Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Posey

I ’m not sure what I was expecting when Lex said we were going out tonight, but I can guarantee it wasn’t this. I look down at my jeans tucked into knee-high boots, feeling every inch the awkward American in the middle of this trendy London nightclub. I think I might be the only woman not wearing a skimpy dress, but I at least put on a sparkly blouse and earrings to match.

The music is loud, pulsing through the room, and the lights flash in time with the beat, casting everyone in shades of neon pink and blue. People here are dressed to the nines—sparkly dresses, designer shoes, leather jackets—and then there’s me. I’ve got my notepad tucked away in my bag, ready to whip it out if I need to look like I’m doing my “job.”

Lex, on the other hand, looks like he belongs here. He’s dressed in a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows—showcasing some amazing forearm porn, if I’m honest—and dark jeans that cling to his athletic frame. A silver watch glints on his wrist, and his hair is perfectly tousled, like he didn’t even try. He’s not blending in but standing out. Girls in tight, revealing clothing throw themselves at him and he doesn’t seem to mind one bit.

No, he’s enjoying it, and I find it typical and cliché.

We’ve been sitting at a private table arranged by the management in a roped-off section of the club, and I’m trying to make the best of an uncomfortable situation. I don’t fit in with this crowd and I have nothing in common with Lex, but this deceptive escapade is going to be anything but easy.

What’s even worse, his friend, Ronan Barnes—the second driver for Crown Velocity—is an absolute douche and Lex doesn’t seem to mind it at all.

Ronan is tall, with a build like Lex’s, but more… polished. He’s dressed in an expensive blazer, designer everything, like he’s a fashion model in his spare time. His blond hair is slicked back, and everything about him screams arrogance.

He was so rude when Lex introduced us, not waiting for the formality of it. When we entered the club, I followed Lex back to the private area. We walked up to the table where Ronan had been camped and he looked me up and down like I was a bug and asked, “Who’s the mouse?”

It would have been understandable for any girl to wilt under his critical gaze and demeaning description, but I’m made of sterner stuff. I know I’m not stunning and sexy like these women who flock around Lex and Ronan, but I don’t think I’m all that unfortunate. People always say I look like the college girl next door. My dark brown hair is thick and glossy, my skin is clear, and I have a smattering of freckles over my nose that can sometimes make me look much younger than my twenty-three years. My eyes are my best feature in my opinion, settling somewhere on the color spectrum between gold and green. Hazel, I guess is the proper term, but there’s no brown within, merely striations of burnt amber.

Lex didn’t chastise Ronan for his crass remark but tossed a thumb at me. “Posey Evans. Reporter. Writing a big article about Crown Velocity. We have to be on our best behavior.”

“Screw that,” Ronan said in his posh British accent as he eyeballed me, and that was the end of his acknowledgment of my presence.

Since then, Lex and Ronan have mingled around the club, danced with various beauties and returned to the table on occasion to slam shots. They’re currently bumping and grinding with two blonds who are so drunk they’re in danger of falling over, and I watch with interest, waiting to see what happens.

“You must be the reporter.”

I turn to see a handsome man in his mid-twenties sliding into the seat next to me. I recognize him right away because I know all the FI drivers. I sip my club soda and reach my hand across the table. “Posey Evans.”

“Carlos Moreno,” he says with a warm smile.

“Yes, I know. Number one driver for Union Jack Motorsports based right here in the UK,” I say as we shake hands.

“Looks like someone did their homework,” he says with a laugh.

“There’s a lot to absorb,” I admit sheepishly. “It was a little daunting trying to memorize twenty drivers’ names, faces and statistics.”

In truth, it happened over time as I binge-watched the documentary series about FI racing. There are ten teams in FI and each team has two drivers that race at the same time. They’re technically driving against each other since it’s an individual sport, but there are many times where they will make strategy decisions and maneuvers on the track in the spirit of teamwork because in addition to the individual driving championship at stake, they have the Constructor’s Shield which is the prize that the team ownership really covets.

Carlos was one of my favorites to watch in the documentary because he’s one of the nicest and humblest of the drivers. He’s just as handsome as Lex and Ronan, maybe even more so. His dark hair is wavy, and his brown eyes are warm, gleaming with a mixture of humor and intensity. His build is more muscular than Lex and Ronan and he wears a trim goatee that highlights the angular lines of his jaw and cheekbones. His skin is the warm, rich color of bronze under the pulsing light and his eyes are framed by thick black lashes and brows that give him a striking, expressive face.

“Tell me what you want to know about any of them,” Carlos says mischievously, his Mexican accent rich with a lilting, romantic quality. “I’ll spill all the dirty.”

Laughing, I look out at Lex and Ronan. “Those two seem like the bad boys of the sport.”

Carlos looks toward the floor, his lips quirking with amusement. When he resumes eye contact, he winks. “We’re all bad boys to some extent, no? But those two are double trouble sometimes.”

As if they knew they were being talked about, Lex and Ronan come to the table and there are fist bumps and backslaps with Carlos. They sit around and talk racing, their conversation filled with technical jargon that flies right over my head.

I stay silent and watch while I sip on my club soda. Carlos ends up with Ronan and Lex on the dance floor, although to his polite credit, he asked me to join them. I declined. My dancing skills aren’t completely lacking, but they are not up to par with these glamorous people.

I glance around the club, taking in the scene, trying to think of how I’m going to capture this in my book without sounding like I’m completely out of my depth. Through the strobing lights I see Lex’s face appear in the crowd, impossibly handsome, laughing because he doesn’t have a care in the world. As if he knows I’m watching, his gaze lands on me and locks. I hastily look away but when I glance back up, I see him walking my way.

He collapses into the seat next to me, face flushed, his hair even more perfectly tousled than before. He grabs his drink and takes a long sip, then glances at me with a sly smile.

“Not your scene, I take it?” he asks, his eyes flicking down to my outfit.

“No, not really,” I admit, trying not to sound defensive. “But clearly it’s yours.”

He sweeps his hand out. “My domain.” I roll my eyes, unimpressed, and it only makes him laugh. “Oh, come on. This is what race car drivers do. All professional athletes actually. We party, we carouse.” Lex’s gaze slides out over the floor and lands on a beautiful woman dancing near the edge. He stares at her, rubbing a finger over his bottom lip in contemplation. “We take all that is offered because when you’re as good as we are, we’re offered the world.”

“So very typical,” I mutter under my breath, but apparently not low enough.

His head swivels my way. “Typical? I hear your disdain, so please explain.”

Where to start? I wave my hand around the club. “It’s just… this is what I’d expect. I think what most women expect.” I nod out to the dancing throng. “You said you’re offered the world because you’re an FI driver and you take all that’s offered. Seems like every man’s dream. Dozens of women out there, all dressed the same, all bumping and grinding to get your attention. And you’ll choose one lucky girl, but truth is, she’s no different from the rest. You’ll pick her probably on a random whim and forget her just as quickly the next morning. I get you’re talking about easy women and fun times, but really… you’re doing nothing special to earn it.”

He leans back, his gaze sweeping over me. “Those are some strong opinions.”

I shrug. “Just opinions.”

Lex raises an eyebrow, his smile widening. “Didn’t realize my personal after-hours life was necessary for your article.”

“Accurate reporting,” I say, pulling out my notepad and scribbling something just to make a point.

He chuckles, low and soft, and takes another sip of his drink. “You should come dance.”

The offer seems real, and I’m prepared to decline out of principle so as not to embarrass myself, but then it hits me… he’s bordering on drunk.

I look him over more critically. His glazed eyes, flushed skin, and his demeanor… he’s almost being nice to me.

“No thank you,” I say primly.

Lex shrugs, pushes up out of the chair. “Suit yourself. I think you could use some proper fun, but maybe you don’t know what that is.”

Before I can respond, Ronan yells from the dance floor, waving Lex back over. “Oi, Hamilton! Quit chatting and get back here!”

Lex grins, his excitement returning full force. “Don’t wait up,” he says before chugging the rest of his drink. He slams it down and jogs out to the dance floor. He’s exuberant, practically bouncing as he joins Ronan, already shouting and pumping his fist like they’ve just won a race.

I note a few guys off to the side eyeballing Lex, Carlos and Ronan with jealousy, whispering to one another and throwing them dirty looks. I watch for a moment, a knot tightening in my belly. I know enough to know that nights like this never end well. The attention they’re getting from the women isn’t helping. This feels like a powder keg waiting to explode, and it’s just… typical. Probably why when I write romance, I get so lost in the fantasy of how a man should act and not the reality.

I settle into the booth, watching Lex looking to take everything that’s offered to him.

?

Lex’s arm is slung over my shoulders, and he’s leaning on me so heavily that I’m not sure if I’m supporting him or if we’re both about to collapse. His weight shifts unsteadily with each step as I fumble with the key card to my hotel room. I push the door open, and we stumble inside, Lex nearly toppling over as we do.

“Y’know, I didn’t get in a fight tonight,” he slurs, his words tumbling out as he leans harder against me. He grins like it’s a major achievement, and in some ways, I guess it is.

“Great job,” I mutter as I guide him toward the couch. “Let’s just focus on walking right now.”

“I’m good at that,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by my shoulder. “Good at a lot of things. If you’re interested, I could show you what I mean.”

I ignore the way he sounds suspiciously like he’s flirting and aim for the small couch. He’s barely able to stay upright, and I’m already exhausted from trying to wrangle him out of the club tonight. Carlos had left and Ronan was no help, so I had to convince Lex it was time to go. I didn’t owe him anything but weirdly, I felt responsible for him.

He passed out in the cab and I couldn’t wake him up, so I had no clue how to get him home because I didn’t know where he lived. It was with great reluctance I brought him back to my hotel.

We reach the couch, and I let him flop down onto it face-first. He lands with a thud, his arm dangling off the side, and within seconds, he’s out cold, snoring softly.

I stand there for a moment, staring down at him. He’s so proud of himself for not getting into trouble tonight, but I’m the one who had to drag him out before things went south. I sigh and shake my head, stepping back and glancing around. It’s a far cry from the sleek clubs and luxury cars I’ve been exposed to tonight—just a modest-size room with a double bed, a small bathroom, a couch with a passed-out race car driver, and an ornate desk by the window with a view that looks out onto a quiet street.

I’m not tired, though. If anything, I’m a little wired. I drop my bag onto the table and sit at the desk, pulling my laptop toward me. The screen flickers to life, and my document pops up—the rough outline of my latest project, Formula Fling . It’s still just a shell of a story at this point, a few chapters here and there, but tonight… tonight feels like inspiration.

I start typing, the words flowing easier than they have in days.

He led her onto the dance floor, the music pulsing around them, drowning out everything but the steady thrum of her heartbeat. She felt his hand at the small of her back, guiding her closer, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered something only she could hear.

I pause, glancing over my shoulder at Lex. He’d been a mess tonight, but I can’t help but wonder… if I were prettier or more appealing, would he have looked at me differently? Would he have asked me to dance instead of those other girls? I shake the thought away quickly, feeling ridiculous for even considering it. This is a job, not some fantasy romance.

Besides, there’s nothing remotely redeeming about Lex. He’s no romance hero.

I turn back to my computer. She looked up at him, her pulse quickening as his fingers traced slow, teasing patterns against her skin. His eyes met hers, and the playful smile on his lips sent a jolt of electricity through her body.

I keep writing, letting the scene unfold, imagining a version of tonight where the heroine—who is suspiciously starting to resemble me—gets the attention of the impossibly handsome race car driver. He doesn’t just see her as a journalist, or as someone plain and ordinary, or even someone who’s easy to be had, but as someone intriguing.

Someone worth pursuing.

“You’re different from the others,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, sending shivers down her spine. “You’re not like them.”

It’s absurd, really. The idea that someone like Lex would say something like that to someone like me. But in this story—my story—anything’s possible.

I finish the scene with a critical eye. The heroine gets the guy, of course. He’s drawn to her because she’s different. Special. The kind of romance that only happens in books.

I save the document and then reach my arms overhead as I stifle a yawn. It’s late and the hotel room is quiet, save for Lex’s steady breathing. I glance at him one more time, shaking my head at the absurdity of it all.

A world-famous formula driver passed out on my couch, and here I am, writing a love story about someone just like him. If only my heroine knew what she was getting herself into.

With a final stretch, I collapse into bed. It sucks sleeping in my clothes but I’m not about to put on my pajamas with Lex in the room.

I wonder what he’ll think about me bringing him here.

I wonder if he’ll be any nicer.

Tomorrow’s going to be interesting, that’s for sure.