Sandro cracks the door open, and the wince he gives me tells me right away that his driver isn’t doing well. He inhales sharply, surely ready to tell me as such, but I hold up both hands, stopping him.
“I wanted to check on him. Apologize for our shitty Swiss cheese strategy out there today.”
The performance coach’s expression softens. “Appreciate that, boss.”
“I also wanted to see how his stomach was holding up,” I add on a whim.
“Who the hell?—”
Heath rips the dressing room door wide open. He’s still in his base layers, with his race suit unzipped down to his hips, the top half of it shucked off and dangling. His cheeks are ruddy with color, a scowl marring his face.
When he sees me, his anger wanes. His face is still etched in frustration, but he no longer looks like he’s about to chew my head off.
“Just stopped in to check on you,” I tell him, my words apologetic.
He crosses his arms across his broad chest, leveling me with a glare. “I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with my stomach.”
I raise both brows. “You’re sure? I could have sworn you weren’t feeling well and couldn’t participate in media interviews as scheduled.”
His eyes light up, and he chuckles, his shoulders lowering and his posture relaxing. “Now that you mention it…”
He exchanges a look with Sandro, the two of them having a silent conversation.
“I’ll take care of everything.” I pull out my phone to alert Amira to the change of plans. “Rest up and take it easy tonight,” I say, taking a step back. “I’m sorry we couldn’t do better by you today.”
The Canadian driver blows out a long breath. “Appreciate it, boss. We’ll get them next time.”
With a grateful smile, Sandro closes the door.
I turn on my heel and pound out orders via text, making sure that the team understands that Heath has a medical excuse for missing media obligations. I’m finishing up an email when I round a tight corner and bump into someone.
I throw my arms out to steady the other person. “I’m so?—”
The apology dies on my lips. In my arms isn’t a member of my staff or an F1 photographer as expected. Standing before me, looking beautiful although slightly rattled, is Evangeline.
Air catches in my lungs. “It’s you.”
“It’s me,” she says with a soft laugh. “Were you hoping for someone else?”
“Never,” I say, the word rushed. “Clearly, I wasn’t expecting anyone. I should have been paying better attention. How are you?”
Forget the race or the obligatory press conference I’m already running late for. My world is lighter—better,brighter—now that she’s standing before me.
“I’m okay,” she assures me, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips as she peers up through thick lashes. Her makeup is done, and her chin-length hair is wavier than it was this morning. The urge to run my fingers through the blond strands consumes me. I tighten my grip on her forearms, just to keep myself from doing something even more stupid than touching her in plain sight.
“Just okay?” With a glance over my shoulder, I confirm we’re alone, then angle closer.
She shifts, her eyes darting from side to side, and tugs slightly to pull herself out of my hold.
Unable to let her put space between us, I tighten my grasp and bow my head so we’re even closer.
The fire flashing in her eyes is salacious.
This is pushing the limits, and we both know it.
“I’m more than okay,” she whispers. Then she scrunches her nose in the most adorable way. “But it doesn’t feel right to boast about how blissed out I still am, knowing the team struggled so much today.”
Pride fills me, my chest inflating. She’s blissed out.Because of me.
