Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73568 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73568 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
I open my mouth, ready with a sarcastic retort, but she’s on a roll.
“You think you’re untouchable because you’re good on the track?” She leans forward, eyes blazing. “Well, guess what? The next best driver’s contract is up, and I can replace you tomorrow.” She puts her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. “You’re this close to getting dropped.”
I swallow, the cockiness draining out of me just a bit.
“You’ve got one chance,” she continues. “Shape up or ship out.”
I grit my teeth. “Fine. I’ll behave.”
“Damn right you will and I’m assigning you a babysitter to make sure you stay on the straight and narrow.” She stands, towering over the desk. “I’ve got an American reporter who wants to write a piece on Crown Velocity and needs the behind-the-scenes tour of everything. She’s going to do a hype piece to get more Americans interested in FI—particularly females—and it’s publicity we can’t pass up. She’s going to shadow you for the next few weeks, up through the opening race at the Bahrain Global Prix.”
My jaw tightens. “What exactly does shadow mean?”
“She’ll be with you for everything. Your day-to-day activities, training, team meetings, marketing and PR activities. Essentially, if you’re not in bed sleeping with your latest paddock bunny, I want her with you so she gets the full flavor of what it’s like to be an FI driver.”
“And what’s the point of making me do this?” I ask through gritted teeth, because this is going to be a severe cramp in my lifestyle. I sure as hell don’t want to babysit a bloody reporter, or worse, have her babysit me.
Harley’s smile turns almost feral as she leans her hands on her desk. “Here’s the best part. If she writes about you in glowing terms, you get to keep your job. If she writes an article that reflects pretty much the way you’ve been behaving lately, you’re fired. Easy as that.”
My jaw tightens. “Is this a bloody joke?”
“Afraid not.” She smiles sweetly at me. “You screw up and it’s over. No second chances.”
“When’s she coming?” I ask, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface.
“She’ll be here in about an hour,” Harley says, sitting back down, her tone calm once again. “Don’t go too far away.”
Harley puts her glasses on and leans forward to peer at her laptop. I’ve been effectively dismissed.
I don’t say a word. I stand and walk out, stewing over this unfortunate change in my circumstance.
CHAPTER 2
Posey
Sitting in the Crown Velocity waiting room outside Harley Patrick’s office, I feel the weight of my lie pressing down on me like a too-tight seat belt. My foot taps against the sleek, polished floor—nerves, mostly. I had no clue what to wear because this isn’t exactly an interview but it’s not quite a real job either. So I went with a pair of khaki wool pants and a cream-colored, oversized cable-knit sweater to ward off the England chill that seemed to follow me indoors. Paired with camel-colored booties, I feel somewhat fashionable but not overdressed.
It’s been a whirlwind week. I spoke to Ms. Patrick by phone ten days ago. It seems my pitch for an exposition piece about Crown Velocity made it to her desk. I was stunned when she offered me an opportunity I couldn’t pass up… come to the UK, hang with all the best at Crown Velocity and have exclusive access to everything. It was exactly what I wanted—no, needed—for my plans… and despite the fraud I committed to get this opportunity, I couldn’t help but think karma was smiling down on me.
I got my neighbor, sweet old Millie Padgett, to collect my mail and watch my house, then left rural eastern North Carolina behind for London.
So yeah… not exactly a job. More like an assignment under false pretenses, but I don’t regret my actions. In a way, I’m like an undercover journalist, except I’m not a journalist at all.
I’m a romance author.
A self-published historical romance author—think Bridgerton—to be exact, although I’m not as good as the mighty Julia Quinn. Still, I’ve been doing this for the past three years and I’m making a decent income, enough that I was able to leave my job as a floral designer in my small hometown. While there was a bit of heartache in walking away from a job that held personal meaning, I never looked back.
It’s a risk I’m taking now, not only lying about being a journalist to gain inside access to the world of formula racing, but if I don’t make a successful jump from historical romance to sports romance, my career could literally shrivel up and die. This is a whole lot of effort and risk, and this might just implode in my face.
But as my dad always said, “You can’t catch rabbits if you’re chasing butterflies in a snowstorm.”