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He was not Phil. Or anyone I knew.
This stranger was a little older than me, with black-brown tousled hair and aviator sunglasses perched on his head. His black thermal shirt stretched across his defined chest under a worn but good quality leather jacket. His jeans hung low on his hips and hugged his thighs.
My heart slammed against my ribs. My breath caught. I’d never reacted this way to a good-looking guy before.
He’d stopped too, and slowly looked me up and down, as I got my breath back.
“I, umm, can I help you?” I quickly scanned his jacket and the belt loops on his jeans. No raceway staff ID that I could see.
“I had no idea Phil was a woman.” He slowly raked his eyes over me again, and then grinned. “Short for Phillipa?”
“Philisn’ta woman,” I snorted. He’s a Phillip.”
“I just saw you race,” His smile wavered. “Turner’s Racing. You’re Phil, right?”
“Oh … ah—”Shit, shit, shit!
“I could have sworn the text said Phil was a he …” he muttered, pulling his mobile from his back pocket.
Gravel crunched again from the other side of the motorhome. Loud voices of older men approached; one talking about Phil getting a media interview. The other mentioned the track committee.
“Doesn’t matter, anyway,” he shrugged and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, I’m—”
I grabbed his hand and pulling him close. “Shit! We have to get inside. Now!”
The stranger didn’t move. He stared with wide eyes. He was big and no matter how hard I pulled on his hand; he didn’t budge. Footsteps and loud voices continued towards us. I bit my lip. I had to hide. Now.
“You have to get inside the motorhome. Please.” I did my best puppy dog eyes, silently pleading with him to move.
“You want me to go inside your motorhome?” His mouth twitched. “With you?”
“It’s not my motorhome,” I hissed, grabbing him by the jacket with one hand while I looped Phil’s helmet and my duffel bag straps over the other. This time he relented, letting me drag him inside. I dumped my stuff on the floor and flicked the door’s lock. The voices were louder now.
Snatches of conversations wafted from outside:New record for Phil … Thought someone said he was sick … need to check.
I reared back. What if they suspected someone had driven in Phil’s place? I was about to be busted. While proxy drivers were allowed on occasion, I didn’t have permission nor the medical clearance to drive. If I was caught, Phil could end up disqualified. Turner’s Racing could be banned.
You did not think this through, Stacey!
I broke out into a cold sweat and faced the stranger. We barely had a hands breath between us in the narrow passageway of the motorhome.
“Just to be sure,” I said, “you’re not a racing official, are you?”
He frowned. “Just a fan. Why?”
“Right, good. And you don’t know Phil?”
“Never met him.” He waved his mobile at me. “I got a text that if I was heading this way tonight, I could see him race. Definitely a he, not a she. Not that I’m complaining—”
“Great. That’s great. Look, I need your help,” I gripped his jacket and pulled him closer. He smelled of leather, spicy cologne and a hint of sweat. Heat radiated off him.
“There are track officials outside looking for Phil. They can’t see me in this racing suit. If they knock, you … you have to make something up.”
He braced his hands against the wall behind me, caging me in.
“You want me to cover for you?” His voice was barely a whisper, his lips so close to mine.
“Yes,” I whispered back. “I need your help. Please.”
