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Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Posey

S itting in the Crown Velocity waiting room outside Harley Patrick’s office, I feel the weight of my lie pressing down on me like a too-tight seat belt. My foot taps against the sleek, polished floor—nerves, mostly. I had no clue what to wear because this isn’t exactly an interview but it’s not quite a real job either. So I went with a pair of khaki wool pants and a cream-colored, oversized cable-knit sweater to ward off the England chill that seemed to follow me indoors. Paired with camel-colored booties, I feel somewhat fashionable but not overdressed.

It’s been a whirlwind week. I spoke to Ms. Patrick by phone ten days ago. It seems my pitch for an exposition piece about Crown Velocity made it to her desk. I was stunned when she offered me an opportunity I couldn’t pass up… come to the UK, hang with all the best at Crown Velocity and have exclusive access to everything. It was exactly what I wanted—no, needed—for my plans… and despite the fraud I committed to get this opportunity, I couldn’t help but think karma was smiling down on me.

I got my neighbor, sweet old Millie Padgett, to collect my mail and watch my house, then left rural eastern North Carolina behind for London.

So yeah… not exactly a job. More like an assignment under false pretenses, but I don’t regret my actions. In a way, I’m like an undercover journalist, except I’m not a journalist at all.

I’m a romance author.

A self-published historical romance author—think Bridgerton —to be exact, although I’m not as good as the mighty Julia Quinn. Still, I’ve been doing this for the past three years and I’m making a decent income, enough that I was able to leave my job as a floral designer in my small hometown. While there was a bit of heartache in walking away from a job that held personal meaning, I never looked back.

It’s a risk I’m taking now, not only lying about being a journalist to gain inside access to the world of formula racing, but if I don’t make a successful jump from historical romance to sports romance, my career could literally shrivel up and die. This is a whole lot of effort and risk, and this might just implode in my face.

But as my dad always said, “You can’t catch rabbits if you’re chasing butterflies in a snowstorm.”

My lips tip upward at the memory, even as my heart squeezes with sorrow. My dad would make up the most ridiculous sayings, trying to impart wisdom, but they never quite made complete sense. I miss him so much, but I know one thing—he would have been fully supportive of me doing this. He was telling me that there’s no reward without risk.

Just… he passed the message on with butterflies and rabbits.

The dour executive secretary, Rosalind Pierce, sits at her desk, typing away, completely oblivious to the fact that I have no business being here.

She also has no clue how determined I am to see this through. I’ve come too far to back down now and I’m spunky, if nothing else. This is my chance to write something new, something authentic about Formula International racing. Sure, I had to fake credentials to get here, using my real name of Elizabeth Evans and not my nickname, Posey, but the sport is exploding in popularity, and if I want to write a convincing romance novel set in this world, I need to see it from the inside.

A door opens into the lobby and Harley Patrick steps through. I’ve done a lot of research into FI racing, which included devouring an intensely insightful documentary series on the sport. After getting this opportunity, I dove heavier into researching Crown Velocity. Ms. Patrick looks every bit as powerful as I imagined. She’s beautiful and tall, with sharp green eyes that look like they miss nothing. Her dark blond hair is in a casual ponytail, and she wears jeans, a Crown Velocity long-sleeve polo and Converse Chucks. Despite her laid-back appearance, she carries herself with the kind of confidence that can make or break someone’s career with a single sentence. I don’t imagine they come any tougher than a woman who raced stock cars for a living.

Now she’s the only female team principal in FI, which is no small feat. I’ve done enough research to know that Harley Patrick holds perhaps the most vital role in this organization. She’s responsible for managing the team’s race strategy, engineering decisions, driver management, sponsor relationships and media interactions. She is the leader who coordinates the efforts of all departments to ensure success on and off the track, and the pressure on her to produce a winning team must be immense.

I stand up quickly, smoothing my pants with trembling fingers.

“Elizabeth Evans?” Her voice is warm but firm, and I nod, my mouth suddenly dry.

“Yes, that’s me. But you can call me Posey. It’s what everyone calls me.” I try to sound confident, but my voice wavers slightly. I’m prepared for her to out me as a charlatan, but she smiles at me warmly.

“Welcome to Crown Velocity.” Harley offers her hand, which I take, cringing that my palms are a little sweaty. “Come on in.”

I follow her back through a maze of halls to her office which is all sleek, modern design—glass walls, minimalist furniture and large windows overlooking the perfectly manicured grounds and lake beyond. It’s impressive, but then again, everything about this place is designed to impress.

We sit and I try to relax into the chair, but I’m too busy wondering if she’s already figured out that I’m not who I say I am. I resist the urge to confess all, beg her forgiveness and plead to still get the all-inclusive entry that’s been granted to me under my guise as a journalist.

“I was really inspired by your idea for this article,” she says, leaning back in her chair and kicking both her Chuck-clad feet up on her glass desk. I notice a replica of the Crown Velocity car sitting on top of a stack of folders.

“Thank you, Ms. Patrick. I—”

“Harley. Please call me Harley.”

“Harley,” I repeat with a smile and relax a little. “FI racing has really started to take off in the States with the documentary on Netflix, and since Brad Pitt has a movie coming out, I thought it would make a great freelance piece for me to sell, especially since the sport is attracting female fans in droves.”

“And Brienne Norcross is buying a team,” she adds. “Really tying the sport further to America.”

“Yes,” I say with enthusiasm. “And you as well. An American female stock car racer heading up an FI British team. It’s so inspiring and empowering. I’d love to bring that same love to women across the pond.”

Just… in the form of a romance novel.

“Well, I agree,” Harley says as she clasps her hands over her stomach. “We need more press coverage if we want to teach new audiences about the sport. There are so many intricacies that go into it. A lot more than just super aerodynamic cars flying around a track at breakneck speeds.”

I nod with a polite smile, because I intend to teach my romance readers about formula racing while weaving a sexy, swoony romance in behind it. In addition to bolstering my career, I would love to bring in a whole new slew of fans and I know women love their sports as much as men do. Plus, these drivers are super sexy and that’s a selling point as well.

“So, where will you be staying while you’re here?” Harley asks, her tone conversational as she leans back in her chair. “Obviously, Crown Velocity will put you up when we travel to Bahrain, but there’s a lot for you to do and see while you’re here over the next few weeks.”

“I’m at a hotel in London for now,” I admit. “I didn’t get a good chance to look at Airbnbs in the area and that’s probably my best bet, so I don’t have to commute every day.”

“London’s nice, but the drive is a pain in the ass.” Harley’s smile turns into something more genuine. “I was actually going to suggest you stay closer to the team here in Woking.”

“I’ll start looking today,” I assure her.

“Good, because you’re going to be busy, and I am putting you with the best possible ambassador for our team who can teach you all about this sport. Lex Hamilton.”

My heart skips a beat. Lex Hamilton? Number one driver for Crown Velocity, incredibly talented and—according to every tabloid I’ve ever read—way too naughty for his own good. He’s got a reputation as a bad boy off the track. A bit of a playboy, if we’re being honest, and why wouldn’t he be? In my humble opinion, he is only the most gorgeous of all the FI drivers and yes, I noticed. An occupational hazard.

“That… that sounds great,” I manage to say, though my nerves kick in at the idea of spending so much time with Lex. He’s definitely part of the cool kids’ club and well… I’ve never even been invited to peer inside the door. While I’m confident in most things, I’m an introvert, preferring small gatherings to large parties, and I don’t like meaningless conversation. However, I can act the extrovert when needed, although it can be draining. What I hope to do is bring forth what my dad referred to as the Evans spunkiness so I can stack up next to the greatness that is Lex Hamilton.

I remind myself that I’m a badass bitch because I’m sitting here with permission, and I’ve got the lady balls to see this through. I won’t let Lex Hamilton and all his hotness unnerve me.

“You’ll have full, unfettered access to Lex,” Harley continues, and I can’t tell if that’s supposed to be a blessing or a curse. “Day and night, on and off the track. He’s agreed to it. We want you to see every aspect of a race car driver’s life.”

I nod, feeling the pressure of keeping my cover even tighter now. “I appreciate the opportunity. It’ll really help with the article.”

“Good.” Harley’s eyes narrow slightly, as if she’s weighing me up. “I assume you know about his reputation?”

“Yes,” I say hesitantly, not wanting to commit to a stance. “I’ve done my research into FI, including all the drivers.”

“He’s on his best behavior now, or so he promises,” Harley says with a raised brow. “But if you run into any problems, I want you to come straight to me. Understood?”

“Understood,” I say, trying not to sound as nervous as I feel.

“Perfect.” Harley throws her legs off her desk and stands with a beaming smile, signaling that the conversation is over. “I will set aside a day for you to shadow me, and I think Spencer is going to block time for you.” That’s even better than I expected. An in with the team’s owner is a real coup because I intend to write a future story about a dashing and sexy team owner and Spencer Montgomery is totally that. “Rosalind will give you a brief tour of the facility, and then I’ll have her take you to Lex.”

We shake hands and I follow her back to the waiting room, where Rosalind is already standing, ready to take over. Her face is unreadable, but I can sense the efficiency and no-nonsense attitude in her posture.

“If you don’t mind showing Ms. Evans around, Ros. Then hand her off to Lex.”

“Of course, Harley,” Rosalind says, her clipped accent making me feel like I’m in a proper British film. She turns and I get an actual warm smile, and I’m wondering if that’s for Harley’s benefit who seems to be rolling out the red carpet for me. “Right this way.”

I wave goodbye to Harley and fall into step behind Rosalind.

As we walk through the corridors of Crown Velocity’s headquarters, I’m struck by how futuristic it all feels. Everything gleams—chrome, glass and state-of-the-art technology. I’m taken deep into the design facility as Rosalind efficiently explains things, although she doesn’t do it in a way that makes me feel like I’m impinging on her time. She seems quite proud to be part of the team, and it comes through in a way that softens her demeanor. Engineers buzz around in their pristine white overalls, and I see a few of them working on what must be the heart of the operation: the cars.

“Racing is nothing without our design and development department,” Rosalind says, pointing through a massive glass window to a room where engineers are hunched over computers, simulations running on multiple screens. “Every inch of the car is meticulously tested and reengineered here. If a driver mentions a single flaw in handling, they’ll work all night to fix it.”

I nod, trying to absorb it all. It’s a far cry from the world of indie romance novels and so much more than I have been able to learn by watching documentaries and reading articles.

We move farther down the hall, past a room with a large glass window and a massive cylindrical piece of equipment within.

“What’s that?”

“Our wind tunnel. It’s where we test the aerodynamics and efficiency of the body design.”

“Oh,” I say, my head reeling with the science behind it all. I have a feeling this is only the tip of the iceberg.

We pass more rooms—carbon fiber design, strategy engineering, a data center filled with dozens of people behind computers—before finally reaching a quieter part of the building.

“This is where the drivers train,” Rosalind explains as she holds up a badge to a scanner that unlocks a door. “Lex spends a lot of time here when he’s not out in the car or working with the engineers. It holds our simulators, a state-of-the-art physical fitness center, medical personnel, a relaxation room, private sleep areas for rest and even a full-time psychologist because racing is as much mental as it is physical.”

“Wow,” I murmur at the resources available. I try to compare it to American sports, and I just can’t comprehend it.

Finally, Rosalind leads me through another set of doors and into a more secluded area. “This is the relaxation area.”

And there he is—Lex Hamilton—on a couch, surfing on his phone. He’s even more gorgeous in person. His messy dark hair, sharp jawline, and piercing blue eyes make him look like he walked off the cover of GQ . Even though he’s slouched on the furniture, long legs sprawled out, I can immediately sense the confidence—and arrogance—rolling off him. It’s a definite vibe.

“Ms. Evans, this is Lex Hamilton,” Rosalind says, her tone neutral. “Lex, this is the journalist who will be shadowing you, Elizabeth Evans.”

“But I go by Posey,” I add.

His eyes flick to me, and for a split second, I think I see a spark of something—interest? Amusement? But it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared, replaced by boredom.

“Pleasure,” he says, his accent dripping with faux charm. He doesn’t even stand from the couch to greet me.

“Likewise,” I manage, my voice timid. I berate myself for that weakness.

Rosalind clears her throat like a disapproving schoolmarm. “Ms. Patrick wanted me to remind you of the importance of Ms. Evans’s stay with us and the article she’s writing.”

I’m pretty good at reading moods, tones and vibes and if I’m not mistaken, there was a hidden warning in that reminder.

Lex’s head swivels and he engages in a staring contest with Rosalind. Her face is like carved stone, her eyes lasered onto his. If I had to choose someone to win the battle, it would be Rosalind, hands down. Eventually, with a sigh, Lex stands from the couch and pockets his phone.

He even manages a smile, although it doesn’t reach his eyes, and holds out his hand to me. “It’s nice to meet you… um…” His eyes cut to Rosalind. “What did you say her name was again?”

My jaw drops slightly as that was passive-aggressively rude and dismissive. Why not just ask me my name?

Hackles raised, I refuse to take his hand and answer his question. “Posey Evans.”

His regard comes back to me and he sees my hands clasped firmly, refusing to shake his. One side of his mouth quirks up slightly as his hand lowers. “Right. Posey. Like the flower.”

“A small bunch of flowers, actually,” I murmur, but he stares at me blankly.

“Now that’s all settled,” Rosalind says brightly before turning to me. “Good luck, Posey. You’re going to need it. Remember that Ms. Patrick says she’s available to you should any problems arise.”

And here she gives Lex another pointed look. He grins at her.

When Rosalind is gone, Lex’s smile drops.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, his voice low. “I’m not happy about this. I’m here to race, not babysit a journalist.”

I will not be intimidated. Evans spunkiness teed up. “I’m just here to do my job.”

“Your job,” he repeats, eyeing me up and down. “And what exactly is your job? Writing fluffy pieces for people who don’t care about the sport?”

I bristle, my pulse quickening. “I care about sports, specifically FI racing.”

“Right,” he says dismissively, clearly unimpressed and obviously not happy about the arrangement. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to make this work. But don’t get in my way.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I snap, irritated by his arrogance. “But I’ll remind you that I’m here to learn and you’re in charge of making sure that happens.”

He studies me for a moment longer, then sweeps his hand toward the door I walked through not long ago. “Come on,” he says, his tone flat. “I’ll show you the simulator. You’ll need to understand the basics of what I do here if you’re going to write anything worth reading.”

I follow him down the hall, trying not to let his attitude get under my skin. I’m having a hard time reconciling this stunningly beautiful race car driver with the angel-blessed face and the negative vibes he’s giving off.

We reach a room that looks like something straight out of a sci-fi movie. In the center of the space sits what I can only describe as a high-tech driving rig, complete with a steering wheel, pedals and massive wraparound screens. The whole thing is mounted on a platform that looks like it could move, and everything around it is sleek, shiny and intimidating.

“This,” Lex says, gesturing to the setup with a bit of pride in his voice, “is the simulator.”

I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Simulator? You mean like a really fancy video game?”

He smirks, shaking his head. “It’s a bit more advanced than that. This setup mirrors the exact dimensions and controls of Crown Velocity’s actual FI car to give us a completely immersive experience.” He points at the screens. “Those project high-definition images of every track we race on, complete with weather conditions, other cars and real-time race dynamics.”

“Wow,” I say in awe.

Lex smiles sincerely for the first time. “The cockpit is mounted on a hydraulic platform that moves and tilts in response to the virtual track. This simulates the g-forces I would feel when cornering, accelerating or braking in real life. It even mimics the jolts, bumps and vibrations of an actual race.”

“That’s incredible,” I say, pulling out my notepad and jotting down some ideas. “Can I take photos?”

“Sorry. I’m sure they had you sign an NDA, but all of this is top secret information.”

“Understood,” I say, jotting that tidbit down. I turn to face Lex. “But why not just take the car out on a track? I mean, as realistic as this all can get, I’m assuming nothing beats real conditions.”

Lex leans back against the side of the simulator, crossing his arms. “It’s not that simple. For one, there are rules about how much on-track testing we can do. The league limits it to keep things fair and competitive.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Testing the car on an actual track is expensive. Think about it—transporting the car, the team, the equipment, the tires, the fuel… it all adds up. Plus, there’s wear and tear on the car. Every time we push it to the limit, we’re risking damage. Some teams can afford all that, but others can’t. So limiting time keeps teams more evenly balanced.”

“Okay,” I say, tilting my head as I try to wrap my mind around it. “But you still need to drive the car on a real track at some point, right?”

“Of course,” he replies. “We do real-world testing, but it’s limited. The simulator lets me run as many laps as I need without burning through parts or tires. We can make instant setup changes here. Try different strategies. I can practice in the rain, even if it’s sunny outside, or test a tricky section of a track over and over until I get it right.”

I stare at the machine, starting to understand. “So it’s like practice without the consequences?”

“Exactly,” Lex says, nodding. “No risk of crashing, no blown tires, no damaged car. And we can test setups that we wouldn’t dare try on a real track, just to see what happens.”

I whistle, impressed despite myself. “I had no idea it was this high-tech.”

“Welcome to Formula International,” he says, turning back to the simulator. “You want to give it a go?”

I laugh nervously, holding up my hands. “I think I’ll stick to writing for now.”

Lex shrugs, that cocky smile still plastered on his face, and his phone rings. “Suit yourself,” he says before fishing his phone out of his pocket. He connects the call. “Yo… mate. What’s up?”

I can’t hear the other side of the conversation but based on the easy grin that creeps onto his face, it’s clear this isn’t business.

“You’re kidding,” Lex says, his voice lowering slightly. “That’s tonight?”

He glances at me, then looks away quickly, like he’s just remembered I’m standing there listening.

“Yeah, I’m in. Always up for a bit of that,” he continues, excitement seeping into his tone. “Where’s it happening?”

There’s a pause as he absorbs the details from whoever’s on the other end. I stand awkwardly to the side, trying not to eavesdrop, but it’s impossible not to notice how animated Lex has become. Whatever this thing is—and I’m guessing it involves partying—it’s exactly the kind of thing he’s known for. Wild, reckless off-track behavior.

“Sounds perfect,” Lex says with a chuckle, then his eyes flick back to me, and the grin fades. He clears his throat, suddenly sounding reluctant. “Uh… yeah, just one thing. Got a bit of a situation.” Lex rubs at the back of his neck, his tone clearly irritated. “Got a reporter following me around for the next couple of weeks. Part of the whole PR stunt the team’s pulling. So, she’ll be tagging along.”

“Yeah, mate,” Lex says with a disappointed sigh. “I know. Believe me. But don’t worry, I’ll still come. Just… no chaos tonight, all right?”

Whatever the other person says causes Lex to laugh. “You need to be on your best behavior too. You’re a menace.” He listens for a moment longer before ending the conversation with a “Cheers.”

Lex slips the phone back into his pocket and appraises me. “I’m told you’re supposed to shadow me at all times. Hope you’re ready for tonight. You’re gonna get to see some behind-the-scenes fun.”

Lex Hamilton’s idea of fun is exactly what the tabloids thrive on, and the thought of following him into that world is a little intimidating. While I’m committed to squeezing all the juice from this opportunity, I know I’m out of my depth.

He must sense my hesitation and pounces on it. “Unless you’d rather not be involved in that. If you want to keep our interactions focused on the business side of things—”

“I’ll come,” I say quickly before I can talk myself out of it. I’m in too deep not to take advantage of his offer, and if I’m going to write this book, I need to experience it all.

Lex sighs. “I figured you might.” But then his smirk returns, a glimmer of something else in his eyes—maybe a test to see if I can handle this side of his life. “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you. Sort of.”

His words hang in the air as he walks past me, leaving me to wonder exactly what I’ve gotten myself into.

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