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The mountain of logistics, that is. Scheduling flights and accommodation and luggage and personal effects had my head spinning so much, I hadn’t really thought much about what specifically I’d be doing when I was here.

I’d assumed it would be backend, boring stuff.

Out-of-the-way stuff. Stuff that wouldn’t have me anywhere near the world’s sixth sexiest sportsman on a regular basis.

“After I saw the photos on your Instagram, I decided I wanted you taking photos over the course of the weekend.”

Huh?

“Um.” I skip to catch up to her as she starts walking again. “You want me to what now?”

“Take photos. ”

Yes, I got that part. But still.

“Don’t you have professional photographers to do that?”

She nods. “The team has ten.”

Ten?

“So…” I let this one word do the talking. Surely, they don’t need eleven?

Serena stops and I bump into her. “Sorry,” I mutter.

“Your work is different from what we usually see on our Vortex Motors page. We want you to capture the in-between moments. To curate a social media page that tells a more personal story of what takes place over a race weekend.”

Oh, great. That clears it up.

“And everyone is okay with this?” If I do this, it means I’ll be around the drivers, the team, everyone, all weekend long! I’m not sure Nicky will be happy with any of it.

She flashes another grin, taking her beauty up another notch. “They have to be. Nicky insisted on it.”

I gulp. “Okay,” I say when I can find words again. “Great.”

We walk into the team garage together and I’m instantly blown away. It’s like the air is electrified.

“Pretty special, hey?” Serena asks, reading my expression with a knowing smile.

I look around at everyone working in unison. It’s like being privy to the inside of a beehive: a group of people all working in harmony with one goal in mind, to have the fastest car.

To win.

“Here, you need to wear this.”

She hands me a t-shirt and I breathe out another sigh of relief as she winks at me. It’s a team shirt, but not the usual bright red one, which when combined with my hair, makes me look like a walking red pepper. This one is black with red trim and has Nicky’s number on the back.

Just the thought of wearing it around him has me squirming inside, and I lecture myself about this reaction. There will be hundreds and thousands of fans out there with his name and number written on them (this is his home race, after all); there is nothing special whatsoever about me wearing it.

“You know, you must be pretty special to Nicky,” Serena says, like she’s arguing for the opposing side of my internal debate.

I blink up at her. “Why do you say that?”

She waves her hand around. “He’s just careful with who he brings into the inner circle, you know?”

“Yeah,” I nod. He’s learnt the hard way that when you’re one of the most recognisable sportsmen in the world, you have to always be on your guard. “But I’ve known him my whole life. He’s the person who gave me my name. He’s like a big brother to me.”

Her eyebrows rise. “You look at that man like a brother?”

She points to the life-sized cardboard image of Nicky in the back of the garage and I just know a blush on my cheeks is blooming to life.

The man is gorgeous, with his mop of thick brown hair, short on the sides with a slight curl on top.

His eyes are a warm, velvety brown that I’ve gotten lost in more times than I can count.

His cheekbones are high and are a perfect complement to his straight, aristocratic nose.

And his lips? They’re plump, pink and deeply kissable.

He’s tall for an F1 driver, towering over my five-foot-three frame at just over six foot, and I know from that ‘sexiest sportsman alive’ article, which I’ve read to the point of memorising, that his olive-skinned body is sculpted out of pure muscle and zero per cent body fat.

He’s also kind, generous, and insanely talented to boot. He’s unfairly perfect.

“Cherry?”

I blink out of my daze to find Serena smirking at me. “Right, sorry. What was the question?”

She squeezes my arm. “Never mind. I think I have my answer.”

I clear my throat and fiddle with the shirt in my hands, knowing it’s futile to try to change her mind. And really? What woman wouldn’t be attracted to Nicolai Dimitrios?

“Right, well. It’s not important, anyway,” I babble, to save my dignity. “The man has seen me in braces. I’m just a little sister to him. That’s why I’m here.”

Serena’s gaze travels over me, taking in my jeans and t-shirt ensemble, tracking over my face and lingering on my long red hair, swept off my face in a painstaking braid that took three attempts to get just right.

“I don’t know about that, honey. You’re a gorgeous young woman who is going to get a lot of attention from the testosterone-filled garages up and down the pit lane. And I, for one, can’t wait to see how he deals with all of it.”

A loud bang interrupts the plethora of reasons and examples I have to counter her unsound logic.

That Nicky has never once (okay, except for that once) treated or even seen me as anything other than a treasured younger sister.

And that no amount of wishing on shooting stars or four-leaf clovers will ever make that not true.

I’m just here to do a job. And to find myself again after my toxic relationship failed. I’m not planning on spending the year falling for someone new, knowing that at the end of it all, my heart will inevitably be shattered all over again.