Page 26 of Downforce

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I slept the whole time.”

He snorts. “Wish I could sleep on flights.” His thumbs fly over his phone screen. “My doctor might stop bitching at me to take better care of myself.”

“There’s medication for that,” I say and shrug. “It’s what I do.”

Not a lie either. I’m unashamed to admit that I take pills to help me go to sleep on flights and sometimes to help me deal with the motion sickness that can come with longer flights.

“If I sleep on flights, I can’t work,” he says. “Sitting on a plane for five to ten hours and not working is never going to happen for me.”

It’s safe to say Norm is a workaholic. I’m betting his three ex-wives would testify to that as well.

But I don’t dwell on that.

“Have you heard from Luca Taylor?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

He pauses and looks up, squinting as if trying to recall. When he shakes his head, my hopes sink.

“Haven’t heard from him in about two weeks. My guess is he’s waiting to see how Trav performs this weekend.”

“That doesn’t … why would he need to wait?”

“Taylor’s a hard ass type. He’s turned down just about every one of my athletes in the past. Once Travis won the championship, I thought he’d be a shoo-in, but Taylor is …” He shrugs as he trails off.

Or he’s hesitant because I screwed up the night of the masquerade. Thinking about it makes me squeeze my hands together. I force myself not to go over detail after detail of what I could’ve done differently that night. I’ve done enough of that already.

One thing I don’t have to wonder about is my interaction with Max that night. If he would’ve just told me I had the wrong person, I could’ve gotten to Taylor earlier and not practically stalked him as he was trying to leave.

“We’re here,” Norm says about ten minutes later as we pull into the entrance of the stadium. It’s not even Thursday and there are already dozens of chauffeured vehicles in the parking lot.

I’m well aware of the tons of business deals that take place behind the scenes at these Grand Prixes. In particular, the first one of the season.

Which reminds me …

“Do you know if Bree Walters has arrived yet?” I ask as Norm and I enter the restaurant that sits along the racetrack but also gives a view of the lake the track wraps around.

“Who?” A wrinkle appears between his brows.

We’re shown to the room where a number of businesspeople, team owners, their spouses, drivers’ agents, and others mingle or sit at tables talking.

“Bree Walters. What do you think of her prospects for this season?” I ask.

He glances up from his phone and waves at a couple people, a few of whom I’ve already corresponded with over the phone or via email. They wave us over to their table.

After we greet one another, the conversation turns to the excitement for the weekend. How the drivers are looking, what the test times were in Bahrain, and what they say about who the contenders are this season.

“They say Travis and Amato were sandbagging,” an older man, who I recognize as an investor in one of the teams, states. He stares at me as if awaiting my response.

But he, like everyone else at this table, knows that I’m not privileged to proprietary information. Even if I were, I wouldn’t share it with them.

Smiling, I elegantly raise a shoulder. “This weekend will reveal all.”

His sun-reddened cheeks wrinkle as his smile grows.

“Annalise was just asking me about that girl …” Norm pauses and looks to me.

“Bree Walters.”

“Ah,” the older man says before tilting his head back and taking a sip from his champagne flute.