Chapter 12
EVANGELINE
“Oh my god, I almost forgot to tell you guys. This morning, Matty Olsenn almost ran me over with his scooter.” Silas leans forward and grins, looking expectantly from me to Marisol as if this is the best moment of his life.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He pretends to flip hair that doesn’t exist over his shoulder. “I mean, I would have preferred if he’d hit me and then performed the necessary CPR.”
Marisol chortles, shaking her head.
“Did he at least apologize?” I press.
Matty’s a two-time world champ in Formula 1 and was the champion in Formula 3 and Formula 2 as he rose through the ranks.
He’s always been the fastest of the Elite Eight, with the kind of ego and hyper-focus that makes him disinterested in hanging out socially.
I don’t know him well, but I would hope he’d take more care around the paddock.
With a shrug, Silas grins. “He did shout ‘watch it’ in that sexy Norwegian accent as he zipped past me.”
“I don’t think almost getting run over by a Formula 1 driver is something you should be excited about,” Marisol teases. She pops a green grape into her mouth.
Our coworker waves his hand. “Ladies, please. Do you know how long I’ve wanted to work in this industry? I’d let Matty Olsenn run me over, throw it in reverse, and hit me again if it’d make him happy.”
I snort out a laugh.
Marisol angles in, waggling her perfectly arched eyebrows. “If we’re swapping driver stories, Heath held the door for me this morning.”
I fight back a smile. I love how excited the two of them are about this sport. Though it hits me now that I haven’t mentioned how close I am with some of the people they seem to idolize.
“Where do you want to set up and work this afternoon?” Silas asks, arching back in his chair, the move causing several popping sounds along his spine.
The cafeteria, where we’re finishing up lunch, is on the main level of Granata’s headquarters. It was super busy when we arrived, so we were fortunate to find a table at all.
Though we have individual tasks to complete this afternoon, we’ve spent the last two days working together, so his question isn’t surprising. It makes sense to stick together as a team.
We have our own desks in Mauricio’s office, but our supervisor has encouraged us to move about headquarters and work where we’re comfortable.
Our weekday hours are flexible, too, and he’s given us permission to work from the hotel sometimes.
The accommodations are nice since we’ll be working long hours on race weekends.
“I would love to snag one of the tables outside,” Marisol says, staring wistfully through the tinted glass toward the front of the paddock.
I hold back a wince; outside is not my preference.
The grassy patio area in front of Granata’s hospitality is nice enough, with umbrellas here and there to combat the afternoon sun. But the paddock itself is always buzzing with activity, meaning it would be nearly impossible to stay focused if we set up out there.
Plus, the likelihood of me seeing one of my friends passing by—or worse, Luca—is far too high for me to risk it.
Based on his enthusiastic retelling of almost getting hit with a scooter, I’m not sure Silas could handle another driver encounter today.
I nibble on a piece of pita, but the usually soft and pillowy texture goes dry in my mouth, and suddenly I’m fighting my baser instincts not to gag.
Ugh.
I snatch my water from the table and chug. I just need to get this bite down, and then I’ll be okay.
Missing a food sensory shift early on is the worst. I can be in the middle of eating without issue, even enjoying the food, and still, as soon as my body is full, my brain riots. I’ve dealt with ARFID, a form of disordered eating specifically related to sensory processing, for almost all my life.
Every now and then, usually when I’m distracted, food that was delicious one bite becomes disgusting the next.
When I was little, I would have to get up from the table and spit it into the trash can.
My body’s first reaction is to gag, and I can’t always stop it.
Thankfully, I’m pretty good about noticing the switch and leaving the rest of my food on the plate.
Today, though, I guess I was a little distracted by all of Silas and Marisol’s enthusiasm.
I brought along a lot of my own foods for this leg of the World Championship. The amount of pita I brought should last me until Monaco. Sticking with my safe foods helps minimize sensory overload.
“I’ll probably work inside for a few hours,” I tell them as I pack up my Tupperware containers and load them into my lunch bag. “But you should go out there to work. It’s a beautiful day.”
Thankfully, neither of them questions my suggestion or presses me to go with them.
Silas is cleaning up, gathering the silverware and plates from the table, when commotion breaks out across the room.
At the sound, I scan the space, and when I discover the cause, I have to press my lips together to keep my jaw from hanging open in admiration.
Alaric Steele has entered the cafeteria. God, he’s so handsome. The man can rock a polo, that’s for sure. Even from across the room, he radiates authority and control. His slacks are black, and he’s wearing a deep red Granata polo. If I had to guess, that’s his typical uniform.
I haven’t run into him here in Australia, so I’m truly not prepared for the way my heart rate spikes and tiny butterflies take off in my belly in response to him.
He makes his rounds, interacting with folks at various tables. It’s like he’s holding court, greeting employees by name, shaking hands, and asking questions. When he makes it to the third or fourth table, it occurs to me that he’s stopping at each one and making a point to speak to everyone.
And wouldn’t you know—our table is up next.
Shit. If I’d realized earlier, I would have escaped, but he’s too close for me to hop up and discreetly slip away now.
So I hunch forward slightly, resting my chin on my hand, using my hair as a curtain to shield my face and pretend to be focused on the table in front of me.
Maybe he won’t see me. With any luck, he won’t even recognize me.
Maybe what happened in his driveway last weekend was a fluke. So inconsequential that he won’t even remember who I am or why I’m here.
Unfortunately, all my theories and wishful thinking jettison out the window almost instantly.
“Evangeline.”
The sound of my full name in his husky baritone sends my heart beating double time.
“Wonderful to see you again,” he says, extending his hand.
I take a deep inhale through my nose and sit up straight, slipping into a more professional mask. I don’t need him or my new coworkers noticing how my libido is doing the Cha-Cha Slide right now.
“Hello, Mr. Steele,” I reply.
His eyes narrow, jaw ticking like he’s amused.
“It’s nice to see you again.” I give his outstretched hand a firm shake.
An electric crackle of tension sizzles between us upon contact. While I should be surprised, I’m not. It’s exactly the type of physical reaction I had to him that day in his driveway.
His eyes widen, confirming he feels it, too. But he schools his expression quickly. “Please,” he insists, “call me Alaric.”
He holds my gaze, the smoldering stare singeing every nerve in my body.
One second, two seconds, three.
At four seconds, one side of his mouth tilts up in a smirk, the secret smile just for me.
Finally, he breaks eye contact and focuses his attention on my lunch companions.
“You must be Marisol.” He extends a hand to the woman sitting across from me.
“And of course, the third in our rep assess team trifecta: Silas,” he adds, shaking my other colleague’s hand.
I’m impressed. How many team principals can so easily name new hires the way he just did? Marisol and Silas both look a bit starstruck, so it’s safe to say they appreciate the consideration.
Alaric mentions his enthusiasm for our department, emphasizing how much he’s looking forward to seeing the first week of data, before moving on to ask about lunch.
“Did you enjoy the barbecue? Our culinary team prides themselves in offering authentic local cuisine as often as they can.”
Marisol nods.
Silas rubs his flat stomach, groaning. “It was delicious. I ate way too much. Pretty sure I put away my share as well as Evangeline’s.”
Alaric turns my way, a confused scowl painted on his face. “You didn’t eat?”
“I ate,” I retort, holding up my lunchbox.
He homes in on the pink and purple container, then lifts one eyebrow in challenge. “All meals are covered for Granata employees,” he explains. “It’s part of your compensation package.”
I press my lips together and try to hold my nerve. Maybe he really doesn’t remember our time together last weekend.
“I’m a picky eater,” I remind him, going for flippant. “I don’t mind packing.”
His scowl morphs into a hard glare. He quickly wipes the expression from his face, but not before I clock it.
He’s displeased by my response.
My stomach sinks. Shit.
The shame that flares to life brings with it a string of memories revolving around the displeasure my eating habits often evoke.
As a kid, it took years to receive a diagnosis and for my parents to come to terms with my limited palate and genuine inability to consume certain foods.
When I was an adolescent, other kids would start rumors about my restrictive diet.
Luca teased me relentlessly, routinely dismissing my diagnosis.
And he honestly thought compliments about my body would somehow magically cure me of my disordered eating.
Except ARFID isn’t linked to body image or perception like most eating disorders.
It’s rooted in sensory processing, something my ex couldn’t seem to grasp.
I’m hard to go out to eat with. That’s a fact. Even when I look over menus in advance, I don’t always know how I’ll feel when it’s time to actually eat. It’s stressful not knowing whether I’ll like a food based on the flavors or the texture or even how it breaks down in my mouth as I’m chewing.