Chapter Thirty-Five
Victoria
The article is splashed all over the internet tabloids by that night. There are many different variations and flashy titles.
The one that caught the most attention reads: TROUBLE IN PARADISE: Gaston’s drivers spotted in a public fistfight!
I was obviously too hasty in insisting that Asher have lunch with Elio. I wanted to help Asher get ahead of Ilya’s demands, and it has backfired spectacularly. I’m so furious with Asher over his behavior, I practically vibrate with it.
Being an asshole in private is one thing. Letting yourself get photographed pinning your own teammate up against a brick wall with murder written over your face is another thing entirely.
How the hell am I supposed to help Asher if he doesn’t help himself? The work we do together is only one part of the equation. It’s integral for what he does on the track, but off the track, Asher needs to seriously start working on his image.
I’m so mad at him for shooting himself in the foot that I can barely even look at him when we meet on the airstrip.
I’ve once again been invited to fly on the team’s plane, but the convenience and privilege is overshadowed by my anger with Asher, and my concern that having him and Elio in such close quarters will result in another fight.
I don’t know exactly what happened yesterday—I didn’t ask and Asher didn’t offer information.
I only know what I read, which was probably blown out of proportion.
The picture of Asher pinning Elio up against a wall sends a cold rush of dejection through me.
How can I work with Asher to improve his career when he pulls stunts like that?
Asher must sense my mood, because he greets me with a terse, “Intern.”
“Asshole,” I hiss in response… and that’s the last thing I say to him.
Unfortunately, we’re both late, which means we get the last two seats on the plane—the ones right next to each other at the very back of the cabin. Wonderful.
After we’ve stowed our luggage, we take seats next to each other in tense silence.
I work on my algorithm silently while Asher alternates between glaring at his phone and glaring at me.
Even with the whirring of the plane’s engines, the silence is deafening, so I eventually put on my headphones to try to tune the world out and help me ignore the far-too-attractive man seated next to me.
His leg brushes mine about an hour into the flight. A charge travels up my spine, mixing with a thrill in my core. I ignore the gesture and squint harder at the lines of code in front of me.
His leg bumps mine a little harder. When I turn to glare at him, I find him looking out of the window.
The gesture doesn’t feel accidental, but he’s putting on a convincing show…
so I turn away again with a sigh of irritation.
It’s much harder to focus when he’s made me acutely aware of his presence.
His scent, tangible even among the overpowering smell of lemon disinfectant and tired travelers.
His warmth, which is akin to the kiss of a burning hearth on a cool winter morning.
The slight brush of his pants against mine, which reminds me of his hands on—
His knee bumps mine again. I jerk off my headphones and hiss, “Cut it out!”
Several heads turn—Ilya’s among them, who’s sitting across the aisle a row in front of us. He flicks a glance over me, rolls his eyes, and turns away. Fuck.
“Cut what out?” Asher is the picture of innocence with his elegant eyebrows raised and his expression mellow. “I’m just enjoying the scenery.”
The scenery? It’s cloudy, there’s nothing to see out the window.
“Your leg keeps touching mine. Stop,” I whisper-hiss.
“Is it? My mistake. I didn’t notice.” There’s a challenging glint in his eyes, daring me to call him out on it.
“Just… keep your big man-legs to yourself.” God, could I say anything dumber? Even when I’m mad at him, he gets to me. No, especially when I’m mad at him.
“Big man-legs?” he repeats, amused. “Any other big parts of me you’d care to mention?”
“Urgh! You’re the… the…”
“Worst?” he supplies. “Best? Sexiest? All true.” He rakes his gaze over me. “At least you’ve quit ignoring me.”
“I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“Oh? What do you call refusing to look in my direction or acknowledge my existence?”
My jaw tightens. My next words are spoken through gritted teeth. “I did acknowledge your existence. I greeted you.”
“By calling me asshole.”
“Well, you greeted me by calling me intern.” I glare at him. “I was keeping the status quo.”
He leans forward, so swiftly and suddenly that I almost shrink back before realizing that I can’t.
Nobody’s watching us right now, but if they turn and see me shrinking away from Asher, they might get certain ideas.
If they just see him murmuring something to me, they’ll assume that we’re talking shop quietly to avoid being overheard.
Hopefully.
“The status quo is gone, sweetheart.” His murmur is simultaneously rough and sensual. My nipples harden, and I curse the thin sports bra I chose this morning. I was going for comfort, but if Asher looks down, he’ll see them.
Shit.
“It’s never coming back. If I were you, I’d get on board with that.” My breath catches in my throat when his knee brushes mine again, the touch subtle yet so sensual, because I know it’s on purpose.
As swiftly as he moved into my space, he retreats. His eyes lower, and his lips quirk. “Nice shirt, by the way.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter.
“Gladly. Any time you want the ride of your life, sweetheart.”
My cheeks heat, and embarrassingly, my nipples harden even more—which is not lost on Asher.
“Don’t talk to me for the rest of the ride,” I mutter. “And keep your leg away from mine.”
I pop my headphones back in and turn up the music.
Asher spreads his legs even wider, resting his knee against mine, and leaves it there for the rest of the flight.
Dick.
It’s late by the time we get to our hotel in Jeddah. I’m exhausted, jetlagged, and overworked. Asher seemed to be sleeping peacefully after our little tiff, but then, his leg never moved an inch away from mine so I can’t be sure.
I’m starving, so after checking into my hotel room, I wander downstairs in search of a vending machine. Unfortunately, I don’t find one in this five-star-hotel; instead, there are several Michelin starred restaurants to choose from, a smoothie bar, and a bakery.
I settle for an obscenely overpriced smoothie. It’s thirty dollars, but it also happens to be the cheapest thing I can find in the hotel.
Moments like these, I do wish I got at least a little bit of family money or decided to go into a high-paying career right from the get-go. Having to check my bank account balance before paying for a drink is embarrassing.
“Hey,” a timid, American voice greets behind me as I’m waiting for my smoothie—which better be laced with goddamn gold.
I spin around, brows drawing together when I see a vaguely familiar guy sitting at one of the few available tables. Even at the smoothie bar on the outskirts of the lobby, they’re covered with white cloths and have utensils. Who the hell uses a utensil for a smoothie?
“Hey,” I reply. Have I met him somewhere on the F1 circuit? I did interview pretty widely before settling for a job with Gaston.
“I’m, uh, Henry,” he says awkwardly.
Henry looks like he’s somewhere in his mid-twenties, my age, and like this is the first time he’s ever spoken to a girl.
“You here for the race?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah. I’m interning with Stallion.”
Immediate, visceral dislike sinks its claws into me, simply on the basis that Henry is the reason I got such a dismissive brush-off from Stallion, which is the #2 team in the entire F1 circuit—right under Cheetah.
“Nice.” I spin back around to face the counter.
The chef—a smoothie maker is wearing a chef’s uniform—slides my drink across the counter and offers me a pearly white smile.
I struggle not to return it with a snarl. “It should come with a motorcycle,” I quip.
“Do you want to join me?” Henry asks, motioning to the table. “We, um, ran into each other the first race of the season.” He gives an awkward laugh, pushing his wire-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know if you remember me…”
Now that he mentions it, I do remember him. I mowed him over when I was trying to make my way through security despite not having a badge. Henry here said he knew me and helped me get through—and that was after I ran him over.
A mixture of guilt and gratitude make me offer him a small smile.
“I definitely do. Thanks for getting me through security a while back." I give an embarrassed laugh. That was not my finest moment. “I’d love to join you.” I wouldn’t, I hate nepo-hires, but I try to tamp down my irritation in favor of politeness.
I take a seat across from him, clutch my smoothie, and examine him. He’s good-looking enough, but he doesn’t stir anything in me. Not lust, or desire, or even the faintest hint of interest.
He looks like a nice, decent guy who’s trying to break into F1, despite being a nepo hire.
He doesn’t drip the overstated wealth or arrogance of typical trust-fund kids; he seems relatable.
Why couldn’t I be drawn to someone like him?
Why does my kryptonite have to be a surly, grumpy driver who makes it his mission to either insult me or turn me on?
“How are you enjoying working with Stallion so far?” I ask Henry.
His eyes brighten with excitement. I beat back the envy that curdles in my stomach like sour milk. I’ve never been a particularly jealous person, but at this stage, I am fucking sick of getting brushed off and set aside by people.
Then again, if any other team had taken me, I’d have never joined Gaston. I wouldn’t have met Ilya, or Declan, or Asher…
Stop thinking about him!
“It’s amazing,” Henry says, a smile splitting his face. He looks nice when he smiles, attractive even, but again... it falls flat.
I must have chronically terrible taste in men.