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ONE

Ella

IT’S SO cold out that my nips could be classified as weapons of mass destruction. I walk down the sidewalk, shivering against the biting chill as a light layer of snow dusts against my shoulders. My winter jacket is a lot better at making me look like an extra-fluffy marshmallow than keeping me warm.

Buildings stretch toward the night sky and cast eerie shadows onto the cars careening down the street at a break-neck speed. When I first moved to the city—hell, even a few months ago—the sight of the skyscrapers and classic yellow taxis brought a smile to my face. Now they serve as mocking reminders that the concrete jungle thoroughly whooped my ass. And not in the kinky spanking kind of way. More in a that-hurt-so-badly-I’m-never-sitting-again way.

I would’ve been more than happy to ghost everyone in Manhattan, but Poppy insisted on a proper send-off. It’s the only reason I’m dragging my ass to her place in twenty-degree weather. When I finally arrive, I’m so focused on thawing my frozen fingers that I walk straight into a Hot Wheels pinata .

Oh my God.

Poppy’s entire Midtown apartment has turned into a race car enthusiast’s wet dream. Signs reading “Yield to Party” and “Race in Progress” cover the walls, and checkered flags hang from the ceiling. The only thing indicating this isn’t a four-year-old’s birthday party is the excessive amount of alcohol in the kitchen.

I spy my best friend through the red, black, and white balloons floating around aimlessly. My mouth falls open, but no words come out. She’s propping up a life-size, custom cut-out of Formula 1 legend Blake Hollis with his arm draped over some unknown woman. A woman who just so happens to have my face photoshopped over hers. Lord help me .

Blake looks gorgeous as per usual, but nothing ruins a pretty face more than a bad attitude. It’s no wonder his team wants to have a biography written and released in less than a year. He needs as much good PR as he can get after last year’s train wreck of a season.

I’m studying the display, contemplating how I’d look if I were supermodel tall with boobs faker than Monopoly money instead of five-foot-two with run-of-the-mill B-cups, when Poppy pulls me in for an organ-crushing hug.

“Ella! What do you think?” She twirls in a circle, arms above her head. “Perfect, right?”

“It’s perfectly on theme,” I agree, taking another bewildered look around. It’s over-the-top, but then I wouldn’t expect anything less. Poppy has the impressive ability to hyper-focus on a project to the point where it surpasses even the highest of expectations. It’s annoying as hell when her projects happen to be my love life and floundering career, but I’ll admit her apartment looks good. I wouldn’t mind turning Blake’s cardboard body into some type of dart board, though.

Jack bounces over from where he’s sitting on the couch. He looks like he just walked off the cover of a billionaire romance novel with his perpetual smirk. He greets me with a one-armed hug before turning to Poppy. “Can I be done blowing up balloons?”

“I thought you loved blowing.” Batting her piercing blue eyes, she flutters her lashes innocently. “That’s why I gave you that job in the first place.”

“Ha.” He rolls his eyes, a teasing quirk at the corners of his mouth. “I do. I just prefer it be muscular blonds with daddy issues instead of balloons.”

The conversation snowballs into Jack’s latest dating mistake on a long list of many. He’ll probably be Poppy’s new project once I’m gone. I swallow the lump in my throat, trying not to focus on how much I’m going to miss them.

As if she can sense the chink in my armor, Poppy sighs dramatically and says, “It’s not too late to back out and look for another job in New York.”

I’m not sure how many times we can have this conversation before my head implodes. Two more times tops. Maybe. I throw my arm around her shoulders and gently shake her.

“It’s definitely too late for that. I’m going,” I confirm. A cold thrill goes up and down my spine. “And it’s a phenomenal opportunity.”

When I reached out to my mentor, George Phillips, for advice after leaving PlayMedia, I’d been expecting some career guidance. Instead, he offered me a job to be his feet-on-the-ground co-author for Blake’s authorized biography. I haven’t done much writing since my podcast, Coffee with Champions , blew up and I’m excited to get back to my roots. After what happened, the thought of podcasting, or even being in a recording room, makes my body flood with panic. I don’t want to be constantly reminded of that. But writing? That’s a safe space. It doesn’t hurt that I’ll be halfway around the world, either.

“Fine,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “But then you have to promise me you’ll find out how many Sports Illustrated models Blake’s slept with.”

I hit a balloon floating by at her and she quickly swats it away from her raven black hair to avoid any static aftermath. Poppy’s not big on sports, but she’s big on celebrity gossip, and Blake’s one of the athletes whose prowess has earned him international notoriety and prestige.

“Those aren’t the questions he’s going to want to answer, Pop,” I tell her. Blake’s extremely private. There’s also a slight chance I’m already on his bad side after comparing his partying last year to Paris Hilton circa 2006. I don’t think asking the McAllister driver his body count is going to earn me any brownie points.

“You’re no fun.” She sticks out her lower lip. “At least confirm the rumors that he has a huge dick.”

“I’d like to know that one, too,” Jack agrees with an aggressive head nod. “Honestly, if you could make a comparison chart of every driver’s dick size, I feel like that would be really beneficial to us all.”

Resting my face in my hands, I let out a groan. “Can I please have a drink before either one of you says dick again?”

A wicked grin spreads across Poppy’s lips as she leads me into the kitchen. She’s created a menu of drinks and snacks with Formula-One-themed names. I take a small sip of my McAllister Martini, cringing as the strong taste burns my throat. This isn’t a martini; it’s a hangover in a glass.

“I hate him,” Poppy announces to no one in particular. “It’s his fault you’re leaving.”

She says it so casually that it takes me a moment to realize who she’s talking about. Connor Brixton. She refuses to call him by his name. I wish she wouldn’t refer to him at all. Adios, au revoir, and arrivederci, motherfucker.

“I left PlayMedia of my own accord,” I remind her. Digging my fingernails into my palms, I shrug my shoulders. I didn’t have much of a choice, but at the end of the day, I quit; they didn’t make me leave. “Can we not talk about this?”

“Ella, c’mon. You left—”

“Poppy,” Jack warns, cutting her off. “We’re supposed to be having fun and clearly Ella doesn’t want to discuss it.”

I shoot him a grateful look, but he and Poppy are staring each other down like parents in a bitter custody battle. Now would be a great time to snack on some Pit Stop Popcorn or Crash Test Chips, but they’re on the other side of the counter.

“You’re right. Sorry,” Poppy acquiesces after a minute. She focuses her attention back on me. “Do you think Blake’s listened to your podcast?”

My shoulders tense, but I don’t bother reminding her that it’s no longer my podcast. “I’m assuming he’s looked me up. It’s not hard to put two and two together.”

“I’m sure he knows it was all in good fun,” Jack reassures me.

I didn’t say anything untrue or outrageous about Blake on my show, but I did poke some fun at his messy performance last year. My podcast was listed under sports and comedy for a reason. How could I not make a joke about him driving into more panties than wins? I’m praying George is right and Blake won’t care that I made a few subjectively funny remarks about him.

“Pop, should we give El her present?” Jack changes the subject. “Before people arrive?”

He sips his drink, a Jump Start Gin and Juice, with a glint of mischief in his eyes. Poppy disappears, arriving back momentarily with a gift bag covered in race cars. No shocker there. It’s filled with a variety of fun tchotchkes, but it’s the last few items that really surprise me.

“Condoms.” I blink rapidly. “You got me condoms.”

I take a closer look and see the phrase Save Fuel, Ride a Driver embossed on the foil wrappers. My drink sputters out of my mouth, nearly hitting Poppy’s chest.

“So?” Jack asks, staring at me with undisguised amusement. “What do you think?”

“That you two are certifiable.” I hold the roll out in front of me. The ones in red foil are apparently cherry flavored. Yum. “I don’t think I’ll be using these, but I appreciate it.”

Formula 1 drivers are infamously known as fuckboys. No, thank you . I’m twenty-seven years old. If I still felt like playing mind games and faking orgasms, I could walk into any bar within a five-block radius of my apartment. I want to be swept off my feet, not swept under a rug after a one-night stand.

“One final thing,” Poppy says, pulling a lipstick out from the bottom of the bag. “Open it!”

I’m praying it’s not a bright red color because regardless of what she says, it just doesn’t work with my complexion. My eyes widen as I twist the bottom of the tube. I was way off base considering it’s a goddamn knife.

Poppy claps her hands together. “Now you’re protected from STDs and attackers!”

“Condoms to screw men”—I laugh, twisting the tube so I don’t accidentally stab myself—“and a lipstick knife if they try to screw with me.”

Jack chuckles with a wink. “London’s not going to know what hit ‘em.”

“Neither will Belgium,” Poppy adds. “Or Australia. Or Japan. Or any of the other places you’re traveling to.”

I clink my red plastic cup against hers in agreement. Twenty-one cities in fifty-two weeks. If that kind of time and distance can’t help me move on from what happened, I’m not sure what will.