Marisol smacks his arm while I hiss out a “shh, keep it down.”
His eyes are still bugging out of his head. He’s not going to let this go.
Tucking my hair behind both ears, I scoot toward the edge of my chair and duck lower, forearms on the table. “Yes, I dated Luca Steele,” I tell them. “Things did not end well between us, so no, I can’t get you an autograph or access to him. Luca and Alaric don’t work for the same team or have any kind of connection in the Formula 1 space, but yes, I did get this gig because of who I knew.”
Shame slithers down my spine. I’m not here on merit, and now my coworkers know that.
“If you’re questioning whether I’m the most qualified person for this job, I understand. I’m still questioning it myself, honestly. But I promise I’m a hard worker and I’ll absolutely pull my weight on this team.”
Shaking her head, Marisol pats my forearm. “I never for one second questioned your commitment to this team,” she assures me.
Silas holds up both hands. “Same here,” he insists. “I can’t believe you let me drone on about almost getting hit by Matty on a scooter when you’ve literally been in a romantic relationship with one of the drivers.”
Lips pressed together, I sigh. “We’re not in a relationship anymore, and I’m not exaggerating when I say itreallydidn’t end well.”
Marisol squeezes my arm, then nudges Silas. “Noted. We won’t bring it up again, will we?”
He quickly nods, lacing his fingers and looking pious.
“Thanks.” I offer them both a grateful smile.
“Okay, we better get to work.” Marisol eyes Silas, then cants her head toward the windows.
“I’m going to try to snag one of those free tables outside.”
We’ve all got long to-do lists to get through before the action really kicks up ahead of the practice sessions, so with a quick goodbye, they head out.
I give myself a few seconds to mentally regroup, then I snag a sparkling raspberry seltzer from the cooler. I circle back to my table, ready to collect my belongings, but notice a few other people have set up here in the cafeteria.
Now that the lunch rush has died down, the large space is much quieter, and there’s a lot of natural light coming in from the windows. If I put my headphones on or use my noise-reducing earplugs, it may not be a bad spot for me to work.
So I pull my laptop out of my bag and settle in.
I spend a good chunk of time focused on the spreadsheet in front of me, going over the template I’ll use for taking notes and capturing commentary about Granata during the race this weekend.
Marisol, Silas, and I will rotate assignments each week. This week, I’ll be in the garage for qualifying, then I’ll spend three hours in the grandstands on race day.
Mauricio has created templates for each assignment, so I’m practicing copying and pasting data and categorizing it so I’m not fumbling with it during the race on Sunday.
As I’m squinting at the screen, focused on a column, a massive shadow darkens my view.
I snap up straight, finding a man who’s almost as wide as he is tall standing before me.
He’s wearing a professional chef jacket, the buttons straining across his chest. The wordsMick, Head Chefare embroidered on one side. His expression is hard-set and serious, making me want to shrink back.
Crap. Maybe I’m not supposed to be working in the cafeteria after all.
Sheepishly, I offer him a smile, then take my noise-reducing earplugs out.
“Hi,” I say by way of greeting. “I’m sorry. Is it not okay to work here? Let me pack up and get out of?—”
“It’s more than okay to work here, Evangeline.”
My breath stutters. “You know my name?”
He nods. “And I have something for you.” He holds out a small stack of papers.
“What is it?” I ask, tentatively reaching for the documents.
