Chapter 14 In the Fast Lane #2
Dominic smiled. “We tend to eat at the kitchen counter, actually. No need to stand on ceremony.”
Chuckles rippled through the audience. A reporter was shaking his head, smiling as he scribbled down the quote. Juliette blinked. She knew that Dominic had undergone extensive PR training, but even so…Fuck me, he’s good, she thought.
“I have to ask.” The interviewer’s smile was apologetic. “That incident at the opening ball. What happened there?”
She tensed. Shit. Okay. Here they went. She tried desperately to remember her PR team’s advice.
For a lovely Canadian woman who ran a PR agency, Zoe had been surprisingly steely.
Just say that the whole incident was taken out of context, she’d advised.
Or perhaps she was meant to say that there was more context? She couldn’t quite remember.
Dominic leaned back. He reminded Juliette of one of those wealthy men on boating magazine covers, the sort in polo shirts who oozed champagne confidence, and a chill went down her spine. Terrifying, how quickly he could turn that on.
“That was just a misunderstanding,” Dominic said.
“Juliette?” the woman asked. “You’d agree?”
Juliette straightened. “Absolutely. Hast—” She caught herself. “Dominic and I have the same goal. We want what’s best for the team.”
The interviewer crossed her legs. “I’ve heard that Dominic was”—her eyes flicked to her notes—“your former instructor. Is that true?”
Juliette paused. Her heart was pounding so hard that she worried it might crack a rib. She knew where this was going. And for it to come out like this…But no. She had to stay calm. “He was a guest teacher at the Taurus academy, yes.”
There. That was safe, wasn’t it?
The interviewer leaned forward. “So you knew each other prior to becoming teammates?”
“Most students knew Dominic,” Juliette said slowly. “He was a very involved teacher.”
The interviewer smiled. “And what was your relationship like?”
Shit. Shit.
Her PR training hadn’t covered this. Zoe was going to kill her. What did Canadians do to murder people? Boil them alive in maple syrup? There were worse ways to go.
Dominic tapped his microphone. “Hello. Hi.” He waved at the crowd. “Not to make this about me, but for the love of god, can someone please ask me about qualifying? I want to brag about my car.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Some of the tension broke, and then the interviewer was back to asking about chassis and brake balance.
Juliette stared at her hands. They were trembling, and she balled them into fists.
She couldn’t bring herself to look at Dominic.
Why had he done that? To protect his own image? Surely he hadn’t done it for her.
Her gaze flicked to the clock.
Two minutes. She could survive that long.
The interviewer turned. “I’ve got one more question for you, Juliette, before we go. A fun one this time.” She paused, and Juliette braced herself. “What hair products do you use?”
Juliette blinked. “Pardon?”
“Products,” the interviewer repeated. “For your hair.”
“She has fantastic hair,” Anthony agreed, and there was more laughing.
Juliette stared. From the audience, Baz frowned.
Cap gripped his pen. The interviewer’s smile was apologetic, although Juliette doubted that anyone else had noticed.
Good lord, who had come up with these questions?
She imagined a roomful of faceless men in suits, compiling a list. Ask the woman about her hair care routine. Social media will love that.
She swallowed.
There was no malice in it. She knew that.
And yet…A ringing began in her ears. The interviewer shifted in her chair.
What had she studied at university? Sports journalism?
Public relations? What a waste, she thought tiredly, to be sitting here in these chairs, discussing this. And in her first public interview…
Her stomach tightened.
That sent a certain message. And not a good one.
But there was her career to think about.
It only took one moment to be labeled difficult to work with. And that was it. Poof. Sponsorships gone, career torched. A wave of wariness filled her. God, what did it matter? It was only one question. So Juliette smiled at the cameras and said, “The hotel shampoo. Whatever that is.”
A few people laughed. The interviewer wrapped up with a few closing remarks. Dominic shifted in his chair; he’d been oddly still for the last two minutes, but there was tension in his body, as if he were a coil about to spring.
“You didn’t ask me,” Dominic said.
His voice was quiet. Even so, it held the sort of cold authority that people listened to, and the interviewer paused. The cameraman hesitated, a boom half-lowered in his hand. Evidently, nobody had been expecting this part.
The interviewer blinked. “What?”
“About my hair,” Dominic said, his eyes on the interviewer. “I assume you’re asking all the drivers.”
“Oh.” The woman’s eyes flicked to the clock. “Well, we wouldn’t want to run over—”
“I like a hydrating conditioner,” Dominic said. “Followed by a bit of pomade. What about you, Capulet?”
Her brother was clearly fighting a smile. “I like a deep conditioning treatment.”
Dominic looked past him. “Liêm?”
“Just shampoo for me.” Liêm shrugged. “Twice a week.”
Dominic leaned back. “There you go. Any more questions?” The interviewer shook her head. She was red-cheeked but smiling, and Dominic winked, stretching his arms. “Good. Thank you for your time. I look forward to seeing you all at the race tomorrow.”
He exited the stage, leaving her staring after him.
He’d stood up for her.
But why?