FIVE
Phew. I fling myself through the door, hyperventilating with relief. Which looks weird, I realize, when two men dressed in overalls pass by and give me curious looks, so I hurry upstairs to the communications office to get started.
‘I have a meeting with Leif at nine,’ I explain, feeling even more overdressed than yesterday in tapered trousers, a navy blazer and my spikiest heels, with my hair in its usual high ponytail.
But I need to look professional today. Power dressing makes me feel in control, and hopefully this way I’ll avoid making a fool of myself again.
‘Morning!’ Charlotte comes in behind Yuto. ‘There, didn’t I tell you?’ She smiles brightly at me. ‘I said Leif wouldn’t get you fired.’
‘Have I missed something?’ Yuto looks between us. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘There was an incident,’ I say, clasping my elbows. ‘I said some things.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Just about how he can come across as a bit … terse.’ I lower my voice and glance at the door because the last thing I want is a repeat of yesterday. ‘Though obviously I wouldn’t have said so if I’d known he was standing in the doorway.’
‘It was pretty funny.’ Charlotte giggles. ‘I mean, he must have been standing there for a good thirty seconds before you noticed him, but honestly, it’ll be fine. He’s one of the loveliest guys I’ve ever met. Even Andre, my fiancé, says so, and he thinks most drivers are total divas.’
‘Leif has met your fiancé?’ I ask in surprise.
‘He came to our engagement party.’ She nods happily. ‘Anyway, good luck in your meeting. I have a press release to write, but Emika and I are going to the canteen for lunch at one if you want to join us?’
‘Sounds great. I’d love to.’
‘Don’t ask her anything about the wedding –’ Yuto whispers as Charlotte heads for her desk – ‘or you’ll be trapped all afternoon.’ He fixes me with a pained look. ‘Do you know the top five most popular colours for bridesmaids’ dresses?’
‘Um … no.’
‘I do.’
‘Right,’ I answer sombrely. ‘Thanks for the warning.’
I pour a cup of water from the cooler and head into the conference room to get my thoughts in order before Leif arrives.
On top of power dressing, I’ve had a long, stern talk with myself and I’m determined this meeting is going to go well.
I intend to be extra polite and efficient.
That means no more weirdness or tension and absolutely no thoughts of attraction. I refuse to let him affect me any more.
It also occurred to me, after replaying my comments from yesterday at least a dozen times during the (thankfully dreamless) night, that I never actually said sorry.
Even if Leif doesn’t like me, which is pretty obvious, I need to persuade him to trust me, to see me as a professional person who’s trying to do the best for his career, which means an apology is the first order of business.
The one positive about yesterday is that at least now I know he can smile.
That should make my job a little bit easier.
Especially when that smile is so powerful in a slow burn, sexy kind of way …
I tense as I realize I’m trailing a finger along the edge of my blazer in the direction of my cleavage. I really need to snap out of this.
I set out my things, placing my laptop in front of me, my notepad and papers to the left and three pens (black, green and red) to the right, beside my cup of water.
Next, I take a quick peek in my compact to make sure there are no crumbs on my face from the wholewheat blueberry muffin I ate for breakfast, then place my hands, palms down, on the table and wait.
It’s 8.59 when I hear Leif’s voice in the office outside, accompanied by the sound of Charlotte’s laughter. Obviously he’s being ‘adorable’ again, though I’m 99 per cent certain he’ll be frowning by the time he enters the room.
It takes approximately five seconds to have my theory confirmed. Leif looks like he’s about to have an interview with the taxman. He’s even wearing a shirt, a short-sleeved Rask polo with a collar, like he wants to keep this professional too.
‘Hi.’ I stand up from the table as his eyes lock on to mine.
In the morning light, they look even more quicksilver pale and intense than usual.
I get the sudden feeling that if he were to focus on me for too long he’d see everything, right down to all my deepest, darkest secrets.
Nervous energy runs down my spine at the thought.
I’ve never felt so acutely self-conscious with anyone in my life.
‘Come in. Can I get you –’ I glance at the mug in his hand and shake my head. ‘Never mind. Please take a seat.’
I wait for him to sit before doing the same, folding my hands together and putting on my most professional expression. ‘So before we start, I’d like to apologize for yesterday. I should never have said what I did and I’m truly sorry. It won’t happen again.’
‘OK,’ he answers flatly.
I stare at him, waiting for something more, but there’s nothing. His expression is so completely unreadable I can’t tell if he really forgives me or if he’s just not interested in my apology. ‘OK,’ I echo. ‘Well, that’s very kind of you. And feel free to insult me back if you like.’
He cocks his head to one side. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You could point out something about me that you don’t like. Then we’ll be even.’ I try to make the words sound cajoling, but they appear to have the opposite effect because he looks genuinely shocked.
‘I can’t.’
‘Just try. It’ll clear the air.’ I grit my teeth and smile. ‘After yesterday, I’m sure there are lots of things you can think of.’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ I look down at my notes, tapping my foot under the table to vent some of my frustration.
So much for ‘adorable’. Either he has no sense of humour or he’s simply not prepared to joke around with me.
Or use sentences of more than four words.
But that’s fine. We don’t have to be friends, just colleagues. Which means getting down to business.
‘So Vienna hired me to help reinvigorate Rask’s image and implement a new social media strategy,’ I begin.
‘Which means we need to get people’s attention.
Because of that, when I posted my video last night, I asked if there were any questions people would like to ask you and we got a really good response – quickly too, which is a positive sign.
It shows the fans are curious.’ I slide a piece of paper across the table to him.
‘These are some of the best. If you’re happy with them, we can shoot a short video when you have a gap in your schedule and then post it on the team’s channels. ’
He reaches a hand out for the paper, his bicep flexing in a way that I try not to notice but can’t help because I have treacherous eyes that linger a fraction too long.
Even when I drag them away, I’m still aware of his arms in the periphery of my vision.
It’s irritating. I’m never this aware of a man.
‘These questions are for me?’ he asks, skim-reading the paper before setting it down again. Long, tapered fingers tap the table beside it and, yep, there it is: he’s frowning again.
‘I know they’re not very car-related,’ I say, to pre-empt any criticism. ‘But they’re fun, quirky, perfect for fans to get to know you as a person.’
‘“If you could have any animal as a pet, what animal would you have and why?”’ He sounds perplexed, like I’ve just asked him to write a political treatise on Anglo-Norwegian relations, although judging by his expression he might have preferred that.
‘We’re trying to show your lighter side,’ I explain, reaching for my water. ‘Think of it as a kind of rebrand. Basically, we’re reintroducing you to the fans.’
‘You mean the ones who think I’m monosyllabic?’ His eyes follow the cup to my lips.
‘Right.’ I swallow a little too forcefully. ‘Like I said –’
‘An Arctic fox.’ He interrupts me.
‘Pardon?’
‘If I could have any animal as a pet, that’s what I would choose.’
‘Oh, they’re lovely.’ A clip from a nature documentary pops into my head of a small white fox diving headfirst into a bank of snow, along with a random fact. ‘They have hair on the soles of their feet.’
‘They do.’ His eyes widen, like he’s surprised. ‘They’re also mostly solitary, but monogamous once they find a mate. So …’ He gives a firm nod. ‘An Arctic fox.’
‘That sounds perfect.’ I make a note.
‘“If you weren’t a driver, what would you do?”’ A shadow passes over his face as he reads from the list again.
‘Yes. You know, as a job?’ I prod him when the silence starts to feel uncomfortable. ‘Maybe something else with cars?’
‘Maybe.’ He sounds brooding.
‘Like being a mechanic?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You know, it would be brilliant if you could do a technical video about your car sometime.’
‘Sure.’
‘Great.’ I watch as he reads again. It’s not like I’m staring, except …
well, maybe I am a little, but I can’t help noticing lots of little details about him, like that his lashes are long, but so pale you don’t notice them at first. Also what looks like a chickenpox scar on the left side of his chin, just visible through his stubble.
And speaking of stubble, it’s longer today than it was in Monaco, like he hasn’t shaved since.
Give it a couple more days and it’ll be a full beard.
That would probably suit him, in a rugged, lumberjack kind of way …
I follow the line of it down his throat.
F1 drivers need to have strong necks to withstand the intense G-forces of motor racing, and his looks particularly muscular.
Like his arms, which are straining the sleeves of his polo shirt in a way that makes me think I ought to ask Merchandising to get him a larger size.
Maybe as some kind of peace offering? A quiver of something ripples through my body.
Shit . I squirm in my chair. I promised myself this wouldn’t happen again today. It shouldn’t be happening at all! What the fuck, body?