicky showed me your Instagram page and I’m impressed. You’ve got talent, girl.”

I grin at her, her praise dousing the flames of insecurity flickering deep within me. “Thanks, but it’s just a hobby.”

She shakes her head. “Not anymore.”

What?

“Um, pardon?” I look around, searching for a clue, a vowel, or a hint of what she’s talking about. I’m here as part of the social media team. What’s my personal Instagram got to do with that?

Serena puts her hand on my shoulder and guides me to a small room off to the side. “Welcome to my office.” She waves her hand around the space with a sunny grin. “Actually, this will be our office.”

I look around, wondering how one person could work in here, let alone two.

“Great,” I lie, mustering up a wonky smile.

She laughs again and the tightness I’ve had in my chest all morning loosens. The woman in front of me feels more like a friend than a foe.

“It’s not much, but we’ll hardly be in here. It’s a place to get a reprieve from the craziness of the weekend. Which,” she looks at her watch with a grimace, “has already started. Put your bag here and follow me.”

I do as she says, placing my backpack under her desk. “Do you have your camera with you?” she asks from the doorway.

“Yes.” I always have my camera with me.

“Good, bring it along. I’ll explain everything as we walk. ”

Once again, I do as she says, skip-hopping to keep up with her longer legs as she power-walks us out of the Vortex Motors team trailers and into a dark tunnel.

“This leads to the drivers’ garages. Which is where the action happens. Today is media day, so the drivers will do press conferences and interviews all day.”

I nod. I’ve followed Nicky’s career over the years and know exactly how an F1 race weekend unfolds.

“I’ll show you around now, while it’s still fairly quiet, and then starting tomorrow, you’ll be free to do your thing.”

My feet falter and I put a hand on her arm to stop her. “Which is what?”

She frowns. “Hasn’t Nicky spoken to you?”

Not since my brother’s wedding and that’s a memory I only pull out and examine when I’m alone to blush and swoon in peace.

“Not really. He just gave a vague description of the role, and since then I’ve been communicating with his PA, Sue, to get all the logistics sorted.”