Page 8

EIGHT

Ella

IT TAKES three hours in Monaco for me to realize Blake’s rich. It takes three more hours to realize that Blake’s filthy rich. I know that Formula 1 drivers can make millions upon millions, but seeing it in person is different. He’s got major “fuck you” money. I think the soap dispenser in one of the guest bathrooms costs more than my college tuition did. After some Internet sleuthing, I found out he bought the property for a whopping 7.2 million. Chump change when you’ve won as many championships as Blake.

Did I mention he has two other homes? This isn’t even his main residence; he just comes here when it’s dreary in London. I’m subleasing my apartment in New York while he owns multiple properties across the world. Love that for us.

When Blake told me he was coming here to relax before the next race, I told him to count me in. The surprise on his face was quickly replaced with exasperation. Too bad, buddy. If I’m supposed to learn about you, that also means learning what you do during your time off.

I’ve only been in Monaco for a few days, but I’ve spent each morning interviewing Blake. I finally feel like I’m making headway. It’s about time. George accounted for some initial pushback from him, so we’re still on schedule to meet our deadline.

Sitting across from Blake at his kitchen table, I get today’s interview started. “Have you ever peed in your race suit during a race?”

In all honesty, I’m just curious. I’ve read about it, and even though it might not be the most professional question I’ve ever asked, I think Blake will find it amusing. I’m starting to learn that he does have a sense of humor, even if it’s drier than I’m used to.

“That’s what you’re choosing to start with today? I thought you wanted to talk about the Junior World Karting Championship.”

“My interview, my questions.”

I shoot him a sugar-coated smile, mimicking his interview rule. He rests his hands on his toned stomach, the muscles outlined through his shirt.

“No, I haven’t. But I know a few drivers who have.”

Equally interesting and gross. I’m sure if I ask Theo, he’ll go into a detailed explanation on whether he has or hasn’t. Good luck to his future biographer. If Blake doesn’t say enough, Theo says too much.

“What do you do if you get nervous before a race?”

I don’t even like being in the middle of an intersection waiting to make a left on a two-way street. These drivers travel up to 260 mph, can go from 0 to 100 in 2.5 seconds, and experience 5Gs of force while braking. That’s more force than a shuttle launching into space needs. It takes a certain kind of sociopath to not only be comfortable driving under those conditions but to actually enjoy it. The ability to fine-tune the magic of a Formula 1 car into a tactical weapon is no easy feat.

“I don’t get nervous.”

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. We stare each other down, silently daring the other one to break. At least the view is nice. Whatever . If he wants to assert his dominance, fine. I’ll be the bigger person.

“Try again.” I sigh.

“Why? I answered the question.”

“Blake. Do I look like a dentist?”

His brows furrow in confusion. “Uh, no.”

“That’s because I’m not. So I’d appreciate it if I didn’t have to sit here and pull teeth trying to get you to talk. Try again, please.”

He chuckles and leans back in his chair.

“I struggled with nerves in my early years, but I guess I’ve just adjusted to it. I feel most myself out on the track, so knowing I’m going to be out there soon always calms me down. I’m never scared or anything like that.”

“Some people say being scared means that you care,” I note with a shrug. “It’s not always a bad thing.”

“Being scared is fatal in F1. Any fear makes you second-guess your instincts, and my instincts are what make me the best.” He winks at me. “They don’t call me a Formula 1 legend for shits and giggles, love. I earned that title and I’m going to keep winning more championships.”

“There’s a difference between confidence and cocky,” I tease lightly. “You know that, right?”

“Oh, I’m very cocky.” He shoots me a smug smirk. “I’d be more than happy to show you just how cocky if you want.”

I let out a long laugh. “Oh God, has that line actually ever worked?”

I’ve made it very clear that I’m not interested in sleeping with him. I mean, I’m obviously attracted to Blake. I’m a woman with 20/20 vision— well, when I’m wearing contacts or glasses —but I’m not going to be his fuck buddy just because he wants me to be.

“It’s not a line I’ve ever used before.”

“You should probably keep it that way.” I press my coffee mug against my lips to cover the smile fighting to break free. “But back to business. What do you think makes you the best? Besides your instincts, of course.”

The tips of his fingers drum against the table absentmindedly. “I don’t think people realize that being a good driver is more than just good instincts and being fast. There’s a difference between driving fast and being able to push your car to its absolute limits. And if winning is the goal, which it absolutely is, you have to be dedicated enough to get there. And sometimes that means being ruthless and taking risks regardless of what may happen.”

“What if your risks don’t end up working out?”

“Losing isn’t an option.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Because if I do lose, even if that means missing podium by one-tenth of a second, people start to say, ‘What happened to Hollis? He used to be so good.’ The margin between success and failure is almost imperceptible.”

Now I understand why he doesn’t like being called out. What he just said is exactly what I did to him. His driving didn’t meet the extremely high expectations I’d put on him, and I immediately questioned his skills. My cheeks flame with embarrassment.

“But a lot of the time, the reason you, or any driver, lose is because of things that are out of your control,” I argue. “An engine overheating, someone clips your wing, a pit stop gone wrong. How do you handle that type of pressure?”

“Just have to crack on. It’s a shame, but I can’t really focus on anyone or anything else but me and my team.”

“Even Harry?”

“I don’t have an issue with Harry.” Blake rumples his hair with a large hand. “We may not be friends off the track, but I can appreciate him as an opponent. I remember what it’s like having to fight for your first championship. You get eager and emotional, but he’ll learn. He’ll have to.”

If his honesty surprises me, I don’t let it show. Blake seemed anything but appreciative of Harry’s competitive edge during the previous season.

“As you said,” he continues, “I was a little off last year, but contrary to what people think, it had nothing to do with Harry. He’s a good driver. I respect that. I obviously don’t want him to win over me, but I don’t mind a challenge.”

Blake’s more at ease talking about racing than himself, but I don’t think he realizes how intertwined the two are. Getting behind his mask may be challenging, but I think the notoriously enigmatic sportsman will pleasantly surprise people.

THE HARD PART about writing a biography with a planned release date just a few short months after the season ends is that we have to do everything simultaneously. Research. Interview. Write. Edit. Interview some more. Edit a little. Write a lot more. George’s motorsport expertise allows him to easily identify the aspects of Blake’s life and story that might be worth exploring more in depth, and I dig deep to find the details we need to fill the pages. We’re working through a shared document so we’re able to collaborate in real time, but it’s still exhausting.

After another few days of my routine, I decide to take a break and relax. One afternoon reading by the pool won’t kill me. Poppy thinks I’m a workaholic and she’s not wrong, but it’s what gives me purpose. Right now, I need that. And the views of the French Riviera definitely don’t hurt either.

I find Blake out by his pool in a plush lounge chair, his tan body contrasting with the white and blue towel underneath him. I’m not sure if I’m more surprised by his presence or his swim trunks. They’re so unbelievably short, my eyes don’t know where to focus—his thighs, his abs, his arms, his face. I’m thankful that my sunglasses are already on, so he can’t see my eyes going haywire. If Michelangelo had lived five centuries later, I can guarantee he’d be sculpting Blake’s body instead of David’s.

Blake’s been spending his afternoons anywhere but his house, so I’m not sure why he’s here today, but I’m too rattled to ask. I settle into a lounge chair a few away from him, not wanting to invade his personal space. He nods in greeting then looks back at the newspaper in his hands. It takes me a second to recognize that he’s doing a crossword puzzle. I’m a journalist and don’t even read a physical newspaper, yet here Blake is filling out the tiny squares with a stubby pencil. Stars, they’re just like us! They do daily crosswords while lying out at their million-dollar mansions in Monaco!

Tapping his pencil against the paper, his eyebrows knit in frustration. “Do you know a three-letter word for the clue: you may need this to go on?”

Thanks to the heavenly mix of his cologne and sunscreen, I can barely remember my own name. “Um … no idea. Can I phone a friend?”

He chuckles, a curl to his lips. “Thought you’d be good since you like words.”

“Writing them,” I clarify. “Not guessing them based on confusing clues.”

Blake glances up, his eyes settling on my bikini-clad body. My heart plummets to my stomach. I don’t want Blake sitting there, analyzing my body as if that’s the most interesting thing about me. Been there, done that. Plus, he’s slept with models, whereas I don’t even have a thigh gap. I have a body that rolls when I sit and bloats when I eat one too many fries. If I knew he’d be out here, I would’ve worn a one-piece or a burlap sack.

“Whoever makes these clues is the bane of my existence,” he grumbles, looking back down. “Swear they make half of this shit up.”

Trying not to laugh at his frustrated frown—which is very adorable—I take out my book and leave Blake to his puzzle. I’m so used to seeing him in his racing suit, or an actual suit at sponsor events, that it’s hard to stay focused on my reading. His thighs are a major distraction. I’ve reread the same page of Emily Henry’s newest release maybe ten times already because I’m too flustered. A frustrated growl escapes my lips and I freeze, praying that it was inside my head. No such luck.

“All good?” he calls over.

I keep my eyes trained down even though I can still see Blake out of my peripheral vision. He’s looking at me with mild curiosity.

“Yep! Just a part in my book.”

Nice save, Ella. I mentally high-five myself.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Or not.

“You know … if you want me to keep telling you things, you’re going to have to tell me things too.”

Um, contractually, I’m going to have to do no such thing. I don’t answer him but track his movements as he makes his way over to the seat next to mine. Apparently, the courtesy of not invading one another’s personal space does not extend to me. For the eleventh time, I reread the same damn page of my book. His near-naked body is too close for me to concentrate on anything but remembering how to breathe. In and out. In and out. There should be a fucking Lamaze class for how to breathe when an extremely gorgeous man is a foot away from you while wearing the world’s shortest shorts. I’d pay good money for that.

“That page in your book must be really interesting.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Care to share what it’s about, love?”

Ugh. I hate how he so casually uses the pet name love . It’s frustratingly charming.

“Nope. But you can borrow it once I’m done if you’d like.”

That may be in four to five years depending on how many times I can reread the same page, but oh well. He continues staring at me and I continue fake reading, finally flipping the page although I still don’t know what happened on the last one. My cheeks are flushed from the sun, so he’s unaware of the effect his intense gaze is having on me.

After ten minutes of him blatantly observing me, I’ve had enough. If we go on like this, I’ll have to finish the book without reading a single word.

“Can you not? You’re distracting me.”

He cocks his head to the side. “I haven’t said anything.”

“Okay, well, you and your thighs are in my area and it’s distracting. So, if you could remove yourself from my bubble, that’d be greatly appreciated.”

“My thighs?”

The laugh that comes out of Blake is loud and raw. It’s not helping me feel any less attracted to him. I debate drowning myself in the pool after that embarrassing admission.

“Yes.” I put my hand out, pretending to cover the lower half of his body as I glare at him. “In America, men tend to wear swim trunks that don’t reveal quite so much. They’re a bit more modest.”

“Last time I checked, you’re American and your bathing suit is anything but modest.” Blake has a sassy grin on his dumb, handsome face. “Some may even say distracting.”

I immediately cover myself with the folded-up towel I’ve been using as a pillow. I feel way too exposed in my bikini, even though it’s completely appropriate.

Maybe not for a nun, but the bottoms give my ass a decent amount of coverage and the top isn’t about to go Girls Gone Wild on me.

“It’s not my fault you’re so used to surrounding yourself with fake boobs that you find real ones distracting.”

Blake may be good at bantering, but I’m better. It’s my favorite sport and I always go for gold.

“I’ve seen the girls you hang out with, Blake,” I continue, a victorious smile painted on my lips. “There’s so much plastic in them that they’re unknowingly saving the ocean’s turtles.”

I have absolutely no problem with women doing what they want to look and feel their best. I’m all for it. But it’s nearly impossible to not tease Blake for having a type.

He mutters something under his breath while shaking his head at me. I comfortably settle back into the chair and return to my book. Blake doesn’t move, but he does put in his earbuds and close his eyes. It’s kind of sweet how he tries to hide a smile sometimes.