Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Then she huffs and reaches for her pill bottle, popping it open with her thumb. “I wish you’d bring someone home,” she says, as if we’re picking up the conversation where it left off. “A nice girl. A model, maybe. Or someone with a title. I’d love a daughter-in-law.”
My stomach twists. “Did you even hear a word I said, or are you deliberately being obtuse?”
She smiles faintly. “Oh, I hear everything. I just don’t care for the tone. Now, would you like to join me for a drink?”
“No, I would not,” I say.
I leave her in the sitting room, sipping her tea and muttering to herself, and step out onto the back terrace. The view is lovely. Gardens someone else maintains, manicured hedges, a gravel path that leads nowhere. The sky above Woking is a dull wash of clouds, not gray enough to rain, not bright enough to lift anything. Just enough to match my mood.
My phone buzzes in my hand and I mutter a curse when I see it’s Harley Patrick, Crown Velocity’s team principal. My true boss. She’s no-nonsense, sharp, and one of the few people in the sport who has the power to make or break my career.
I answer curtly. “Barnes.”
“Hey,” she says, her tone warm but cautious. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I clip out. I’ve never liked this familial tone she takes with her employees.
“You left Suzuka so fast. Told the team it was a family emergency, so I wanted to make sure you don’t need anything.”
“It’s all good.” I glance toward the sitting room window, where the curtain sways like someone brushed past it. “My mum’s sick. I’m with her now.”
There’s a pause. “Do you need some time off? We can spare it this week. Next race isn’t for two weeks, and honestly, no one’s going to blink if—”
“No.” It comes out sharper than I intended, so I reel it back. “Thank you, but I don’t want time off.”
Racing’s the only thing that keeps me sane.
She hesitates. “All right. Just know the option’s open.”
“Is that the only reason you called?” I ask abruptly. She’s my boss, but Harley isn’t the type to waste time on meaningless conversation, so I know she won’t hold efficiency against me.
She shifts into business mode, words picking up pace. “We’ve signed a co-sponsorship with Drivex, that new British sports energy drink launching globally this fall. They want both British teams—Crown and Titans—on a joint campaign.”
“Titans aren’t technically British,” I point out. Which is half true. While the team is now owned by an American based out of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, it was formerly Excalibur Racing, a company based in Great Britain. They’re currently still occupying headquarters in Guildford, which is not far from here, although rumors are they’re going to relocate permanently to the States in the future.
“They’re British enough,” she says dryly. “So we’re taking the sponsorship.”
The tension in my shoulders spikes because I hate this marketing crap. “What kind of campaign are we talking about?”
“Print and video. A whole series of commercials and behind-the-scenes segments. The theme’s ‘The Spirit of Competition’—you and the Titans drivers doing cheeky challenges, scripted banter, that kind of thing. All off-track, everyday stuff meant to show ‘athletic grit meets everyday charm.’”
I blink. “That’s a terrible slogan.”
“That’s not the slogan. Just the pitch.” I hear the faint sound of typing on her end. “They’ve hired a writer who’s done campaigns for major brands, all steeped in clever, dry British humor.”
“Yes, we Brits are hilarious,” I drawl with fake enthusiasm.
Harley laughs under her breath, apparently finding me funny. “Look, I know this isn’t your favorite thing—”
“I hate media. I hate people.”
The humor in her voice is gone. “Buckle up, Buttercup. That’s part of the job that we pay you insanely well for. Besides… you drivers get along relatively well and what’s not to like? It’s Lex, Nash and Francesca. It’s not like they’re monsters.”
I don’t even try to hide my groan. “Why can’t Lex just do it for Crown Velocity? He’s so much better at that type of thing. And really, why Accardi? She’s got no credibility at this level yet.”
“Because she’s good at this kind of thing.” I hear the defensiveness loud and clear, indicating that I’m going down a slippery slope if I’m in any way inferring this is because Accardi has a pair of tits rather than balls. “She pulls numbers. You do too, when you show up. This isn’t negotiable. They’re rolling this out in three phases between now and the summer break.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “She irritates me.” Fuck… I said that out loud.
“Is that so?” Harley asks.
“She’s—” I pause, searching for the reason, and it eludes me. “She’s opinionated. And she’s a rookie.” Stupid reasons but accurate.
Harley snorts. “She just placed thirteenth at her first FI race and walked through hell to get there. I think she’s earned the spotlight.”