Page 32 of Lights Out (Love in the Paddock #1)

As my driver pulls up to a line of cars in front of the Emilia Wentworth-Hay boutique, the tingling feeling builds in my stomach.

There’s a red carpet out front, and there are fans and paparazzi nearby.

More members of the media will be inside.

Nobody knows I’m going to be one of the new faces to represent E.

Hay, so I’m not sure how interested they will be in getting my picture or talking to me, but that is not what is making me jittery.

It’s “How the hell do I exit this car gracefully while wearing a zebra miniskirt?” that is causing me to have anxiety.

I run my fingers over the elaborate sequin work.

This was the outfit I chose from the collection this afternoon because it fit me the best. I’m wearing an exquisite zebra-print sequined mini.

It’s smart. Sexy. Elegant. It’s paired with a silky black blouse with long, fluted sleeves, a soft contrast to the skirt, and I have strappy stilettos on my feet.

When I tried on the whole outfit in the boutique, I felt like a model.

Or an actress. Anyone who would walk a red carpet.

I got a fresh blowout at the hotel salon, and my hair is shiny and wavy.

When I applied my makeup, I did a gray smoky eye for nighttime glamour, with a glossy rose-hued lip to balance it out.

I feel beautiful.

But the one thing I didn’t consider, like an idiot? I’m going to have to find a way to get out of this car and not show Monte Carlo that I’m wearing black panties.

UGH. Why didn’t I think of this? WHY?

I frown. I know why. I was too busy thinking about how I wanted to look hot for Caleb tonight.

The driver finally pulls up to the front of the line, and my door is opened for me. I carefully maneuver out of the car, taking my time and putting my black clutch in a strategic position right at the hem of my skirt just in case.

And I manage to get out without flashing anyone. SUCCESS!

I can hear the click of cameras and feel the flashes on my face.

“Isla! Over here!”

“Isla! Isla!”

I flash a smile and wave as I walk up the red carpet, then I’m ushered inside the boutique.

Club music is playing, and I’m immediately asked to stand in front of a backdrop with sponsor logos on it.

I pose for pictures, smiling, and a few reporters ask me questions about my role for The Downforce Network and my social media accounts.

Then the questions take the turn I had braced myself for.

Questions about Caleb.

“Hi, Isla, I’m Sasha Jones from EntertainmentUK. First, you look gorgeous . Who are you wearing?” she asks.

“I’m completely dressed in E. Hay by Emilia Wentworth-Hay,” I say, smiling brightly at her.

“Fabulous,” Sasha breathes excitedly. “So you are one of the rising stars at The Downforce Network. How does that feel?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I’ve been creating F1 content for a few years now, and I was lucky enough to get some assignments from them during the Miami Grand Prix, and things took off from there. I’m very fortunate they’ve given me such great opportunities.”

“Including getting a tour of the Collings Motors motorhome from Caleb Collings himself?”

“Caleb was there when I arrived for the motorhome tour, and he offered to show me around,” I say, carefully telling the truth without telling everything.

“He’s not known for giving interviews,” Sasha says. “It’s interesting Caleb would give one out of the blue to you.”

“I know, right?” I say, flashing her a smile. “I felt very lucky that I was able to speak with him. He trusted me after that, so he showed me his car, and then granted the one-on-one interview.”

Sasha smiles at me, but there’s a shrewd look in her eyes. “Any chance there’s anything more? You two seemed to have chemistry on camera.”

“Well, I’ve completed interviews with F2 drivers Maks Mlakar and Fionn O’Riley as well.

Would you like to ask me if there’s anything more with them, too?

I also did a feature with Mason Clark on my channels, and we had fun.

So if getting on well with them is chemistry, then apparently I have chemistry with a lot of people in motorsport,” I say brightly.

And mic drop.

“Thank you for your time,” Sasha says cheerfully, ignoring my comment. “Enjoy your evening!”

“Thank you, you too,” I say, flashing her a big smile.

I leave the photo area and make my way farther into the boutique, which is packed with chic people celebrating the E.

Hay line and the Monaco Grand Prix. Servers walk around with silver trays, offering fancy-looking appetizers and flutes of champagne.

The room is awash with beautiful people and lots of money, and I’m surrounded by high-end fashion pieces that are magnificently designed and meticulously made with luxurious fabrics, like metallic, crocheted maxi dresses and summery silk skirts in glorious prints.

I shake my head. I still have a hard time grasping that I’m here. And that my face will adorn advertising promoting E. Hay clothing this winter.

“Would you like some champagne?” a female server asks me, interrupting my thoughts.

I pluck a flute off the tray. “Yes, thank you so much.”

She smiles and moves on to the next round of people. I take a sip, and whoa . It’s the best sip of champagne I’ve ever had. It must be some pricey luxury bubbly.

“Isla!” a woman’s voice calls out.

I turn around and see the stylist who worked with me earlier today. “Hello, Mia.”

“You look breathtaking,” she says, giving me a hug and a kiss on each cheek.

“Thanks to you,” I say. “You put this together.”

“It’s all about the woman wearing it,” she insists. “Come on, let me introduce you to Emilia. She’s eager to meet you.”

I still can’t believe this is happening. I’m going to meet freaking Emilia Wentworth-Hay, global designer to the rich and famous. Celebrities. Royals.

And I’ll be wearing her clothing on TV. HOW IS THIS MY LIFE?

Emilia is standing in a crowd of people, looking utterly chic in a white cutout dress. When she sees me, she smiles.

“Emilia, Isla Foley,” Mia says.

She extends her hand to me. “It’s so good to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” I say. “Thank you for the outfit today. It’s the most spectacular thing I’ve ever put on. I feel so incredibly lucky right now. Thank you for providing me a wardrobe, too. I can’t wait to wear your labels!”

“It looks perfect on you,” Emilia says. “As will many other things. I’m looking forward to seeing you represent E. Hay on the track, and my signature brand at events and galas.”

We chat a bit more about the Monaco Grand Prix, and then she is off, going to talk to more people.

I look around the room, in awe of the crowd I’m in.

A few people come up to me, and they all have questions about Caleb.

How did I get him to talk to me? What is he really like?

Was I surprised he said yes? Why didn’t I ask him tougher questions?

After the last person walks away, I begin to understand that the Caleb topic is something I’m going to face as I begin to build my career in covering motorsport.

People already have their suspicions—which are partially correct.

Caleb was interested in me straightaway.

Did that influence him in giving me opportunities?

Yes. But I made sure nothing happened until I was sure I was interested in him, as a man , not a driver.

Not that anyone would believe that.

I think further on this. If people are this way now, I can’t imagine how they will react once we hard launch.

As soon as I think it, however, something else fills me.

Stubbornness.

Because I have no regrets when it comes to Caleb.

More people walk into the boutique, and I see one of them is an F1 driver for Drago—Adrien Rosseau, a French driver known for his very aggressive “arms out” driving style.

As Drago improves their cars, I fully expect to see him climbing up in the standings and making more appearances on the podium.

But he definitely stirs passion in fans—you either seem to love him or love to hate him.

I make eye contact with Adrien as he steps away from Sasha. He makes his way across the room, and to my surprise, heads directly for me.

“We haven’t been introduced yet,” he says in French-accented English. “I’m Adrien.”

He extends his hand to me, and I shake it. “Isla Foley. Pleasure to meet you.”

“I liked the interview you did with Caleb.”

I take him in for a moment. I’ve only seen Adrien on TV, his pale green eyes bright and focused with his visor up as he sat in his car in the famous red-and-black suit for Drago Racing, or as he walked into the paddock in jeans and a designer T-shirt, necklaces layered around his neck.

Now he stands before me in a suit, his blondish-brown hair tousled, the same shade of blondish-brown stubble shading his jawline.

He’s only twenty-three, and definitely someone to keep an eye on in Formula 1.

The cameras have lied. Adrien Russeau is even better looking in person. He’s not Caleb, of course, but I can objectively say he’s good-looking.

“Thank you so much,” I say. “I try to ask questions nobody else would ask.”

“I think you’ve succeeded in that,” Adrien says, flashing me a smile. “Your questions were interesting. Our press conference interviews are boring. The same questions over and over or trying to make something bigger than it is. Your interview was fun.”

“Thank you, I really appreciate that.” I pause to take a sip of my champagne. I want to look toward the door to see if Caleb has arrived yet, but I don’t want it to be obvious that I’m looking for someone. I have to be so, so careful here.

“If you need another interview, I’d be happy to do it,” Adrien says.

Ooh! Another F1 interview! And Adrien would be fascinating.

“I would love to interview you,” I say. “Thank you for offering. I’ll have the booking coordinator contact Drago communications.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if I had your phone number?” Adrien asks.