Page 2
Zach
I pull down the baseball cap, tugging it low over my eyes. The airport is bustling, filled with chatter and the clinking of glasses from the terminal’s bars and restaurants. The cap and the jacket pulled to my chin do little to disguise a man of my size, and I can feel the weight of the stares as I walk by.
My fingers tighten on the backpack on my shoulder as I glance around, searching for a way out that doesn’t involve the front entrance where I’m sure the paparazzi are waiting with their eager cameras. Fuck, I hate this. The notoriety that comes with my work is one of the downsides to being a NASCAR driver, but it was never this bad before. It seems like everyone took a sudden interest in me when I announced that I was taking a break from racing.
Well, that and the little scuffle back at the last airport.
An idea pops in when I spot an airport custodian, who, like everyone else, is doing a poor job of pretending he’s not watching me. Something akin to fear flashes in his expression when I approach him, but I have no fucking intention of making a scene. He seems nervous around me until I offer him a few bills if he can get me to the airport’s car rental lot, promising extra if he can get me there without alerting the vultures waiting outside baggage claim.
“Okay, sir, wait here for a moment,” he says before rushing away. It’s hard for me to blindly trust strangers, but I don’t exactly have much of a choice. After what happened at the other airport earlier today, I can’t fucking deal with the media right now. I don’t exactly favor the idea of slipping out through a back door like some fucking coward, but my PR team has already sent me a flurry of emails, begging me to lie low and not cause another scene like the one that went viral on social media while I was stuck on a plane. There is no telling what I’ll do if another one of those vultures shoves a camera into my face.
I half expect the custodian to return with a herd of reporters, but he comes back alone, a knowing look in his eyes as he gestures for me to follow him. With a nod, I pull my cap lower as we enter a back hallway clearly reserved for staff.
The guy takes me through a series of hallways, and I’m starting to doubt the guy’s intentions when he pushes open a door, and I feel the cool air hit my face. “I am a huge fan, Mr. Westwood,” the custodian says as we step outside. We’re clearly in the back of the airport, the tarmac and several large commercial jets in view, but there are no other people around except for a man waiting in a golf cart a few yards away, but I don’t immediately let out a sigh of relief. I’m not out of the woods yet.
“Thank you,” I tell the custodian, as I dig into my pocket for a wad of bills, passing it to him without counting.
“Wait, sir. Can I get an autograph? My entire family was rooting for your team all season. We were sad to hear that you are taking a break.” So everyone has told me.
“Sure.”
The man eagerly hands me a marker and points at the collar of his shirt. I don’t question it, quickly scribbling my signature on the spot before handing him back the marker. He doesn’t stop me as I make my way to the golf cart this time.
It’s not until I slide into the backseat of the cart that I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The driver glances back at me, his eyes widening in recognition, but I give him a nod, urging him to keep quiet. “Just drive,” I say, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside of me. “I’ll give you a big tip if you get me to my car rental without drawing attention.”
“Add an autograph to the mix, and I’ll get in through the back entrance.”
I simply nod at the man, and he pulls away, driving quickly along the back side of the airport, and I watch the planes fade from view with a sigh of relief. I bet the paparazzi waiting at baggage claim are planning on testing my patience and pushing my limits to see if they can make me snap again. I’m not so sure they wouldn’t be successful.
I fall back in my seat with another sigh, my thoughts drifting back to the moment that brought me here. Everyone has been riding my ass about giving them a reason why someone at the height of their career would want to step back from the game. The truth I am unwilling to admit is that I am burned out. After ten years on the circuit working my ass off and collecting trophies, it’s only natural that someone would want a break, and that is exactly what I need.
No one other than my agent knows where I am going, and once I climb into my rental car and leave this city, I will finally be able to breathe.
The ten-minute ride passes quickly, and soon, I am scribbling my signature on the notepad the driver passes over to me. I tip the man before climbing out of the cart. Despite my request that the man keep it a secret, I don’t exactly trust him to do so. It’s only a matter of time before the paparazzi flood the car rental lot.
Fuck, I need to speed things up. I can’t afford to have people follow me out of the city like how they followed me from my apartment to the airport.
I pull down the cap once more over my eyes as I speed walk into the building, the cool air hitting me when I step in. The bright fluorescent lights above cast a stark glow, illuminating the rows of shiny vehicles lined up just beyond the glass door. I scan the nearly empty room, trying to blend in, but that isn’t exactly easy for a man who towers over everything.
The clerk behind the counter glances up, his eyes widening slightly, but his expression staying neutral when he spots me. If he recognizes me, he isn’t making a show of it. Good. I approach the counter, my baseball cap still pulled low and hoping it shields me from too much attention. “Hey there, I’m here to pick up a car,” I say.
“Can I have your reservation details please?”
“Sure, it’s booked under Zach Westwood,” I say, trying to project an air of normalcy as I pass him my driver’s license. The man, a kid really—from the baby face he is sporting—nods, his fingers already tapping away on the keyboard. As he retrieves my information, I glance around the room, taking in the other customers. There are only two of them, eyes locked on their phones and blissfully ignorant to the chaos that surrounds my life.
“Oh, yes. Um, Mr. Westwood, your vehicle has already been checked out.”
My eyes shoot back to the clerk, who gnaws at his lip, seemingly nervous for some reason. “What?” I ask, leaning forward so that my voice doesn’t carry. “I called to confirm the reservation this morning and already made the payment for the car.”
“Right, your car is still here and checked out in your name,” he rushes to reassure me. “But your wife is already here. She took the keys and mentioned something about waiting for you in the lot.”
“My wife?” I hiss, eyes narrowing on the kid, who visibly swallows at my glare. “What fucking wife?”
“I-I’m sorry, sir, I think I might have made a mistake. I need to call my supervisor and—”
“No,” I growl, my voice carrying, and I wince when it draws attention to us, so I soften it a bit. “No need. Did you say she grabbed the keys and is waiting for me in the parking lot?”
The kid nods eagerly. “Yes, sir!”
I fight the urge to growl in frustration. It seems someone—possibly a reporter—somehow found out which company I would be renting a car from and pretended to be my wife. It’s not the first time something like this has happened. Sherry What’s-her-name tried this trick once, charming my hotel staff into letting her into my room, and I made the same staff kick her out. The experience was humiliating for all parties involved, but I’ve tried to make sure no one could pull that shit on me again.
Until today it seems.
My strides are long as I push through the exit door, fury burning through my veins as I walk out to the rental lot. I scan the rows of cars, hoping to see the car I rented, a sleek black sedan that was meant to blend in.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see it, gleaming under the soft glow of the sun, but my attention quickly shifts from the car to…her.
Standing next to the car is a striking figure of a woman. Her chestnut brown hair barely touches her shoulders, framing her face and hiding it from view. My heart races with the way the light catches her brunette locks, making them shimmer, and I find myself approaching her for a closer look, my anger momentarily forgotten.
She doesn’t immediately notice me, allowing me to look my fill.
Her outfit is simple. She’s dressed in a sleeveless button up and a long pleated beige skirt with fabric that sways gently with the soft wind, flowing gracefully around her legs. The skirt hugs her waist just right, and I imagine wrapping my arm around that small waist. She’s clearly nervous about the stunt she just pulled as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, swinging the tote bag in her hands.
Good, she ought to be nervous.
I’m only a few feet away from her when she turns around, eyes locking with mine, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. Jesus Christ, she’s beautiful, in a sweet innocent way I’ve rarely seen before. Her eyes are a warm chocolate brown, and her lips are set in a natural pout that makes me want to close the distance and kiss her. And that thought is enough to jerk me back to reality.
She straightens her shoulders, brushing a trembling hand through her hair as she stares at me, neither of us saying a word. It seems she’s not sure what to say now that I’m in front of her. Did she not expect her plan to work when she decided to play my wife?
“I’m assuming you’re the wife I didn’t know I had? Funny, I always thought I’d remember it if I ever got married,” I say, my voice rough as I break the tense silence between us.
“I…” she starts, stepping forward before thinking better of it. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I didn’t expect it to work.”
It shouldn’t have, but as I have learned, the media can be pretty persuasive. I bet all she had to do was flutter her lashes at the clueless clerk to send the boy melting into a puddle. That trick is not going to work on me. It doesn’t matter that the girl has the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen or a mouth that is just begging to be kissed…. Fuck! No none of that matters. I’m not swayed by pretty women, least of all reporters.
“What outlet do you work for?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
“I…I don’t… I mean, I have a blog, and I write about sports—”
“I don’t actually care to know the details,” I say firmly. “If you give me the key now and walk away, I will forget about the whole thing. I won’t even ask how you knew to come here.”
“Please don’t be mad—”
“Give me the keys, and I won’t be.”
She bites into her lip, and I keep a stony face, doing my best to pretend I don’t want to cross the distance between us and rescue her lip from the abuse. Preferably give her something else to bite. “Can you at least hear me out?” she asks, the softness of her voice only working to further fill my cock. Goddamnit! It’s not ideal to be turned on by a fucking reporter, and that annoys me to no end.
“I don’t need to hear anything you have to say, miss. If you have any questions, call my agent. He deals with the press.”
She deflates. I hate that it bothers me to read the disappointment that mars her expression. “I…” she starts before her eyes shift to something behind me. “Oh, no. Looks like I am not the only one who knew to find you here.”
I clench my jaw, slowly turning around to spot multiple cars pulling up right outside the building. Most don’t even bother parking before they rush inside. “Fuck!” I curse under my breath, moving fast toward the girl and holding out my hand. “Give me the key, now.”
“Wait, you can’t leave yet. Will you please agree to the interview? It’s just me at my blog. I promise to write a great article about you.”
“No!”
“You can choose what you want shared in the article.”
“I do not want anything written at all. Interview requests can go through my agent. Just give me the key.” Tension is tightening my muscles and a sense of doom starts spread through me. It’s only a matter of minutes before the paparazzi figure out that I’m out here in the lot.
Her eyes shift from mine to the car and back again. Then, before I can even process what is happening, she runs around the car and jumps into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut behind her. A moment later, the passenger window next to me rolls down, and she leans over the center console toward me. “I don’t want to speak to your agent. I don’t need a perfectly crafted PR statement or a list of your stats. I know all that, and so do your fans.”
I clench my jaw, staring at the little temptress testing my patience, and by the looks of it, preparing to steal my rental car. “Why the hell are you so stubborn about this? Are you that desperate for traffic for your little blog?”
She ignores the jab. “You’re one of NASCAR’s most decorated drivers. Your story is important to the sport and your fans.”
Her words would be enough to leave me speechless, but it’s the passion in her voice that floors me. A part of me expected this gorgeous girl to be just another sneaky reporter trying to boost her career off my name, but it feels as though it goes deeper than that. I want to dig into her statement and understand her in ways I’ve never wanted to with anyone else, but we don’t exactly have the luxury of time.
Seeming to read my mind, she says, “Look, you need to get out of here, and that’s not happening unless you work with me or cause a scene. Let me drive you where you’re going.”
I look over my shoulder and notice a couple people leaving the rental office, headed for the parking lot. Before they can spot me, I duck down, and after throwing my bag into the backseat, I jump into the front passenger seat.
Looking her in the eyes, I tell the girl, “The drive will take two hours. You have until then to convince me to give you an interview.”
Her eyes widen in surprise, almost as if she was expecting me to turn her down. Then her expression shifts into something like determination. “No. You give me the interview on the way. I promise not to pry about anything you say is off-limits, but if we are doing this, I’m interviewing you.”
Checking out the window, I see we’ve been spotted. Fuck! The vultures are descending, and we need to get out of here. I grind my teeth, then answer, “Fine. You’ve got your interview; now get us the fuck out of here.”
I can hardly believe what I’m saying, and the surprise on her face echoes my own disbelief. I have gone for a full decade without revealing much of my personal life—not that there is much to reveal anyway—but I am about to break that rule for this cunning girl.
She nods, swallowing visibly. “Okay.” She sucks in a sharp breath then says, “Hang on.” She shifts the car into gear and launches us forward just before the media hounds reach us. With a skill I never would have imagined she possessed, she maneuvers us out of the lot, dodging parked cars and people waving cameras.
Clutching the handle above my door, I look over at my little abductor. “Where did you learn to drive?” I ask, incredulous.
She glances over at me. “My dad taught me. I told you I love racing; I got it from him.”
I can’t help but chuckle at the image of a pint-sized version of this girl cheering her heart out at a NASCAR race.
“Are you ready to start the interview now?” she asks, making me snort.
“No. You can interview me when we get there.”
“But we had a deal!” she protests. “You said—”
“Look,” I say, cutting her off, “I promise you’ll get your interview, but I’m fucking exhausted. Since you so graciously offered to drive, I’m going to take a nap.”
“Fine. Where are we going then?” she asks after a moment of silence.
“I figure it’s only fitting that I take you to my hometown now that we’re married, right?” I tease. She blushes at the reminder of her deception, but keeps her eyes on the road and her foot on the gas. “We’re going to Valor Springs.”