Page 8 of Lights Out (Love in the Paddock #1)

What is this breakfast really about?

And did I do the right thing by saying yes?

My brain is still trying to sort out this puzzle in my head as I walk through the paddock on Friday morning.

It’s early, but it’s already buzzing with activity as crews and drivers arrive for the day.

After all, there are lots of things going on today.

Practice begins at twelve-thirty, and qualifying for the sprint race—a nineteen-lap race that still earns points toward both the Drivers’ and Constructors’ Championships—begins at four.

I suck in an excited breath of air. I still can’t believe I’m here . I see people with all the different team shirts pass by: Drago. Hoffman. Vipera.

And the black-and-silver shirts representing Collings Motors.

I’m in the paddock for the Miami Grand Prix. AGAIN.

And it’s all thanks to Caleb Collings.

As Caleb comes to mind, my brain goes back to sorting out the breakfast conundrum.

Conundrum. Do people even use that word anymore? Am I weird that it popped right up in my head?

I bat that thought aside before I’m tumbling down a conundrum rabbit hole. I need to focus on the big question of the morning.

What is Caleb’s motivation for asking me to meet him for breakfast?

He hates the media—except for me. Caleb said he wanted to help me, and maybe this breakfast is going to be like a planning session. He can tell me what he’s willing to share on camera. What I’m allowed to film. When I can go down to the garage and sit in the cockpit of his race car.

I furrow my brow. It’s extremely out of his way to do this for me. Not to mention out of character.

Maybe it’s still a protective course of action after Arthur’s shitty behavior?

Or did Caleb mean what he said—he respects me and knows he can help me out?

Whatever it is, there’s one thing I can safely eliminate. Caleb is definitely NOT interested in me.

I’m the MEDIA. Ninety-nine percent of the time, he considers us his enemy.

So he’s recognizing me as someone different in the media and rewarding me for that.

Yes. Now that makes sense.

Besides, let’s pretend that Caleb is actually interested in me—GAH, I feel stupid for even THINKING this. But if he were interested, I would never act on it.

I want to build my reputation as an F1 content creator. As a reporter.

Not someone chasing F1 drivers.

Besides, I don’t even KNOW Caleb. Yes, I liked the man I spent time with yesterday, but I don’t know him. I can’t know him.

Ever.

So if I have solved this puzzle, why do I feel this wave of disappointment roll through my stomach?

I’M BEING STUPID.

How can I be disappointed? HOW? HOW?

I’m not interested in men right now. I’m focused on building my career.

And what guys do I meet anyway? The guys at Total Access Total Sports.

MEH.

But in addition to being a hot F1 driver, Caleb is a man who stands up for others. He respects women.

And he’s quick. The man could even banter, which I thought was an art that existed only on TV and in books.

Did I mention hot?

“Isla!”

I stop dead in my tracks, shocked to hear my name. I turn around, and then I see him.

It’s Caleb.

I feel butterflies form in my stomach upon sight of him.

He’s not dressed in the team shirt and jeans like he was yesterday.

Today he’s wearing navy track pants, a half-zip gray sweatshirt, and sunglasses.

The sleeves are pushed up—it’s already warm this morning—revealing a stack of leather and silver bracelets on his left wrist.

The track pants have a drawstring.

That Caleb has left untied.

The butterflies multiply.

I knew the man was hot. I’m not blind when I create my content, after all.

But he’s a whole other level of freaking gorgeous in person.

“Good morning,” he says as he approaches me, his British accent a delicious sound to my ears.

“Good morning,” I manage to say, grateful I have sunglasses on, too, so he can’t see my eyes—and the way I was completely checking him out.

Caleb stops in front of me but doesn’t say anything.

I find my breath catching in my throat as I wait for him to speak.

His glasses are dark, so I can’t see his eyes, either, to get a read on what he might be thinking.

I’m dressed in my black jumpsuit with the cutouts and black strappy heels, and I wonder what he thinks of it.

“You’re early,” he remarks, stopping in front of me.

I exhale. Okay, cool, he was NOT thinking of my outfit.

I’m about to reply when I become aware of his scent. His cologne. That crisp, intoxicating blend that smells like a vodka cocktail with a citrus twist that is kissing his skin.

Kissing.

GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

NO, NOT KISSING, NO, NO, NO, NEVER EVER, NO.

I quickly dump that thought and refocus on his comment. “If I’m early, that would mean you are, too,” I counter.

A smile lights up his handsome face. It’s so rare to see him smile like this on TV, it nearly takes my breath away.

“Touché,” he says. “I can’t stand being late. And I can’t stand people who are late, either.”

“We’re in agreement on that,” I say, falling into step next to him. “It drives me crazy. I had a roommate at Georgia who was always late. Sometimes by an hour. We would all give her a false time to show up—usually an hour earlier than we wanted to do something—just to ensure she’d be on time.”

“No.”

I laugh at the simple finality with which he says it. “That’s a solid no if I ever heard one.”

We walk through the paddock, heading toward the Collings Motors motorhome.

“Luckily Catherine doesn’t have to do that for me. I’m on time even if I’m showing up for something I hate.”

I wonder what it’s like to be his sister and his assistant. I imagine juggling his daily schedule alone takes a lot of work on her part.

And being an heiress to the Collings Motors empire, I wonder why she’s working as his assistant anyway. Hmm.

“Thank you again for meeting me this morning,” I say, wanting to set the proper tone for breakfast and try to forget that he’s smoking hot and smells like a drink I’d like to down.

“I think I was the one who asked you,” Caleb points out. “So thank you for meeting me. ”

These stupid butterflies need to stop moving in my stomach.

No. They need to leave. You’re evicted, butterflies. Right now.

“Fair point,” I say. Then I go straight into professional mode. “Well, I’m glad you asked. We can work out how I can shoot today without interrupting your schedule.”

I feel his intense gaze land on my profile. I don’t dare look at him.

Besides, he’s wearing sunglasses, so it’s not like I can tell what he would be thinking anyway, unless his mouth gives me an indicator. Like curving up in a smile. Or frowning in disappointment. Or his nose. If he wrinkled it, it could be disgust. Confusion.

Christ, I’m going down another rabbit hole, ready to land at the bottom with conundrum.

“Right,” he says slowly, with a tone that gives me pause. As if that wasn’t the answer he expected.

What does his tone mean? Is he … disappointed at what I said? Surprised?

I decide I’m overthinking everything.

This is a business meeting. A favor.

And that’s it.

We reach the motorhome, and Caleb walks up and opens the door for me. I thank him and step inside, immediately removing my sunglasses and dropping them into my purse. I glance up at Caleb, who has removed his as well, holding them in his hand along with his phone.

And when I look at him, I find he’s already studying me.

He abruptly clears his throat. “Shall we get something to eat? Then we can talk.”

“Sounds good,” I say, nodding.

The dining area is busy this morning, and there’s a line forming at the barista station.

I grab a plate and head toward the buffet, hoping the french toast Caleb talked about yesterday is available, because I really do love it.

I look down at the chafing dishes, and there is not only one option for french toast, but three .

I read the cards in amazement: Cannoli-stuffed french toast. Banana-bread french toast. And finally, jelly-donut french toast stuffed with raspberry jam.

“You said this was your language,” Caleb says from behind me. “I told the chefs to prepare accordingly. It looks like they not only like your language but speak it fluently.”

WHAT?

My heart leaps inside my chest, and I feel my mouth pop open in surprise. “Wh—did you … what? ”

Caleb’s full lips begin to tug upward in a playful smile. “I’m sorry, that’s not my language. Can you repeat the question, please?”

I feel my neck grow hot. Nothing like being a reporter and not being able to spit out a complete coherent sentence. I try again. “You had this done for me?”

His eyes meet mine. I feel my body tingle in response.

“Yes.”

That’s all he says. It’s more like one of his press conference answers when a reporter tries to dip into personal territory. He’s not going to give me anything more than that.

Or so he thinks.

“Those one-word answers might work in a press conference, but that doesn’t work for me.” Despite myself, I feel a flirty smile pass over my lips. “Why did you go to so much trouble for me?”

Something lights in his eyes. A mischievous smile now forms on his mouth, and I find my pulse quickening in response to it.

“Because I wanted to speak your language,” he says, his voice low.

DAMN MY BODY FOR BETRAYING ME LIKE THIS RIGHT NOW.

Because every cell of mine is growing more attracted to Caleb by the minute.

“Well, you are speaking my language. Specifically, all these french toasts speak to me, so I’m going to have to have one of each,” I say, picking up the tongs and putting a piece of jelly-donut french toast on my plate.

The delicious scent of eggy brioche bread, warm jam, and powdered sugar wafts toward me, and I can’t wait to try it.