“Jesus.” His cheek flexes, hard. “I didn’t—fuck, whatever.”
Seconds tick by as we stare at each other, Arthur’s brows drawn in and his mouth a comic-book pen slash. I can’t tell what he’s thinking about; if he’s only rising to meet my resentment, if he’s about to call off our agreement, if touching me scalded his skin, too.
“From now on, I’m driving this car,” I say. “I’m planning what we do. I’m calling the shots. And we’re not doing fake dating—fake—whatever the hell that was. Got it, Bianco?”
Pupils narrowing, he lets out a tiny huff. “The little documentarian hates not being in control.”
“Nope,” I lie, because screw him, screw him,screwhim. He would make my desire to avoid getting typecast asfragile young woman, rescued by enamored rich mansound like an overreaction. “The big race-car driver loves to treat women like meat. But hey, go ahead. Pretend like the only way to further a woman’s career is by acting like you’re into her. Having a distraction from everything wrong with Max is nice.”
Arthur’s jaw twitches, a sheen running over his skin and a reddenedflush beneath it. The sun has hitched high up in the sky, and sweat sparkles across his brow. “You should be grateful that I was raised to lie to the media. Having to pretend that you’re charming enough to want isn’t easy.”
“Good thing I never asked you to pretend.” I take a step closer to him, refusing to let his towering height intimidate me. “In fact, don’t. Don’t touch me. Don’t smile at me in front of other people. Don’t play into the idea that I’m only here because of a man. I already need to process Max doing that to me. Don’t do it to me, too.”
Arthur’s chest hitches with a quick breath. “You don’t get it. This”—he waves down at us, his orange race suit, my cargo shorts and Slowdive shirt—“is going to make people talk. We’re going to be spending time together, more time than normal, and I have a reputation.”
“Of?”
“Liking pretty women.”
His face is utterly serious, too serious, and my back stiffens like there’s an elastic band tied to both ends. Arthur may be able to flirt his way into forgiveness with other people, but not me. “You said nobody would believe we’re working together.”
“And that’s true,” he replies. “Everyone will know that I dislike you.”
“Exactly. So let them think that. We hate each other. Great. I’m keeping my job. Awesome. There’s no need to make this more complicated than it already is.”
Arthur pauses again, and the air around me grows quieter for it. “People can dislike each other and still be attracted to one another,” he says with what must be aggravated stiffness, as if he’s amazed he has to spell this out to me. His voice is lower. Slightly strained. “I’m a Formula 1 driver, Graywood. I get what I want. And they’ll think I want you,” he adds before I can take another breath.
So, I don’t. I stand here, not breathing, and try to grasp what he’s saying. Arthur and me, together? Absolutely not. The idea of wanting to sleep with someone I dislike—whose mere personality makes my nervous system light up like a Christmas tree with rage—is completely and utterly bizarre. Max had always joked that I’m demisexual, that I need some incredible, earth-shattering connection in order to look twice at anyone, but that concept was never a joke to me. I don’t know what I’d label myself as, but I like that my connections start with getting to know someone. Comfort. Safety.
Anyone can see that Arthur is textbook attractive. But he isn’t comfortable, kind, or nice. I’d never feel safe with him. His good looks are just an objective truth, like how it’s objectively true that I’d never trust mixing business and pleasure again.
“Documentarians don’t sleep with their subjects,” I say, pretending like that particular taboo is the most horrifying part of this conversation. “It’s a no. I’d rather be jobless and broke than for people to believeParty Prince Arthurwants me.”
That was too harsh. But I can’t unsay it, and when Arthur scoffs out, “You would read the articles,” I feel a sick twist of satisfaction that I got under his skin. Then he leans down, the tip of his sharp nose inches from mine. “Fine, then. If you’ll excuse me, thisparty princehas to practice for the British Grand Prix. One of us needs to keep their job.”
He stares at me, waiting for my comeback, but I only stare back, more offended by that insult than I’d care to admit. After too much quiet, his shoulders drop, tension uncoiling, and he says, “Are you done now?”
There can’t be any worse question for a man to ask. I don’t deign him with a response, and Arthur lets out an irritated sigh. “You know why I didn’t have time to chat with you this morning?”
This is a trap. He’s trying to restart our fight. I let my weight settle back onto the balls of my feet, defensive, and angry, and slightly nauseous from this whole conversation… but curious. Forever curious. “Why?”
“Faust is being put on leave,” Arthur says with a tense excitement I don’t understand. “I’m racing for Ignition at Silverstone.”
Apparently, knowing what that means was a test, because when I repeat back “Silverstone?” Arthur gives me a long, annoyed look. “England, Graywood. You and I are going to England.”
Chapter Five
Max emails me my new three-month Black & Graywood work contract before we break for lunch. I open the attachment, read over the tiny text that states that I’m a temporary employee, jerkily e-sign the document, and take a fifteen-minute break to hyperventilate in the women’s room. On Friday, I attend a meeting with Max and Sarah, and dissociate as they discuss the ins and outs of Arthur’s schedule, Max having elegantly volleyed the idea of us working separately on the road. Then he goes on about how he thinks that I should still be the one following Arthur and filming the race, since I have the better camera skills of the two of us and it’s oh so important that this documentary centers the Bianco family. Meanwhile, Max will focus on sound and organizing a lighting crew for sit-down interviews.
He doesn’t mention Arthur’s “crush.”
And honestly, what he says sounds believable. If I hadn’t been out there by the fence, watching Arthur intimidate Max into submission, I’d think this all was one hundred percent Max’s idea.
With all the driver drama, I’m not scheduled to see Arthur again until the following Thursday… when I’m supposed to get on a private jet with him and fly across the Atlantic Ocean to begin his pre-Silverstone media blitz. Having time by myself is a welcome reprieve. Mostly. Whenever I think about arguing with Arthur out in the sun, our noses almost touching, my muscles tense, and I get that wash-down-the-spine flood of embarrassment, those woozy cold chills that promise this particular memory will be a late-night replay for the rest of my life. What is it about him that brings out the anger inside of me? I’d never speak to another documentary subject like I had with him.
And that’s what Arthur is: someone whose story I’m filming.
So, the week before the flight, I pack my clothes and camera, crack open my thick brainstorming notebook, and start mapping out my movie about him.
