7. TIAGO
TIAGO
‘Don’t tell Isa,’ JC whispers once I’ve excused myself to get a drink, ‘but that British Instagrammer’s here. Matter of fact, she was just staring at you.’
I glance around. ‘Where?’
He gestures toward a woman in a dark green dress talking to a smaller woman in a hijab. ‘Allá está.’
Her brunette hair’s tied up with curly bits hanging down at the front.
Her face is so perfect, so symmetrical, she looks AI generated.
Trey was right about the impressive rack, but there’s not much else to grab onto.
I’m used to more – a whole lot more – especially in the back.
I want it holding jeans in a chokehold. I want it spilling out of my hands. I want it—
Holy shit do I need to get laid.
Even though she’s not exactly my type, I wouldn’t say no.
She hasn’t chosen her man yet if Isa’s Google Alerts are accurate.
I wasn’t joking when I said it could be me.
I’m an F1 driver the same as any other. Plus I’m one of the best-looking ones (not that the competition’s fierce).
Jack’s objectively hot and Kurt has a crazy six pack, but my first language is Spanish, so that gives me an extra ten points off the bat.
Think of what being part of this year’s ultimate power couple could do for me. No more P18. No more kissing executives’ asses. No more fake gratitude for the worst weekend of my career.
‘Isa will lose her shit,’ JC says, adjusting his cuffs so they sit evenly under his jacket, with just enough skin showing to glimpse his tattoos. The idiot thinks he’s Maluma.
A hand slides down my bicep. ‘Hi, Tiago.’ She’s a model type, maybe an influencer. The way her nails are digging lightly into my skin makes my poor monkish dick jolt. ‘Wanna dance?’
‘I—’
‘Nope!’ Isa barrels between us carrying two mojitos and a Diet Coke. ‘He does not. Thank you, next.’
Violet. My balls are now violet.
I’ve been so well behaved tonight. I’ve talked to everyone JC asked me to; I’m drinking soda; I haven’t flirted with anyone. And how am I rewarded?
I’ve muted my messages. I’ve ignored my DMs. I haven’t set foot in a club. And I can’t even dance at a work event now?
‘Cock blocker,’ I growl as I take the Diet Coke.
‘I’m saving you a trip to the confessional.’ Her smile’s sarcastic and fleeting.
My eyes follow the model and her lusciously overflowing hips as they sink into the crowd. ‘God would understand.’
Isa cringes at how strong her drink is. I miss strong drinks. Hell, I miss drinks that don’t have straws floating in them. All these nights in watching TV are killing me. I’m from the Colombian Caribbean; salsa literally flows through my veins.
‘How’s the schmoozing going?’ Isa enquires.
I huff around said straw. ‘I think I’ve spoken to every single board member here tonight.’
‘Excellent.’
‘He’s been very charming,’ JC says, trying to move all the fruit and foliage in his mojito so he can drink it. ‘Let’s go to the execs from Fifth Base next. They’re a quintessential American brand and they sponsor Leone. I want them to pick you for their next ad campaign. It’s a great fit.’
I pout. ‘They’re so small fry, and their hats look stupid.’
Isa seizes my arm and inhales like she’s stepped on Lego. I don’t have to turn around, I know exactly what she’s seen.
‘She’s here.’ It’s barely audible.
It’s JC’s turn to pout. ‘Call me when Isa’s got her shit back together. I’ll go introduce myself to the guys from CamStar.’
‘The insurance company?’ It’s not a whine – I’m a grown ass man – but it also sort of is. ‘Can’t you pick something a bit, you know, sexier?’
His stare’s hard. ‘I told you before: you need to be seen to embrace this team. These are the team’s sponsors.’
‘But—’
‘Do you think she’s talked to Tom yet?’ breathes Isa as her wild eyes swivel back to me. ‘What if their meet cute happens before my very eyes?’
I swallow the urge to remind her we’re not on Love Island, and no one gives a shit. I turn back to JC but he’s vanished. Fuck!
I don’t want to embrace this team. I don’t want to be sponsored by companies dumb enough to invest in a loser constructor. I don’t want my name associated with scruffy baseball caps and insurance. If I look comfortable at Leone, I’ll be left here fore—
‘Tiago, right?’
Her British accent dazzles me for a hot minute, and when I come to, I clock whose dainty hand is outstretched.
Does this mean…? Am I…?
Isa’s jaw hangs loose in my periphery and I shoo her toward JC. Over my dead body will my sister cock block this opportunity for me. She slinks away, mouth still gaping, eyes the size of closed fists.
‘Yeah, hi.’ I flash Jules a smile as I take her hand, feeling better by the second. ‘And who do I have the pleasure of meeting?’
‘Jules Butler. I’m a lifestyle creator and entrepreneur.’
Funny way of saying gold-digging social climber, but I’ll take it.
Finally some luck. She’s hot, too. I take back what I said. She dazzles like a polished emerald. Soft skin, full lips, piercing dark blue eyes. I can do a season chained to her. No problem at all. Hell, she could be a frog with an accent like that and I’d do it.
She’d put me in the same league as Logan Rogers. That’s currency in sport. I could work with that. Volare could work with that. I’d be back there tomorrow. My partying days would be long forgotten. Isa’s girl crush might be the best thing that ever happened to me.
‘What brings you here, Jules? Big fan of F1?’ I go to take a drink, remember it’s Diet Coke, and lower it.
‘This is actually my first ever race.’
‘You’re off to a strong start, getting in Martinelli’s good graces and schmoozing with the drivers.’
Her beaming smile’s straight up arresting. ‘You better watch your back; I might just be coming for your job.’
‘I’ll say. Tomorrow morning you’ll be on the pit wall. By the afternoon, you’ll be sitting in P2 next to Jack.’
Her hand flutters to her chest. ‘You don’t think I’d be a pole-sitter?’
‘Not drinking that you won’t.’ I nod to her margarita.
Her smile’s shrewd, and it makes me want to know what she’s hiding.
I know I’ve been so resilient all night and I’m buckling at lightspeed, but if there was ever a chick to flirt with, this is she. Our chemistry’s so thick you could scrape it off with a knife.
‘As someone who knows absolutely nothing about motorsport, I thought you handled that tricky qualifying session beautifully,’ she says with sudden earnestness, and it totally disarms me.
‘Th-thank you.’
‘A lesser driver would’ve put that car in the wall. Keeping it on track looked like it took real talent.’
‘Thank you.’ Nice that somebody appreciates my driving, even if my damn team doesn’t.
‘Your commentary over the radio cracked me up,’ she adds.
I rub my chin, disguising a smile. ‘We’re not allowed to swear, so a lot of what comes out is me catching myself at the last second, trying not to yell “fuck” on repeat.’
‘I’d choose your alternatives any day,’ she replies with a sweet chuckle.
She can’t help herself, can she? Compliments, teasing, giggling. This chick wants me. ‘Oh would you—?’
‘Tom has a very different approach to team communications,’ she muses, circling her drink. ‘I’d love to hear more from him about it.’
My smile freezes.
It’s a question in disguise, and it hangs in the air like she’s thrown a grenade between us.
What.
The.
Actual.
Fuck.
She played me. She played me good.
She must’ve found out about the guest access restrictions. Clearly figured they didn’t apply to me. I’m that low in the food chain. I can’t believe I fell for it. I’m such a delusional idiot.
Me, a stepping stone? Last year, I had my choice of girls, but now I’m paving the way for Mr Legendary Champion?
It’s official, I’ve hit rock bottom.
‘No pressure, I know it’s chaotic in here,’ she expands, expression totally unreadable.
How humiliating it’ll be to tell my sister Jules did pick me – to be her middleman. Her gopher. Her servant. I’d prefer to be ignored than this. She saw me, we connected, I made her laugh, I felt some kind of—
Then she rejected me to my face.
She’s nothing but a user. A manipulative super bitch hidden underneath a hot body and mesmerising accent. She’s using me to use Tom. Well not under my watch. Bro code means something to me. I mean, he’s not my bro, but I hate her so I’m invoking it.
‘Sure,’ I say slowly, ‘I can introduce you to Tom. It’ll be my pleasure.’
She gives me a demure smile that I can see straight through. ‘Thank you.’
I lead her through the packed room to where he’s speaking with his management.
‘Tom, my man,’ I cut in, clapping him on the back as the group silences. ‘Let me introduce you to a friend of mine. She was asking about you. Thought I’d save her the trouble of working her way over.’
I can feel deep blue eyes watching me heatedly. By the time I look over, she’s schooled herself.
‘Sorry again for bumping into you earlier.’ She’s all fluttery eyelashes and I can see the careful strategist underneath even clearer. Manipulating a moment. Preying on an unsuspecting target. It makes me sick. ‘I’m so clumsy sometimes.’
‘Oh, no problem at all,’ Tom says. ‘I’m—’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ I snort. ‘Clumsy? You’re the most deliberate person I’ve ever met.’
Before Jules can respond, the Australian woman beside Tom cuts in. ‘Sorry to break this up,’ she shoots Jules a meaningful look and I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing, ‘but Tom’s needed elsewhere. Thank you.’
And just like that, he’s gone. Just Jules’ luck. What a crying shame.
She watches him go, pure panic on her face, and I’m about to smugly get on with my life when she spins to me.
‘What is your problem?’ Her hiss is venomous.
‘Me?’ My hand rushes to my chest. ‘A problem?’
‘Quite impressively, you managed to undermine me in every single thing you said. You made me look like a total…’
I raise my eyebrows, waiting for it, but of course it won’t come. She’d actually have to admit she’s a scheming psychopath.
‘And what the hell was the “friend” thing about?’ she pivots. ‘You don’t know me.’
‘It’s a figure of speech.’ I also said Tom was my friend. I’m lucky he’s such a chilled dude – not that I’d know first-hand, we don’t exactly run in the same circles. He’s a podium kind of guy; I’m a flight back to Miami with a sore neck and sorer pride kind of guy.
‘No it’s not,’ she argues.
‘Was anything I said a lie?’
‘It was all lies!’ she bites back.
‘Nothing I said was a lie. You might not like how I framed it, sure, but I never lied.’
‘Why would you do that?’
I shrug. ‘Slow party.’ Like hell can I admit the truth. I now have the upper hand; I’m not about to give it right back.
‘You’re an arsehole,’ she seethes.
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Right back at ya, sweetheart.’