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THREE

Ella

THE FEW WEEKS after my goodbye party fly by. The flight to London does not. Probably because I spent all six hours panicking. I managed to calm down and remind myself why I was doing this by the time the wheels touched down. The glass of champagne— okay, or three —probably helped.

George lives in the suburbs outside of the city but has a two-bedroom “flat” in Shoreditch—a trendy and posh London neighborhood according to Poppy—where I’m living in between races. I only spend two days in London before flying to Bahrain for the first race weekend. I’m still adjusting to the time change, so the absolute last thing I want to do when I land is work out. Yet here I am, lugging my overweight suitcase down a never-ending hallway. I seriously have no idea where my room is; this hotel is a labyrinth. No Midwestern corn maze could’ve prepared me for this.

“Mom.” I sigh as I turn down another hallway. I think I’ve already walked past these rooms. “Please don’t friend request Blake. I haven’t even met him yet. And I’m pretty sure the Facebook account you sent me is fake. Do you know how many people probably pretend to be him?”

“He doesn’t have to accept!” she protests. “I just want him to know you have a caring mother looking out for you, so he better watch himself.”

“Yeah, Mom, because you come off super intimidating on Facebook.”

She posts inspirational quotes and reshares feel-good videos from the news. Nothing about her Facebook page screams “I’ll kick your ass.” My dad, on the other hand? Maybe. But my mom? Try again. The only thing she’s likely to scare is trick-ortreaters if she’s wearing a mask.

“Aha!” I stop in front of 4033. “Finally found the room.”

“Be sure to check under the bed and behind the curtains to make sure the room’s secure.”

“Of course.” I’ve seen way too much Law & Order: Special Victims Unit to not check for creepy men hiding in my hotel room. “I’ll call you later, okay? Love you!”

“Love you more, honey.”

I hang up the phone and use the card reader to enter the room. Holy hell. The suite is sleek, modern, and bigger than my NYC apartment by an embarrassing amount of square feet. And I had a decent-sized place, by Manhattan standards anyway. I feel like I’m on an episode of International House Hunters. Except instead of having a two-million-dollar budget as a button collector, I have no budget as a biographer! But don’t worry. I’m willing to make that work in order to stay in this probably very expensive room in Bahrain.

Even though I’d flown first class, my muscles still ache from inactivity and I practically sprint into the shower. The high pressure of the hot water kneads the tension out of my shoulders, and I leave the bathroom in a euphoric state. I curl up in the king-sized bed, eat a room service dinner, and pass out wondering if the hotel sells sell full-sized bottles of their lavender lotion in the gift shop.

I WAKE up with a pit the size of a watermelon in my stomach. Today’s the day I meet Blake.

I can do this.

I hope.

I’m too nervous to eat, but I head to the breakfast buffet at the hotel to make myself a to-go coffee. With my caffeine boost—and the detailed instructions Blake’s manager Keith emailed me—it’s easy to find the conference room we’re all meeting in. Of course, when I walk in, Keith is nowhere to be found. The only person there is Blake. And I’m not sure if it’s the jet lag speaking, but holy hell this man is drop-dead gorgeous.

Taking a calming breath, I paste a friendly smile on my face and say, “Hi, I’m Ella.” I stick out my hand in introduction. Blake stares at it for a few seconds before quickly shaking it. I’m praying he doesn’t notice how clammy my hands are.

His chocolate-brown eyes roam over me as if he’s undressing me in his mind. The eye contact is aggressively brazen but somehow doesn’t cross the line of being creepy. Someone needs to turn on the AC immediately because I’m starting to sweat. Photos don’t do him justice. His unruly dark brown hair makes it seem like he woke up from a nap right before the meeting and let me tell you, bedhead looks good on him.

“Coffee,” he grunts. Well, at least he said something.

Blake reaches out and grabs the Styrofoam cup from my hand. Excuse moi? Before I can tell him I didn’t bring him coffee and he just hijacked mine, he takes a large sip. His face says it all and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Serves him right.

“That’s mine,” I state plainly.

“I thought you brought me coffee.”

“Why would you think that?” I’m not his assistant. We’ve never even met. How am I supposed to know how he likes his coffee?

“As a peace offering,” he explains with a shrug. “Since you said you’re not sure how my helmet fits considering my ego makes my head twelve sizes too big.”

He doesn’t bother hiding the cold contempt in his eyes. Oh boy. There goes my secret hope that he hadn’t heard that episode of Coffee with Champions . This is going to be fun, fun, fun .

“Your head looks pretty normal-sized today,” I comment coolly.

“You ragging on me to millions of people probably deflated it a bit.”

That’s a bit of an overestimation. My podcast may have hit number five on Spotify’s podcast charts at one point, but millions? C’mon. I’m no Joe Rogan … or Connor Brixton.

“I also talked about the amount of raw talent you have,” I remind him.

“That’s not anything I haven’t heard before. I know how talented I am.”

I take back what I said about his head looking normalsized. It’s inflating right in front of my eyes.

“You insulted my driving,” he fumes, his chiseled jaw tensing. “And me.”

“I discussed you in one episode of a podcast that’s no longer a thing. I apologize if I hurt your feelings, but I wouldn’t have accepted this job if I didn’t think you were remarkably talented.”

“You shouldn’t have accepted the job.” He narrows his eyes. “Not sure why you did.”

Jeez. Make a few critical comments about a guy and he acts like you’ve mortally wounded him.

“No offense, Blake, but grow a pair and get over it. I know for a fact there are women who’ve said way worse things about you. I read the tabloids.”

I swear one corner of his mouth twitches, but it’s gone just as quickly as it appears. Blake’s publicist Marion walks in wearing the exact shade of red lipstick I was praying Poppy didn’t get me. Her shirt’s wrinkled and smudges of residual mascara sit under her eyes. I don’t blame her. I know she’s been working overtime to help Blake’s image. The fact that she secured a book deal so quickly is astonishing. I can only imagine how overwhelmed she feels by it all.

“Nice to meet you in person, Ella!” The crow’s feet at her eyes fold as she smiles. “I’m glad to see you two are already getting acquainted with one another.”

The open defiance of Blake’s glower tells a different story. He’d rather get acquainted with the casket he hopes to put me in. I should’ve added something stronger than almond milk to my coffee. Maybe Jameson?

Keith waltzes in moments later looking like a very handsome Daniel Craig during his James Bond era—rugged and weathered, but in an extremely sexy way. He’s got the whole salt-and-pepper look going on even though he’s in his late thirties. I wouldn’t be surprised if Blake kickstarted his grays. If that starts happening to me, Blake can pay my salon bills.

Marion video conferences George in before starting a “team” meeting. I nod along as she talks, taking notes on my computer. It’s not anything new. Even though George hired me, I still had to meet with both Marion and Keith before being officially brought on board. The life of Blake Hollis is nothing to joke about, after all.

Blake doesn’t say much except a few mumbled “hmphs” and “sure, yeahs.” It’s impossible not to stare at him. I wonder if he’s ever broken his nose. There’s a slightly crooked curve in the middle. He catches me looking at him and shoots me a wink. Who fucking winks at someone? Especially after our conversation, if you can even call it that.

It disarms me, turning my cheeks the color of Marion’s lipstick. I fight back the urge to blurt out that I was only staring because I’m concerned that if he keeps scowling, he’s going to need Botox by the time he turns thirty next year. I avoid looking in his general direction for the rest of the meeting, especially because I can feel his eyes fixed on me.

MCALLISTER’S TEAM is huge with just over two hundred people. That’s not even including those based out of their headquarters in London. This means I have a lot of names to learn and a lot of people to meet. I throw on a McAllister shirt courtesy of Keith, slip on my cute new necklace—which is actually a lanyard I have to wear in order to get access into the paddock—and am on my way. Day two, here we go!

The air is electric as everyone gets ready for the first race of the tour. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Engineers, mechanics, drivers, media—anyone and everyone seems to be here. They buzz around, never stopping in one place for too long. I quickly realize this is not the time to interrupt people to introduce myself. The team’s too focused on making sure Blake and McAllister have a successful Grand Prix.

I’m wandering around aimlessly when a girl in a McAllister shirt that matches my own blazes a path straight toward me. Before I know what’s happening, she’s pulling me into a hug. Um, hello to you too, strange woman.

“Ella! It’s so nice to meet you! I was worried I wasn’t going to be able to introduce myself before the race. I’ve been running around like a bloody chicken with its head cut off. I’m glad I found you, though. There are so many people, but it was easy to spot you since there aren’t too many women around here. Not sure if you noticed that or not. You’ve worked in sports before, so you’re probably used to the testosterone over-load. How’s your first day here? Or have you been here for a few days? I can’t remember.”

She’s talking so quickly it’s hard to keep up. She could’ve just asked me to join her pyramid scheme and I would’ve dumbly nodded. Her dark blond hair blurs as she suddenly steps a few feet away, stopping a pair of guys walking past us. What is happening? Blondie poses the two guys for a photo, snapping pictures of them on her camera. I take a moment to study her. She looks like she should be in front of the camera instead of behind it with her heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, and perfectly pouty lips.

“Sorry about that!” She bounces back over to me. Her British accent is unbelievably posh. “They’ve been impossible to find, so I had to get a photo while I could. I’m Josie Bancroft, by the way. I do content creation and brand management for McAllister.”

I stick out my hand for her to shake. “I’m Ella Gold, but you seem to know that already.”

“Everybody knows who you are, babes.” She shoots me a dazzling smile. As if proving her point, a few mechanics walk past us, waving at Josie and giving me a knowing head nod. “You’re the writer-slash-journalist-slash-saint working with Blake this season. The one who said someone should take the stick out of his ass and hit him over the head with it.”

Yep, that’s me.

Josie takes over as my handler/fairy godmother and makes all the necessary introductions. I’ve known her for all of an hour and I can already tell she’s a force to be reckoned with.

She walks me through the team’s motorhome in the afternoon. Formula 1 motorhomes are million-dollar structures that get built, broken down, and rebuilt at every single race. It’s the team’s base for race weekends and is an equally productive and entertaining environment. There are rooms for meetings, a cafeteria, multiple bars, a barista. Plus, each driver has their own hospitality suite. It’s a five-star hotel condensed into two floors and a rooftop.

We’re sitting on said rooftop, away from the noise and crowds, when Josie asks how meeting Blake was. I fill her in on our conversation.

“He’s every bit as charming as he is caustic,” she says, not at all surprised by my recap. “You get used to it. He keeps his inner circle really tight, so it takes him a while to warm up, but once you get to know him, he’s actually a decent guy.”

“Is he as man-whorish as he seems?”

She starts singing Elvis’s “Hound Dog,” much to my amusement.

“He sleeps with more groupies than John Mayer,” Josie says nonchalantly. “Taylor Swift could write nine albums from one night with Blake. I wouldn’t know firsthand, but that’s what I’ve heard.”

It’s official. Josie is my new favorite person.

“They’re all like that, though,” she adds. “Theo—he’s Blake’s driving partner—says the only things they need in life are points, podium wins, and pussy.”

The water I’ve just taken a sip of comes spraying out of my mouth. I’m the last one to be offended by a dirty mouth, but yikes. I tell Josie she can easily get that trending on Twitter. #PointsPodiumPussy. Go, team, go!

“My boyfriend wants me to wear a chastity belt around these guys and I don’t blame him.” She winks at me. “I can tell we’re going to get on quite well this season, Ella.”

I already miss Poppy and Jack, so the idea of having a new partner in crime, especially one who’s feisty, brings a smile to my face. I have a feeling I’m going to need someone like Josie to make it through this year unscathed.