Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Lex

I ’ve got a banging head, the kind of headache that feels like it’s splitting my skull in two. I should be used to this feeling by now. God knows it happens often enough, and yes, I understand it’s my own doing. I groan, lifting a hand to rub my temples, eyes still shut as I lie there, trying to piece together where the hell I am.

I know I’m not in my own bed.

And… I know I’m on a settee.

My body aches in that way it always does after a night of drinking too much and making bad decisions. Except this time, something feels… off.

I open my eyes.

This isn’t my flat.

I sit up too fast and instantly regret it, the room spinning around me. I’m in a hotel room—narrow walls, a small bed with rumpled sheets and a desk. I see a shut door, presumably the bathroom, and hear the shower running.

I rub at my eyes, trying to make sense of it all. How the hell did I get here and where exactly is here?

Then slowly, it starts coming back to me. The nightclub. Ronan and I getting hammered. Ronan scrapping with those blokes—some cocky idiots who couldn’t handle the attention we always attract. Carlos pulling him away and reminding me to stay out of it as I was on thin ice with Spencer and Harley.

Flashes of recollection. More dancing. More side-eyes from those assholes.

The sound of Posey’s voice in the background, her arm around my waist to help me out of the club. Getting into a cab and then… nothing.

Posey.

I rub my head, piecing the puzzle together. I must be in her hotel room. I glance around, still dazed, possibly a little drunk, and look at my watch. It’s too bloody early as the sun’s barely up.

With a sigh, I stand and stretch, feeling the soreness in my muscles. My eyes search for medicine and I spot it on the drawers… a single brew coffee pot. Thank fuck.

I nearly lunge for the machine, knowing that one cup will make me feel better, only to be immediately frustrated by the realization I can’t get to the water with Posey in the bathroom. I’m almost desperate enough to test the lock on the door to see if I can sneak in to grab the necessary life liquid to make me a cup of java.

But then the shower goes silent and I decide to wait it out. I consider lying back down but I’ve always been the type, no matter how bad or hungover I feel, once I’m up, I get going. Caving into weakness is against all I stand for.

My eyes land on the desk near the window, a laptop open on it with a screen saver rotating photos of animals—fuzzy puppies, cute goats, tiny kittens. If I didn’t know this was Posey’s room before, I know it now.

A bit nosy, maybe, but my curiosity gets the better of me. She is, after all, writing an article about Crown Velocity and she’s doing it from the perspective of being at my side. What exactly has she said so far?

I glance back at the bathroom, count on the fact she’s a girl and will take a bit to come out, and without an ounce of shame, quickly tap on the mouse pad to disengage the screen saver.

Bingo… there’s an open document. Her security is abysmal, not even a login required, and well… it’s almost like she just left it out in a public place waiting to be read.

I scan the visible text and quickly discern it’s not a news piece at all, but I’m not quite sure what the hell it is.

The words on the screen jump out at me. “He pulled her closer, his hands roaming her body as she moaned against his lips, the heat between them unbearable…”

Chin jerking inward, only to extend forward so I can get closer to the screen, I frown at the laptop. What the hell is this? I scroll down, skimming over the sentences. It’s not just one scene—it’s a full-blown, spicy-as-hell sex scene. Names I don’t recognize, characters I’ve never heard of. It’s… a story?

“Well, well, well,” I murmur to myself, a grin creeping onto my face. “What cheeky bit of fun is this?”

Straitlaced, all-business with a side of fuzzy puppies Posey Evans writing a sex scene? I glance at the closed bathroom door before scrolling back up, wanting to make sense of it all, and that’s when I see the title: Formula Fling.

That’s when it clicks.

This isn’t an article. It’s a book. A sexy book… I guess what you’d classify as a romance novel. Or maybe it’s erotic literature. I really don’t know the difference and didn’t read enough to make a solid opinion, but a suspicion forms in my mind.

Posey’s not here to write a piece on Crown Velocity or FI at all. She’s writing a damn novel and if the title is any evidence, it’s based on the formula racing world.

And not just any novel—it appears to be a bloody romance novel, with me as her inside man.

I step back from the desk, rubbing my chin as the realization sinks in. My amusement turns into something more like disbelief as I pull out my phone and type into the search bar: Elizabeth Evans.

Yes, that’s how Rosalind first introduced her even though I acted like I didn’t hear it. I’m not the oblivious sort.

I add the words romance author and hit enter.

My eyes roam the results but I can’t see anything that fits. I quickly amend the search to Posey Evans, romance author, and bingo… her profile comes up with a website and what looks to be several listings of books on various retailer sites. I navigate to the website, another quick look at the closed bathroom door, and start reading.

I first take in her professional photo and there’s no doubt she’s incredibly pretty. Not in a sexy, get my dick hard kind of way, but she’s sitting outside on what looks like a porch swing. She’s got on faded jeans, bare feet and a flowing blouse. Her eyes are beautiful as she smiles into the camera, head coyly tilted. No makeup… just freckles and lip gloss.

I glance at the books she’s written. The covers all have shirtless men locked in a passionate embrace with busty women in long gowns. Titles that make me snort.

Un-fucking-believable.

“Priceless,” I murmur, chuckling to myself. “This just got intriguing.”

Somehow, she’s wormed her way into Crown Velocity and as I continue to add things up, I’m guessing she’s no journalist at all. None of the Google results indicate she has anything to do with journalism or sports reporting. She’s just a woman who writes smut and for some reason, this seems like the best thing to have happened to me in ages.

This could actually be quite fun.

The doorknob rattles behind me and I jump away from the desk, practically throwing myself down on the settee. Posey steps out, her hair wet, dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I glance at the laptop and it’s still got her manuscript showing, the screen saver not having activated yet.

Her eyes come to me and I get a censuring look of disapproval but she remains silent.

I’m up for a bit of a fight though. “What?” I demand.

Lips flattened, she shakes her head as if disappointed. “Your behavior last night was abysmal. You were so drunk you couldn’t tell me where you lived and I had to cart you up here to pass out on my couch. Your job is to help me learn this sport over the next few weeks, not follow you around on drunken expeditions. I’m going to have to insist that doesn’t happen again or else I’ll have to write about that.”

It’s a threat.

It’s cute and without teeth.

I shake my head, smiling knowingly. “Is that so? You’re going to write about it in your article?” I use air quotes around the term article and that causes her to narrow her eyes at me.

Posey’s gaze slides from me to the laptop and she freezes as the color drains from her face when she takes in her novel on the screen. She knows I’ve seen it.

“Okay, look,” she starts, her voice shaky. “Before you say anything—”

“I’m not gonna say anything,” I cut her off, my tone low and amused. “But you’re the one who’s got some explaining to do, don’t you think?”

She crosses her arms, glaring at me, trying to put on a brave face. “I don’t know what you think you know, but—”

“I know you’re not a journalist,” I say, grinning like the cat that caught the mouse. I mean, I don’t know that with absolute certainty, but it’s a good bet. “You’re an author. A romance author, to be exact. At least judging by that sexy scene I read on your computer.”

She blinks, stunned, then tries to recover. “So what if I am?”

“So what?” I laugh. “You blagged your way into one of the top teams in Formula International by pretending to be a journalist, and now you’re writing a bloody romance novel about it?”

She doesn’t answer, just glares at me, her jaw clenched. I can tell she’s scared, but I’m impressed she’s got a straight backbone going. I’m not about to let her off that easy.

“How long did you think you could keep this up?” I ask, still smug. “You must’ve known you’d get caught eventually.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t think it would matter,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, I write romance but I make a good living at it. I want to write a romance about formula racing.”

“But why?” I ask, brows furrowed because it seems ridiculous.

She sighs in exasperation. “Because sports romance is big and I think there could be a market for FI racing. I started watching that documentary—”

I grin broadly. “Oh, yeah… always fun filming that.”

“Yes, you clearly come across as wanting to have fun,” she replies dryly. “But I really started liking the sport. Started watching all the races, read articles, watched interviews. It’s fascinating and I thought it would be a great sport to weave with romance. But I want authenticity and accuracy in my work. I’m not just some hack, you know. I needed to see it all firsthand.”

“Right. Firsthand,” I repeat, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “You know, I could have you thrown out of here. Tell Harley, tell the team. Your little scam would be over.”

Posey’s eyes widen, panic flashing across her face. “No! Please, don’t.”

I raise an eyebrow, waiting for her to explain. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because…” She takes a deep breath, struggling to find the words. “Because I’m not here to hurt anyone. I’m just trying to write a book, and I needed to learn about the sport. I want it to be the best book possible. That’s all.”

“So why lie about it?”

“Because…” She looks around, almost helpless, before her eyes come back to me. “No one takes romance seriously. I would’ve been laughed at if I’d reached out for behind-the-scenes privileges to write a romance novel. But I knew posing as a journalist would give me the credibility I need.”

Makes sense.

“And just how did you fake it?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I honestly thought I’d be found out. I didn’t do much other than write an email using my legal name of Elizabeth Evans, said I was a freelance sportswriter. Harley called me directly and I’m guessing she liked my pitch so much, she didn’t bother to check me out.”

I nod thoughtfully. “Harley is big on handing out opportunity. She was given the biggest when offered this job and she pays it forward.”

Posey wrings her hands, teeth dug into her bottom lip while she waits to see what I’ll do.

I watch her for a moment, weighing my options. I could end this right now, have her kicked out of Crown Velocity, and be done with it. I never wanted her babysitting me anyway.

But a few factors have me considering alternatives. First, I might not like having the babysitter, but there’s no doubt my behavior was somewhat modified with Posey in tow last night. The threat of that article hanging over me kept me slightly in check and it is my job on the line.

Second, she got me home safe and sound. No ravers in my flat. I was able to party and not worry about consequences. That’s a good thing, right?

Plus, I find her a bit refreshing if I’m honest and I do get a perverse pleasure from baiting her.

And finally, there’s something about the desperation in her eyes that makes me pause. I believe her when she says she’s not out to hurt anyone and a part of me admires the hell out of the lengths she went to in the name of her work, no matter how ridiculous I might think it is.

“All right,” I say, leaning against the cushions and tossing my arm over the back in a pose of confidence. This puts me in a position of power. “I won’t tell anyone.”

Posey lets out a breath of relief, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “Thank you.”

“But,” I add, holding up a finger, “there’s a catch.”

She frowns. “What kind of catch?”

I lean in, lowering my voice. “I know Harley is using you to keep me in line. She’s using the threat of you writing something bad about me to make sure I stay out of trouble. I know now there is no such article and you can’t really hurt me, but I have to say, there’s some benefit in keeping you around. You can report to Harley that I’m on my best behavior. You can make sure I continue along that path.”

“Like a babysitter,” she mutters.

“Yeah… if that’s the conclusion you want to draw. You make me look good to the boss. And in exchange, I’ll teach you everything you need to know about FI. I am curious though… how did you think all of this was going to end? Were you just going to disappear after you got your information?”

Posey shakes her head, nibbling on her fingernail. “No. I’m going to write an article and let Harley see it. I was even going to submit it as a freelancer to some publications. I intend to follow through on that, so my guise isn’t completely fraudulent.”

“Even better,” I say with a wide grin. “You write only good things about me.”

“To do that, you have to be good,” she points out.

“Of course.” I incline my head. “But you have to make sure that I stay good. Babysit, remember?”

Posey bites her lip, clearly unsure if she should trust me. But she doesn’t have a choice, and we both know it. If I out her, she’ll lose the inside research she’s seeking and possibly land in hot water for the deception.

“Fine,” she says at last, her voice firm. “Deal.”

“Deal,” I repeat. “Looks like we’re stuck with each other, then.”

She glares at me, but there’s no fight left in her. She knows I’ve won this round.

“Now,” I say, rising from the couch, “I’ll see you at headquarters later. Don’t be late.”

“Late for what?” she asks, following me to the door.

“We’re meeting with strategy engineers to review last week’s simulator and track testing. I’m going to work out and I think you should join me for that.”

Posey crosses her arms over her chest. “Are you making a backhanded slam at my weight?” she accuses.

I blink at her in surprise, the vehemence in her voice revealing an insecurity that I didn’t know existed. “No,” I assure her with a pointed look. “I’m just saying if you want to delve into my world, you need to do everything with me. Attend meetings, get in the simulator, babysit me at the club and work out with me.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, casting her eyes down. “Sorry for jumping to conclusions.”

Weird girl. Not sure why she thinks her weight is a problem. She’s got curves in all the right places as far as I’m concerned.

Not that I’m looking at her that way.

Except now… I am looking at how her full boobs plump up over that defensive arm cross and how slamming her ass looks in those jeans.

I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away. “I’m out of here. Be at HQ in two hours.”

Without waiting for her response, I walk out the door, leaving her standing in the middle of the room, knowing she’s got no choice but to play along.