Something passes between them that I can’t quite put my finger on, and for the first time I wonder if they’ve got some sort of history together. It’s not out of the realm of possibility. They’ve both been part of F1 way longer than I have. Which means they’ve known each other for years. But whatever it was that I thought I saw is gone as quickly as it appeared.
“I have that charity fashion show on Friday.” I’d been nervous about volunteering. I don’t mind being in the spotlight on the track. Or even off it, if it’s racing related. Parading around in designer duds in front of hundreds of strangers is an entirely different matter. But Gabe and Yanni have done it before and are doing it again, and they assured me it wasn’t that bad. Plus, it’s for a good cause.
“That shouldn’t be a problem.” Kip pulls his phone back out. After a couple of taps, he smiles, apparently having found the answer he’s looking for. “The fashion show starts at 5:00, and the yacht doesn’t leave until 8:00.”
“That should give you plenty of time to walk the runway, shake some hands, and make it onto the ship before it sets sail,” Elodie agrees.
“I’ve got an even better idea,” Kip sing-songs. “Ben can go with you to the fashion show, and then you two can catch the boat together.”
Ugh. If I was nervous about total strangers ogling me on the catwalk, I’m even more so at the thought of having Ben’s eyes on me up there. Then again, maybe a little taste of what he’s missing out on would serve him right. It’s like they say, temptation makes the dick grow fonder.
Ben’s face goes even paler, if that’s possible. “I had plans with—”
“Cancel them,” Elodie interrupts in her I’m-not-here-for-your-bullshit tone. “This is non-negotiable. You two created this public relations disaster by arguing over the airwaves. I expect you to do damage control.”
For a second, Ben looks like he wants to object, maybe to say something like we never thought our comms would go public. But then he apparently thinks the better of it and nods.
“Grady?” Elodie looks to me for approval. As if I have a choice.
I should follow Ben’s lead and just nod. But I can’t resist messing with him. Maybe because he turned me down. Maybe because he’s made it painfully clear that something like a root canal would be preferable to spending any amount of time with me above and beyond what’s required for us to work together. Or maybe because, despite all that, I still want him so fucking badly I can taste it.
I catch his eye and give him a confident smile. “Looking forward to it.”
CHAPTER9
Ben
I don’t know fuck-all about fashion. My idea of dress pants is a pair of jeans without holes in them. But I know Grady looks like a million dollars, striding down the runway like he owns it in a slim-fitting charcoal gray suit over a tight black T-shirt.
“You boy is really working it up there,” Stefan, seated next to me in his wheelchair, says, clapping me on the shoulder. When I told him I had to cancel our dinner plans, he insisted on knowing why. And once he found out, he insisted on weaseling his way into the fashion show so he could see me.
More like torture me. Which I guess I deserve.
“He’s not my boy. He’s LaRue’s boy.” I don’t bother pointing out that he’s also very much a man.
He raises an eyebrow at me. “Defensive much? You know what I mean. And besides, aren’t you supposed to be playing nice with him?”
I’m starting to regret telling him about the comms leak and Elodie’s damage control plan. I’m not sure why I did. I could have made something up. Just told him the team wanted me to make some appearances for PR purposes. I didn’t have to spill all the dirty details of my up-one-day-down-the-next relationship with Grady.
Okay, notallthe dirty details. I didn’t tell him about the kiss. There’s no way I’m going there with him. Not because I’m afraid he’ll judge me for being bi. I’ve been out to him for years. And he’s like the least homophobic person I know. He even marched in the Christopher Street Day parade—Berlin’s version of Pride—before his accident. But because I don’t need him to tell me what a colossal mistake it would be for a race engineer to get involved with his driver. I’ve told myself that a thousand times.
And I’m not about to out Grady. Not even to my best friend.
“I am playing nice.” Not as nice as I wish I could, but still. I’ve been the poster boy for politeness on the job, and our working relationship seems to have settled into a strictly professional and almost comfortable one. We’re both focused on one thing: racking up some points on Sunday. Although I could do without Grady’s occasional flirty glances and suggestive smirks.
“Is he always this confident?” Stefan asks as Grady reaches the end of the catwalk and strikes a pose, one hand casually in his pants pocket and the other raking through his thick blond curls. He looks like he was born to strut his stuff, not hide himself behind the wheel of a race car, and my dick, which had been behaving itself, stirs to life.
I shift in my seat, doing my best to hide the evidence of my growing arousal and wondering if it would be rude to make a run for the bathroom so I can rearrange my junk and splash some cold water on my face. “Pretty much.”
I’ve seen Grady slip a few times. Like when he threw his helmet against the garage wall in Belgium. Or when he talks about his father. There’s definitely unresolved shit there. But Grady has the makings of a champion if he could only get out of his head. And out of his own way.
Which is why I’m here. Well, not here at this fashion show, being strangled by my bow tie. Here in Monaco. As Grady’s race engineer. To help him reach his full potential. Not—I repeat, not—to drag him to my room and fuck him senseless.
Stefan checks his watch. The Rolex Daytona he bought himself when he won his first race. The one I helped him pick out. The memory is both bitter and sweet, a reminder of where we were and where we are.
“How long is this thing supposed to last?” he asks.
I shrug. “No clue.”
