Page 2 of Lights Out (Love in the Paddock #1)

We pass by another coffee bar—there must be a mortal fear of running out of coffee, which I completely understand—and then Catherine takes us up another flight of stairs.

In my head, I’m recording everything she is saying, so I’ll have the information for my segment.

She’s so natural at explaining everything that I can’t help but wish I could have her be my tour guide for when we actually shoot.

“This is the top floor, where we do a lot of sponsor entertaining,” Catherine says.

We reach an outdoor terrace with a redwood deck, filled with lots of seating—sofas, cushy chairs, more plants.

She pops open the door, and Chip and I walk outside behind her.

“Today we have a view of the stadium, but in some locations, you can get a view of the track.”

“I bet this is a popular spot when the weather is nice,” I say.

“Yes. Especially if you want to unwind after a long day.” Catherine smiles.

We head back inside to another seating area, and she explains that this is often used for sponsor events. Two women are walking around setting the tables, and I wonder if there’s going to be a sponsor lunch this afternoon.

“Now this is another conference room,” Catherine says, approaching the door. “I’ll get Arthur for you.”

The door is cracked open, and I can hear them speaking.

“I need to get going,” a male voice says, punctuating his sentence with a heavy sigh.

“The Downforce Network sent over some young reporter to do a fluff piece. More drivel for the race car girlies, nothing of substance, a complete waste of my time. And I guarantee you this quote unquote reporter probably has a pretty face and knows shit about F1.”

Catherine immediately stops, her blue eyes flashing with anger.

An anger that matches my own.

How dare he diminish an entire fanbase with his narrow-minded stereotypes. And how dare this man make assumptions about my skills, knowledge of the sport, or intentions with the piece.

I’m freaking furious. And I’m not going to let this move go unchecked.

Catherine looks as if she’s about to say something, but I put out my hand to stop her. “May I deal with it?” I ask politely.

We share a knowing glance.

“By all means,” Catherine says, smiling as she pushes the door completely open. She clears her throat. “Hello, I’m up here to get Arthur. Arthur, this is Isla Foley, a reporter for The Downforce Network.”

Arthur, an arrogant-looking man in his late twenties, rises from his seat at the table. For a brief moment, I pause on the threshold.

Because sitting at this table are none other than Mason Clark and Caleb Collings, two of the best race car drivers in the world.

I immediately take them in. There’s Mason, with his dark brown hair and eyes. He’s one of the most popular drivers on the grid because of his fun personality.

Then there’s Caleb.

I feel something tingle in my stomach when I look at him.

I’ve always known he’s gorgeous—hello, I’ve seen him a million times on TV and social media—but in person, he’s even more good-looking, if that’s even possible.

His hair is jet-black. I take in his cut cheekbones. The strong jawline. Full lips.

But it’s his eyes. They are a piercing, icy blue.

And those icy-blue eyes are intently studying me.

I shift my attention away from Caleb and focus on Arthur, who has risen to shake my hand. I clasp it firmly and prepare to introduce myself.

But not in a way he is used to.

“Arthur Moore,” he says, giving me a fake smile. “Pleasure to meet you.”

I shake his hand. “Isla Foley. But I don’t think you’re being quite honest about it being a pleasure to meet me.”

I hear Chip suck in a breath behind me. I know I’m now the center of attention in the room, but I don’t care. I’m going to call out sexism when I see it.

And I refuse to do it quietly.

“I overheard what you said,” I say, keeping my voice even and calm.

“I know these pieces might seem like fluff to you, but they help your audience form a connection to your brand . Your drivers . People want to know the behind-the-scenes details. If they didn’t, I wouldn’t have been hired to come here and create these segments for The Downforce Network.

Fans can be fans at all levels, from those hardcore ones who live and breathe the sport to ones who just like to watch on their weekends.

Both of them consume this kind of content.

Just as men and women—not just racing girlies —consume this type of content, I might add.

I’m here to share these stories. To allow access to areas fans will never see.

“Oh, and as far as my credentials?” I continue.

“I do freelance reporting for Total Access Total Sports Miami. I know the sports I’m asked to cover.

I prepare for every assignment, including this one.

I know how many containers it takes to ship this motorhome around the world, for example, and why you redesigned it to make it that way.

I also know what a DRS zone is, why you use a tire blanket, and that a driver will get a ten-place grid penalty if his or her team exceeds an engine limit.

So please rest assured that while I might be filming an unimportant fluff piece, I’m more than capable of doing the job. ”

Arthur’s jaw tightens, and his face begins to turn red.

I don’t know if it’s anger or embarrassment, and I really don’t care.

I refuse to be treated this way, and my parents taught me to stand up for myself.

I’m not going to let any person diminish what I do or my capabilities, and if that means this becomes my only segment on The Downforce Network, so be it.

The room is silent. Arthur finally clears his throat. “Right. Well, I think you misunderstood what I said. I apologize if you heard it incorrectly.”

Anger once again shoots straight through me. Is he kidding? Arthur is actually going to imply this is somehow my fault?

I’m about to answer when someone beats me to it.

“No,” a British voice says. I turn, and to my surprise, Caleb Collings has risen from his seat. “You didn’t misspeak. We all heard you. And you were an arse . You owe Ms. Foley an apology.”

Oh my God. I didn’t expect anyone to say anything.

And I certainly didn’t expect Caleb Collings to be the one to speak up.

Arthur turns a brighter shade of red, bordering on purple. It’s one thing to have me mad at him. He could care less about that.

But to have Caleb pissed at him? That’s a whole different story.

Caleb moves around the table to my side. I look up at him, hardly believing that he’s standing next to me.

“And I’d appreciate it if you make that apology soon, because I have a tour to give,” he continues.

“What?” I ask.

He stares down at me, those icy-blue eyes locking on mine.

“You won’t be going on a tour of the motorhome with Arthur. You’ll be going with me.”