Chapter 4
Annalise
Reading over Norm’s latest email, I frown at my computer screen.
It’s been two weeks since the fundraiser and still no response from Luca Taylor.
There are probably a hundred different reasons why MaxWaters Suits hasn’t reached out to Travis’ team to move forward on the sponsorship, but my mind keeps coming back to one conclusion.
I messed up.
Since I was late in arriving and didn’t get to speak with Mr. Taylor the way I wanted, it has to be my fault that they’re no longer interested, right?
That’s what my brain keeps thinking, though I know that’s not necessarily the truth.
I know the reality is that Taylor is likely busy and working on other things for his business, but keeping my mind on this sponsorship deal is helping me to not think about the main reason why I wasn’t able to talk to Taylor about the facts and figures and truly pitch the way a deal with Travis would benefit his company.
Max Ferreira.
That son of a bitch who knew I’d had a case of mistaken identity, but instead of cluing me in and pointing me in the right direction, he allowed me to ramble on while we shared multiple dances.
My mind floods with the feel of my hand in his. The uncanny smoothness of his skin, the pinkness of his lips when he smiled, the mixed scent of spice with an undertone of vanilla.
Then there’s the way he danced. His moves were so fluid, so light, so not like the last man on Earth I should enjoy dancing with.
I slam my hand down on my desk to push the memories away. Max needs to be cast to the back of my mind, an afterthought that has nothing to do with the here and now.
The man is a menace who is clearly jealous of my brother.
With a shake of my head, I return my attention to my computer. My fingers are poised to reply to Norm’s email by asking him what I can do to fix this.
But I don’t.
I close out of my email and get back to trying to schedule a new flight for Alyssia and Lucky to Melbourne for Travis’ first race of the season.
He’ll have to go a few days ahead of them, and it’s been a bear finding them an appropriate flight that gets them there at the right time.
None of the flights are lining up or don’t have the right seating. After a half an hour of searching, I call up the team’s agency that I often work with when booking the flight for anyone but Travis. Most of the time, Amato books Travis’ flights to and from the races.
My call goes to voicemail. The travel coordinator is likely busy working on the other hundreds of travel preparations she has to do to prepare for the first Grand Prix of the season.
I pause working on the flights for some time and instead focus on the other tasks that I need to prepare for the new season.
A while later, my phone rings.
It’s Norm.
“Annalise, I have a list of all of the names Travis is to meet with while in Melbourne and in Shanghai.”
I immediately pull up Travis’ calendar and input the names, dates, and times of the meetings with notes for the purpose of each meeting. It takes about another thirty minutes for Norm and I to coordinate the schedule.
Once that’s completed, it’s time for my afternoon meeting with my personal trainer. Working out regularly is one tool in my arsenal when it comes to managing my OCD.
So, even though I haven’t finished finding the right flights for Alyssia and Lucky, I change into my tank top and leggings to head up to the top floor of my luxury apartment building.
“Hi, Charles,” I greet my trainer, who waits for me in the weight room, about ten minutes later.
He and I always meet at the far end of the gym where all of the strength training equipment is located. At the front of the gym is the cardio section featuring treadmills, spin bicycles, stair machines, and rowers.
The best aspect of the gym, in my opinion, is not only that it’s in my apartment building, but the top floor view looks out over the marina.
My building’s not directly on the main street in Monte-Carlo, like my brother’s apartment, but the view from this place is unmatched while also still being slightly out of the way.
For the next sixty minutes, nothing goes through my mind except the sound of my trainer’s directions, my heavy breathing, and the counting of reps.
“Nice work today,” Charles says.
I wipe down my face with one of the towels provided by the gym and thank him for pushing me.
“I didn’t think I was going to make those last few reps of back squats,” I joke.
He chuckles. “Your form has gotten much better.”
We confirm our next appointment for the following week. Once the season starts, the amount of times I’ll meet with Charles will go down from three times a week to maybe once or twice, depending on my travel schedule.
While I don’t travel to every single Grand Prix, I attend most, which means I spend close to ten months out of the year traveling around the world.
It’s worth it. I love motorsports and adore getting to see not only F1 drivers do their thing, but the lower levels as well.
My stomach begins growling the minute I exit the gym doors. I opt to head down to the ground floor and over to my favorite coffee shop, which also sells the best smoothies.
The shop is only a five-minute walk from my building. My fingers twitch in anticipation of the chocolate, peanut butter, and banana smoothie with added protein powder that I plan to get.
There’s no line in the shop once I get there. Which means it takes me less than ten minutes from the time I left my building to get my order and take the first sip of my delicious smoothie.
As I start walking back home, my phone rings. It’s the travel coordinator for the Amato team returning my message. I fill her in on my issue with booking Alyssia and Lucky’s flights, and within a few clicks of her phone, she’s helped me find an adequate solution.
“Thanks, Tracee. I’ll let Alyssia know when I see her tonight.”
“Let me know if you need anything else,” she says, but I only catch half of it before she hangs up because I spot a group of movers at the front of my building.
New people move into apartment buildings all of the time. It shouldn’t be a big deal to find a new owner of an apartment here.
What makes me stop with my smoothie halfway to my mouth is the man who’s just walked out of the front door and is now speaking with the movers.
“You better be kidding me,” I say to no one in particular.
Max’s eyes alight on me as I slowly approach, taking in my surroundings and trying to make sense of what’s in front of me. My conclusions have to be wrong, though. They have to be.
“What are you doing?” I ask none too nicely as I approach.
I’m not certain if I expected him to immediately throw back his response with the same level of attitude I tossed his way, but he doesn’t.
A slow, crooked smile dances across his lips. He folds his arms and I hate, hate the way my eyes automatically drop to the veins that snake their way up his forearm.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
Does his voice have to be the literal sonic embodiment of silk?
He glances over his shoulder before thrusting his thumb toward the building. “No, don’t tell me. Do you live here?”
He sounds surprised.
And I have zero proof or even reason to suspect that he knew I lived here. However, that doesn’t stop me from not buying the innocent act. Not one bit.
“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” I demand instead of answering his question.
He pauses to allow a pair of movers carrying a huge cardboard box pass him. Then Max makes a show of directing the men toward the elevator and up to the eleventh floor.
“Now, what was it that you asked me?” He squints in my direction. “Oh, right. Well, it seems that I’m moving in.”
“Why?”
His dark eyebrows flare, forcing my attention even more heavily on those hazel eyes.
Unlike my hazel, which are more green with a hint of seafoam, Max’s are closer to golden.
I can’t help but notice the light goatee that’s grown around the lower half of his face, outlining, and thus spotlighting his mouth.
The hair that he kept almost shoulder length throughout last season has been cut. The brunet, wavy curls stopping just above his ear. The shortened hair and new goatee, I tell myself, are the reasons why I didn’t immediately recognize him that night of the fundraiser.
“I need a place to live.”
“Go back to your old place,” I reply.
“In Britain?” He gives a pondering look for a beat, then shakes his head. “Doesn’t work when Amato’s headquarters are only thirty minutes from Monte-Carlo.”
Amato is an Italian company, and yes, living here in Monaco makes it easier to get back and forth to their facilities when needed. Which is why Travis, and by extension I, live here.
“Then find a new building.”
“Too late, princess. I fell in love with the view and I’ve already signed on the dotted line.”
“Don’t call me that.” I hate how moody my demand makes me sound, but I don’t like the way his voice turns snide, almost sneering when he calls me that. As if he’s using it to call me out on some holier than thou attitude that I most definitely do not have.
“Well,” he inches away from the building’s entrance, moving closer to me, “it looks like we’re going to be neighbors. How’s that for luck?”
I tut. Luck my ass.
“Just stay out of my way, Max,” I say as I saunter past him. “It’s not like you’ll last long around here, anyway.”
I take a pull of my smoothie in order to suppress the heat and racing thoughts that begin to stir inside of me.
I can’t prove that he’s moved into the same building as me on purpose, and chances are he hasn’t. He is Amato’s new driver and living in Monte-Carlo is advantageous for his career at this point. At least a dozen other drivers live in this small country.
Those reminders firmly in place, I punch the button to take me up to my thirteenth-floor apartment to shower and finish the work tasks I have for the rest of the day.