Page 70 of Downforce

Princess: Who is this?

Through narrowed lenses I type out:

Me: Had plans with somebody else tonight at seven o’clock, did you?

That telltale ellipses pops up on the screen then disappears then pops up again. I wonder what she’s writing, then erasing and replying again. Annalise chooses her words carefully.

Most of the time.

My mind drifts back to Japan. When she called me the most technically skilled driver on the grid. She wasn’t lying when she’d said it. The look in her eyes held a fierce mixture of exasperation, vulnerability, and guilt.

That last one, I surmised, is because she felt the strain of telling her brother’s biggest rival that he might just be better than him.

This thought has me grinning when another text comes through.

Princess: I never agreed to meet you for dinner.

My smile grows.

Me: That’s not how I remember it.

Princess: You obviously have an unreliable memory. Besides, I’m working.

Me: I’m working as well. Yet, I’m able to find time in my busy schedule to make time for you.

I read my words over after I hit send and realize how true they are. Race weekend is often a blur. ironically, time only slows down once I’m behind the wheel of my car. A haze of bullshit interviews, playing face for the camera, and partying all thrown in with some racing on the track.

Not right now, though.

Princess: You should be resting for qualifying tomorrow.

Her concern sends a little thrill through me.

Me: I have to eat first. And I don’t plan on eating alone.

Another long pause of appearing and disappearing ellipses fills the span of time after that last text.

Me: Dinner is getting cold. Meet me in my room in five minutes or I can give my favorite teammate a call and ask what he thinks of our joint venture with Liam’s company as proposed to me by his sister this afternoon.

As soon as I send the text, I place my phone face down on the coffee table. The threat is a slight risk, but if I understand Annalise the way I think I do, it’s a bet I’m willing to make.

Sure enough, mid-pace, less than five minutes later there’s a loud banging on my hotel door.

“Who the hell do you think you’re threatening?” she demands the moment I pull the door open.

I stare down into her fuming hazel eyes, reddened cheeks, and pushed out lips and have to suppress the stirring happening beneath my waist.

“You’re late,” I respond.

Her eyes narrow to slits. I step aside for her to come in.

“I didn’t come here to have dinner with you,” she insists while brushing past me and entering my hotel room.

“No?”

“No.” She spins on me. “I came to tell you that number one, you do not threaten me. We both know my brother wouldn’t believe anything you told him about me anyway. Number two,” her voice grows in volume when I part my lips to reply, “I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work.”

Folding my arms across my chest, I widen my stance and lean my head slightly. “What am I doing?”