We’re down the stairs and out of the TV compound before I work up the nerve to call Grady’s name. He stops and wheels around to face me.
“You shouldn’t have followed me.”
I shrug. If I act like what just happened is no big deal, then it’s no big deal. Right? “Pre-race interviews are bullshit. All that matters is what happens on the track.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, the tight set of his jaw relaxing a fraction. He’s got a jawline that could cut glass, sharp and strong. And sexy. So goddamn sexy. “And Hilliard is a grade A dick. He shouldn’t have gone after you like that.”
I clear my throat and stare at the top button of his green and gold LaRue Motorsports polo. Anything to stop fixating on his Clark Kent jaw. “You won’t get any argument on that from me.”
He pulls a face that makes him look like he blew a tire a few feet from the finish line in the last race of the season. With the Constructors’ Championship on the line. “You realize you’re probably going to get slapped with a hefty fine.”
“I could say the same to you. And it was me he was attacking, not you. You didn’t have to jump to my defense. Not that I don’t appreciate it,” I add quickly. After all, the guy did me a favor.
“Hell of a way to meet my new race engineer,” he grumbles.
“Blame Jacques. It was his brilliant idea to surprise you on national television. Thought it would make things more interesting. His words, not mine.”
Hell, interesting is the last thing I want things to be. I’d prefer whatever the opposite of interesting is. Uneventful. Or downright boring. The less drama the better, I always say. In racing and in life. Like the blissfully uneventful, boring life I can get back to once this season is done.
“Well, you know what they say. There’s no such thing as bad publicity.” His thick brows, a shade darker than his sandy blond hair, draw together, wrinkling his forehead. “That’s a thing, isn’t it?”
“If you say so.” Although I’m not sure Jacques will agree. I stick out my hand to the guy whose every move on the track I’ll be guiding for the remainder of the season. “How about we start over? I’m Ben Carpenter, and I’ll be the voice in your ear on race days.”
He takes my hand. His grip is firm and his fingers surprisingly soft for someone who spends countless hours with them wrapped around a hard, uncompromising steering wheel. I try to ignore the zing that shoots up my arm, into my chest, and down to parts south of my belt buckle, settling there like some sort of sick practical joke.
I’m not attracted to him. Not to the lush, sandy blond hair that just brushes his shoulders. Or his golden California tan. Or the self-satisfied surfer-boy smirk that lifts the corners of his mouth and lightens his ice-blue eyes. I can’t be. I start a mental catalogue of the reasons why that would be yet another monumentally stupid idea.
Number one, he’s too young. Early-to-mid twenties to my just-turned-thirty-five, I’d guess.
Number two, we’re coworkers. Not just coworkers. We’ll be in each other’s heads constantly. For our relationship—our working relationship, I mentally clarify—to be successful, we’ve got to trust each other. Implicitly. No questions asked. No reservations.
No distractions like, say, one of us—the supposedly more mature, more responsible one—lusting after the other one.
Number three, Elodie. I’m not under any illusions that she’s been pining after me all these years, but I’ve already got one former lover on team LaRue. Starting something with another team member seems like courting trouble. And like I said, I do not do drama.
My youthful indiscretion with Elodie notwithstanding. Now I’m older and wiser.
I hope.
Number four, Grady’s way too fucking young for me.
Did I mention that one already? Doesn’t matter. It’s worth noting twice. Maybe even three times.
He releases my hand, which I realize belatedly he was still holding. Or was I holding his?
“Wanna grab a cup of coffee?” he asks. “If you’re going to be the older, wiser Obi Wan Kenobi to my young, headstrong, Luke Skywalker, we should get to know each other better.”
Ouch. He really knows how to hit a guy where it hurts. Like I haven’t just been speculating about the huge age gap between us. Then again, maybe that’s exactly what I need. Maybe the more decrepit I feel in comparison to him, the less likely I’ll be to do something stupid.
“Sure,” I find myself answering. So much for not doing anything stupid. Apparently my brain isn’t connected to my mouth. Although now that I think about it, there’s coffee in the team’s usually crowded hospitality suite. That should be safe.
Right?
Right, I tell myself over and over as we head for the Recharge Garage, the team’s name for the triple-decker motorhome that houses our staff offices, ready rooms and showers for the drivers, a large kitchen, restrooms, and dining area, complete with a canteen-style serving station and a coffee bar. I get myself a simple Americano, he gets a hot chocolate with extra extra whipped cream and some sort of fancy pastry covered in vanilla icing, further emphasizing that I’m a grown-ass man and he’s barely out of high school. We find a spot in the corner, where we can hopefully talk without being disturbed, and sit, our knees practically touching under the tiny table.
So much for safe.
“So,” he says when we’ve had a chance to settle in and take our first sips of coffee and hot chocolate, respectively. “Why did you come back to F1?”
