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LONDON

TWO WEEKS LATER

NATALIA

She slants a look at me over her square-framed glasses while simultaneously taking a bite of fruit-topped porridge and typing one-handed on the laptop.

She’s always reminded me of a gray-haired version of costume designer Edna from The Incredibles : short, acerbic, intense.

Her scratchy, rapid-fire voice sounds like a malfunctioning kitchen appliance.

Just to look at her, it’d be easy to discount her as an eccentric sixtysomething who probably has a house full of weird art and jazz LPs.

But this is the Nefeli Laskaris, the pioneering Athens-born British journalist who broke dozens of nineties scandals wide—political, corporate, art world—with ruthless determination and searing wit. She’s a legend.

She and her husband, Konstantin Laskaris, own a bunch of publications.

Their only child, Alexander, is a gorgeous insufferable jerk who’s my coworker at ARJ .

We went on a sorta-kinda date earlier this year when I was trying to stop perseverating on Klaus, and suffice it to say the evening was a disaster.

Fortunately, Nefeli has no clue it happened.

I pull out a chair and sit, unslinging my Kate Spade briefcase.

One of Nefeli’s phones rings. She peers at it and sends the call to voicemail.

“ Eeuugghh , that little weasel,” she mutters under her breath.

Never one to waste energy on small talk, she fixes me with a look and adds, “Congratulations on your first successful season with the magazine. I’m giving you a raise, love. Twelve and a half percent.”

“Holy shi—I, uh… wow! Really? That’s incredibly generous. Are you sure?”

“Trying to talk me out of it?” she asks, amused. “Of course I’m bloody sure. Kon tried to wrangle me down to a more modest figure, but you certainly shouldn’t.”

“Of course not,” I say with a laugh. “I’m just surprised.”

“Know your worth, love. I don’t think it’s inaccurate to say you’re in part responsible for the growth of F1’s popularity with women this year.

Your voice is spot-on. You bring the sexy and the fun, whilst making technical details approachable to new fans.

Your program on our YouTube channel has massive views.

Men want to look at you, and women want to be you. ” She takes a sip of her cocktail.

“Oh my God—thank you. I’ll do my best to make you proud.

” I root in my bag for my legal pad and lay it on the table, rotating it Nefeli’s way.

“I’ve been wanting to talk with you about a story idea that I think will knock everyone’s socks off.

I’d like to do a deep dive on Emerald’s Cosmin Ardelean. Not only is he—”

“Nonono,” Nefeli says, planting a fingertip on the pad and scooting it away. “That’s too obvious. Autosport and Racer both have splashy features on him in the works.”

“But I might have a unique angle to explore.”

One of her phones vibrates, and she silences it again while shaking her head.

“No. I have something better. I’d like you to show the world what an F1 team principal really does.

They’re practically celebrities these days, but who the bloody hell knows what they do ?

” She picks up her spoon and waves it grandly like a scepter.

“Sit on their thrones and bark orders, when they’re not spouting something quippy for that TV show everyone’s addicted to? ”

There’s a tugging in my chest, a prickle of dread at where this could be headed. I slide the legal pad back into my briefcase. “Might be a hard sell. Making the businessy part of the sport, uh… exciting.”

“Bollocks.” Nefeli sinks her spoon into the porridge.

“Business can be hot. Do you have any clue how popular those ‘billionaire romances’ are? The glamour, the power… of course most real billionaires look like fairy-tale goblins with expensive watches, but”—she holds my eye with a twinkle of mischief—“not all of them.”

At this point I’m praying she’s not going where I think she is. I force a patient smile and wait for her to continue.

“Allonby’s boss is rather a prick,” she states. “And Bruno at Coraggio could talk the legs off a chair, but he’s not ‘eye candy.’ And we want scads of good photos.”

Nonono, don’t say it…

“The obvious choice is Klaus Franke at Emerald. He’s handsome, rich as Croesus, and a bit tragic—dead wife and that.”

I try not to let my shoulders visibly sag. “True, but… maybe that’s exactly why he won’t love the idea of a big feature. I get the sense he’s weird about journalists.”

Yeah, I “got that sense” six months ago when my heart was breaking in a hotel room in Montréal…

“Rubbish. That sneaky little bitch from Chalk Talk did him dirty a few years ago, but I’m sure he’s over it by now. Emerald’s star is ascending. He’ll cooperate to keep the momentum up. And I know you’re close with the team owner. Morgan could insist he comply if the old boy is a beast about it.”

My mouth is suddenly so dry, I have to excuse myself to get a glass of water. On my way back, I think of a possible out.

“What if Alexander took this one?” I ask my boss.

She lifts a pencil-thin eyebrow. “I love my Alekos, but thée mou, no. His writing doesn’t have the proper touch for this. He thinks he’s the second coming of Hunter S. Thompson. What we need is your warmth, your realness. The Natalia Evans sense of fun.”

“That’s flattering, don’t get me wrong. But—”

“I want female fans to swoon, love. You can make readers fall for Klaus Franke. After winter break, you’ll do a series of interviews from the first race in March until silly season. Think of the photo ops! Women will go mad for it.”

It’d put me in far from a good light, but for a moment I consider spilling everything about Klaus’s and my history.

I allowed myself to be swayed by our attraction, and the results were unprofessional.

I have to own it, at least to myself. Giving him a second chance after that first night together was bad enough—there can’t be a third.

This assignment will be work only . I’m not letting down my guard.

Resigned, I do my best to inject enthusiasm into my smile before Nefeli clocks my resistance. “I’m sure that’d make a terrific article. Thank you for the opportunity.”

I’m screwed.

KENTUCKY

TWO WEEKS LATER

Auntie Min has always been a believer in Mary Poppins’s “A Spoonful of Sugar” philosophy, which is why she plied me with my favorite Christmas eggnog muffins before we had to redecorate the guest room.

We’ve been at it for hours. I’m sitting on the floor, screwing together a bed frame. A new queen-size mattress leans against the wall, plastic stripped off, airing out. Minnie’s on the glider rocker near the window, supervising.

I check the directions again and fish another bit of hardware out of the bag. “This big bed isn’t necessary. I don’t mind the twin when I’m here for the holidays.”

“Who says I won’t have other guests?” She combs the end of her thick silver braid with her fingers.

I narrow my eyes. “Why do you seem nervous?”

A memory comes back: her odd tone over the phone when I was in my little London flat, packing my suitcase after meeting with Nefeli, preparing to fly here to Kentucky. Auntie Min told me she has “special news for Christmas,” but isn’t sure if I’ll like it.

Could it be… Oh my God, maybe she’s getting married? What if the veterinarian fell for Minnie instead of Naomi?

A grin spreads across my face. “Auntie Min, ‘other guests’? Do you have a beau who occasionally stays the night? Because I suspect you’d make him sleep in the guest room until he buys you a ring.” I stand and flop the mattress sideways onto the bed platform, sliding it into place with my knees.

“Child, no .” She chuckles, flapping a hand at me. “Focus on your task and hush. I’ll fetch the linens so I don’t feel useless.”

“ Useless ?” I give her a hug. “Before I was even up, you spent hours packing sack lunches for the shelter. Give yourself a rest on Christmas Eve.”

“A rest feels better after you’ve done things ,” she asserts.

I follow her into the hall. “After the guest room is tidied, can we have cocoa and watch movies? I wanna do the first presents.”

It’s our tradition to open just one the night before, then watch holiday films. Minnie has always spoiled me, despite her image as a practical woman. A dozen perfectly wrapped gifts await me beneath the tree, which is loaded with ornaments I made in childhood or bought on my travels.

“Get a fire going,” she says. “I’ll pop these sheets on and heat up cocoa.”

I make a fire in the woodstove, then curl up on the floral sofa with my laptop.

One of Minnie’s crochet blankets is tucked around me, lights twinkle on the tree, the scent of white pine and spices hangs in the air.

From the kitchen comes the comforting sound of Minnie fussing about, talking to herself.

This is the house I grew up in. I can’t recall a ton about the apartments where I lived with my parents until I was seven—there were several. I remember I had an orange cat named Gingersnap at one, and my parents left it behind when we moved again.

It should’ve been a warning to me, that cat.

I pull my focus back to the document on my laptop screen:

Within the high-stakes world of Formula 1, a team principal holds the critical role, guiding the team to victory both on and off the track.

This “superboss” oversees everything from strategy to hiring to budgets, but perhaps the most important role is ensuring effective communication between experts who are all part of a precisely functioning machine of over a thousand “parts.” This complex, demanding position requires extensive knowledge and skill…

Ugh, my writing here is undeniably boring. It might as well be a ninth-grade essay. Lacking in clarity, full of facts and padding, but no damned soul.

So much for the alleged “Natalia Evans sense of fun” Nefeli lauded…