Page 39 of Lights Out (Love in the Paddock #1)

This is a bit disappointing.

It’s Tuesday afternoon, and I’m riding in the back of an Uber from Heathrow to my new flat in White City—the area of London where a lot of TV networks have studios and offices, including The Downforce Network.

I’ve been provided with a studio apartment in the neighborhood, so it will be convenient for work.

I love that, and it’s exciting to be living in the hub of network TV.

What’s not exciting, however, is the view outside my window.

I was hoping to see landmarks. St. Paul’s. The Shard. Tower Bridge. I’ve never been to London before—my abroad travel has been limited to the Caribbean prior to my trip to Italy—and I was so excited to see all the things as soon as I got off the plane.

But what am I seeing? Grass. Houses. Office buildings.

And strangely enough, lots of car showrooms.

So dull. And not exactly like driving by Trafalgar Square.

I decide to text Caleb about it:

I know you can see where I am, and I have to tell you, the view from my Uber is SAD. No cathedrals. Palaces. Monuments. But lots of car showrooms. Haven’t seen one for Collings Motors, though. You should get people on that.

I hit send. I’ve been chatting with Caleb on and off since I landed. He had meetings and testing on the simulators at the Collings Motors World Headquarters today, so our interactions have been sporadic. But I can’t explain the happiness I feel knowing Caleb and I are in the same place.

Buzz!

To my surprise, he’s texted me back right away:

Sounds like you need a tour of London. How about I give you one?

My fingers fly across the keyboard as another car showroom passes by.

How would you do that? You’re kind of recognizable.

Caleb Collings is typing …

I have my ways. I’ll even make it a dinner tour. Can you be ready by 7?

OH YES I CAN.

I tell him yes and give him the address but wonder how Caleb is going to pull this off. I guess I’ll find out tonight.

Before long, the Uber pulls up in front of my new home, and I gaze up at the modern building.

The driver pops out of the car and unloads my two large suitcases from the trunk, and I drag both of them up to the entrance.

It takes some time to get everything sorted out, filling out paperwork, scanning my passport, getting a key card for my apartment—or rather flat , as they say here.

“Welcome to your new home,” the woman at the concierge desk says cheerfully as she hands me a packet of information about the building. “Please don’t hesitate to call us if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” I say, smiling at her.

Then I make my way to the elevator bank, press the up button, and as soon as the doors open, I step inside.

I think of what is to come this week. F1 is off, but I do have a meeting on Thursday at The Downforce Network to go over the shooting schedule for Outside the Cockpit and some other assignments I’ll get for Montreal.

I get a buzzy feeling as I think about all the work that is coming my way.

I love that I get to do educational and fun assignments.

I never wanted to be that reporter in the press conference asking a driver to explain what went wrong in the pits or if their strategy aligned with their race engineer or team principal.

I don’t have to pressure them to go into detail about the mistake they made or how their car ended up taking out another one, and have a driver answer in frustration or barely at all, like Caleb does.

That is not the type of reporting I’d be good at.

But this? Having fun with drivers? Getting them to show a little bit of themselves in an unserious way?

This is the dream job for me.

Ding! The elevator chimes on the eighth floor and I step off. I follow the corridor down until I reach 819, my new home for the season.

“Here we are,” I whisper to myself. I touch the key card to the lock. The green light appears, and the door clicks open. I enter the flat and hold my breath. The curtains are drawn, so the space is plunged into darkness. I find a light switch on the wall and turn it on.

Oh my.

I knew it was a studio apartment, but this is tiny.

I leave my suitcases and step inside the one-room space. The kitchen is to my right, basically a one counter row that has an oven, range, dishwasher, and sink. The fridge is off to the side, and I open the door to a closet next to it.

What is this? There’s a washer, but no dryer.

WHAT?

I lean in closer and read the label on the machine. Oh. It’s a washer and dryer. That’s super weird. And totally cuts down on how much laundry I can do at a time. Can’t say I’m in love with that, but it is what it is.

The decor is similar to what you’d find in an office building.

Lots of gray and minimalistic. There’s a tiny, dark wooden kitchen table with two chairs.

I step into the living room, which has a white sofa against one wall, a square, black wooden coffee table, and a large, modern art print above them that has splashes of orange in it.

An orange fabric chair is set next to the window, reminding me very much of an office guest chair.

I move to the curtains and pull them open. Sunlight streams through, and I’m reminded that no, it is not midnight, but late afternoon instead. I turn to the wall opposite the sofa, which has a flat-screen TV hanging on it.

Well, it’s kind of a wall. It’s a half wall.

It serves as a room divider between the living area and my bedroom.

I walk across the hardwood floor to this section, which has a bed on a black wood platform, with a few orange throw cushions.

On the sole nightstand, there’s an orange vase.

I open the closet doors, finding wooden hangers.

I draw my lower lip between my teeth. This place definitely needs some personal touches. I feel like I’m staying in a hotel room. I pop open the door to the bathroom, finding a supply of fluffy white towels. The wallpaper is gray with a white floral print.

I take a picture and send it to Hadleigh with a note:

Look at the towels I get to use. Along with white sheets on the bed.

I grin. She always brings her own linens everywhere she goes—like a whole suitcase full of them. She’s the biggest germophobe I’ve ever met. In fact, if she were here right now? She’d be whipping out her antibacterial wipes and going over every surface that I might possibly touch.

Hadleigh Vanderburg is typing …

OMG NO. Please go buy fresh linens! Who knows what bodies those towels touched!!!

I burst out laughing and reply:

Hadleigh. They’ve been WASHED and DRIED. I’m sure anything disgusting has been killed.

She texts back:

You are making my matcha latte churn in my stomach.

I smile, then go get my suitcases and begin unpacking them.

It still seems like I’ve checked in to a hotel instead of coming home, so it’s an odd feeling.

I’ll get some decor pieces to try and make the space feel like mine, even if it’s with furniture and colors I wouldn’t pick out for myself.

After I’ve got things put away, I take a long, hot shower that feels so good after a long flight.

I wrap myself up in a towel—unlike Hadleigh, I have no mortal fear of germs embedded in it—and open the closet door, trying to decide what to wear for this dinner/tour of London.

Like how is he going to pull this off? Private dining rooms?

Entering the restaurant through the back door?

Will he wear a disguise? I mean, he’s Caleb Collings.

People know who he is. And some people even know who I am.

I don’t see how he’s going to do this, but I also know Caleb wouldn’t suggest anything that would put us at risk.

I flick through my clothing and decide to wear a pair of jeans and a strapless white peplum top with black polka dots on it.

I turn on some music on my Spotify playlist—opting for some pop—and finish getting ready.

Just as I’ve put on a swipe of peachy lip gloss, my phone vibrates on the countertop. I glance down and see that it’s Caleb:

Isla—normally I would come up to get you, but I won’t for obvious reasons. There’s a black Collings Motors SUV out front with blacked-out windows. My driver, Peter, is going to wait outside the car. Can’t wait to see you.

I grin and text him back:

I’m excited to see you, too. Although it’s a bit weird that one of the most famous drivers in the world isn’t going to drive me on our date, LOL.

Caleb Collings is typing …

Oh, one day I will—and you’ll need a crash helmet and to hang on for dear life when I take you on a hot lap .

Ooh, a hot lap! On some race weekends, guests are offered hot laps on the track in a sports car, driven by a professional driver. Sometimes they’re former race drivers, but every once in a while, a current driver will do it.

And I can’t imagine anything hotter than having Caleb drive me around the track.

I drop my phone in my purse and head out the door. Once I’m downstairs, I see the super-expensive SUV waiting for me, a driver standing at the back passenger door.

“Ms. Foley,” he says, opening the door. I find Caleb waiting inside for me.

With a picnic basket sitting down on the floor by his feet.

SWOON!

I take my seat, and Peter shuts the door behind me.

I immediately drink him in. The dark hair.

Strong jawline. The full, sensual lips and icy-blue eyes fringed by long inky eyelashes.

He smells divine, that crisp citrus scent mingling with soap, and he’s wearing a black T-shirt.

Caleb has some black corded necklaces around his sexy, muscled neck, and the familiar black and silver bracelets on his wrist.

He’s so damn hot.

I notice his eyes are flickering over me. The look of joy in his eyes—actually, the joy that has spread across his gorgeous face—is telling.

I know what is in his heart.

And it’s the exact same thing that is in mine.