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Headline: Gibbes Points Leader at Celeritas After DuPont Crash in Baku
Headline: Good Job Baku! Good job Gibbes!
Photo: Lennox Gibbes on Podium in Baku, Azerbaijan
F1Scooby: he can spray me down anytime…
HeadSizzlin: sticky!
GingerHippo: Have always been a DuPont fan but I gotta say, I’ve switched to Team Gibbes this season. He seems like an ok dude.
ScotlandMom: He signed a shirt for me! He’s a good boy!
RacingHot: Mom, that ‘boy’ is all man. :-o
Mallory
I still have no idea what I’m going to do about the Cooper Media situation even as we’ve just landed at a tiny single strip airfield on the Isle of Skye, Lennox’s home island in the Outer Hebrides. Despite that, and the extremely bumpy landing that had me burying my head into his chest, I am giddy to be here.
The flight in, before it became a roller coaster, was stunning. Passing over rocky cliffs, pastels colored homes lining the shores of the coast, and so much greenery, I am almost expecting a hobbit to jump out at me. I want to see everything, but I mostly want to see Lennox’s home, where he grew up, his life outside of F1. And I want to know for me, not Cooper Media, or for Celeritas, or even his fans.
We have an hour’s drive to his home but it’s flying past as I take in the dramatic coastline our route winds us through. Snow peaked mountains rise before deep blue waters, the earth covered in a lush carpet of moss. “Ooo what is that?” I ask Lennox, a question I’ve asked many times since we got into the “beater” car he leaves at the airport, a gray Audi.
“Loch Sligachan.” Part of me keeps asking him where we are because I want to hear him speak all the names of these locations, his accent thicker since the second we landed. It does things to me...
“Can we stop?”
“We have ten days before we’re due in Barcelona, plenty of time.”
I sigh a contented, happy breath. Ten days alone with Lennox in this incredible, isolated corner of the world. I want to turn my phone off, throw my laptop out the window, forget everything and everyone except the tattooed adonis in the car with me.
Despite driving a phenomenal race in Azerbaijan, it was hard on him because Dumbass DuPont wrecked his car again and behaved like a salty little bitch, making everyone on the team miserable. I stuck with Jack and Matty all weekend like a grade-a clinger, never letting myself be alone so Dumbass couldn’t cause any trouble. In any case, I plan to make Lennox feel much better for the next ten days.
Before I know it, we pull off the tiny main road and the car winds down an unmarked gravel drive for several minutes, passing hilly meadows and an old stone fence before Lennox punches in a code and a black steel gate opens for us. Whatever I was picturing in my head as Lennox’s home, this is not it.
First coming into view as we keep down the drive is a massive two-story garage built out of round gray and black stones, hundreds of year of weather perfecting their charm. There are at least six black garage door bays blended into the dark stone and the second story is tinted floor to ceiling windows along the front before a peaked thatched roof takes over, covered in green moss that drips down the sides of the building. It is somehow timeworn yet sleek and modern.
We drive past the garage and a few smaller stone outbuildings before pulling up to the main building. “This is your house?” I gasp.
“Aye.” Lennox pops out of the car and is rounding it to open my door for me, but I’ve already gotten it open and have jumped out, my jaw open and trying to take in the spectacular beauty. The house is ancient, more like a castle than a home, all black and gray stone construction, moss growing between some rocks, and a shale tile roof with multiple brick chimneys rising above. Li
ke the garage, there are modern windows peppered everywhere that blend seamlessly into the aesthetic. As far as I can see, it’s surrounded by brilliant greenery in all directions.
“How old is it?” I gawk.
“Not that old, it was a diatomite factory built in the mid-1800s.” Not that old? I have so many questions I don’t know where to start but I’m distracted by an orange tabby cat bounding and leaping over long grass heading straight for us.
“I think one of your fans is charging you,” I point.
Lennox turns to see what I’m pointing at as the cat reaches us and starts weaving between his long legs. He bends down to scratch the kitty’s ears, one of them missing the top-left point, and coos something to him in Gaelic. I don’t need to understand it for my hormones to shift into hyperdrive. “Come on, let’s get it over with,” he rolls his eyes at me, thinking I’m going to make more cat jokes.
Me, Lennox and the orange cat, who he calls ‘Bodach,’ traipse all around the property as he stops and refills food dishes in small stone outbuildings along the way. Hearing the kibble hit their bowls, a few more cats appear along the horizon and make their way in for chow as soon as we’re out of the immediate area.
I can’t help but smile at how adorable this is, the big, strong, tattooed bad boy that he’s supposed to be, refilling cat food bowls. “You need a refresher on how secure I am in my masculinity?” He asks me, grabbing my ass and pulling my hips into him along a worn path amongst the fields.
“I would like a refresher course on this,” I smirk and cup his package, “but I’m not teasing you about the cats. I’m more woke than that and honestly, my ovaries are on fire.”
“There are probably antibiotics for that,” he laughs, his eyes bright and alive. He’s different here. The way he walks is easy, his shoulders are relaxed. He’s comfortable. This is his sanctuary.
