Page 49 of Cross the Line
‘Okay, time for your weekly update,’ Willow announces once the plane hits ten thousand feet and we’re allowed to take out our electronics.
She hauls her laptop up from the bag by her feet and flips it open. When the screen kicks on, a slideshow appears. The girl’s prepared.
We haven’t spent much time together outside of meals lately. We’ve been too busy with our own responsibilities for much more than passing greetings and quickly snapped photos. Sitting next to each other in first class on a commercial flight feels like a stolen moment. But Mark’s warning to keep my distance from her pops into my head as she clears her throat and prepares to start her presentation.
Willow deserves to apply these skills on a larger scale, to work for a team that will value her dedication and talent. I don’t want to ruin that for her. So instead of leaning in like I want to, I nod and allow her to turn the screen in my direction.
‘Followers are up an average of nine per cent on all platforms,’ she begins. The first slide shows charts of follower and engagement growth.
Once I’ve looked over it, she flips to the next. This one is full of brand logos for companies that I’d be more than happy to work with.
‘Howard has lined up two new brand deals for you. I have a full deck for each one if you want to review them later. We’ll make sure they’re a good fit.’
‘How insufferable was my agent when you talked to him?’ I ask drily.
She shoots me a knowing look. ‘Unbelievably.’
‘Sounds about right.’ I point to the computer screen, motioning for her to continue.
‘Okay, you’re absolutely welcome to shoot this idea down if you think it’s too soon,’ she prefaces, ‘but the hosts of this podcast would like to interview you. I listened to almost every episode they’ve done so far, and these women really know their stuff. They’re hilarious, too, and they’ve really taken off on the charts.’
I lift a brow in surprise. She did all of that before she knew whether I’d even be interested? ‘You listened to every episode?’
‘Nearly,’ she corrects. ‘Did my due diligence. And I listened to a few other F1-centric shows to see if they’d be a better fit, but I think this one’s the best.’
‘God, I am so impressed by you.’
The words slip off my tongue before I can stop them, but even as a flush creeps up her neck, I don’t take them back. She deserves this praise and more.
‘Thank you,’ she mumbles, keeping her eyes trained on the laptop as she flips to the next slide. ‘Anyway, I’ll have Chava schedule everything. Then there’s . . .’
As she continues, I try to focus on the screen and not her pretty blushing face. Every time she makes a suggestion, I agree. She knows best. That’s obvious. I’m just along for the ride.
‘Okay, let me coordinate with everyone and get it all on the calendar,’ she says, beaming, once she’s touched on the final slide.
I have to resist the urge to trace the curve of her smile, because that isnotsomething a boss should ever do. But the temptation is real, and the longer I spend with her, the harder it’s going to get.
Maybe Mark was right. Maybe I should let her go. For my sanity and for her reputation.
Except that clarity disappears in a puff of smoke when she squeezes my hand, her excitement palpable. It’s a brief touch, fully innocent. Just an expression of how happy she is to be working on all of this. I doubt she even thought twice about it.
With that pleased expression still lingering on her face, she puts her laptop away and pulls out her little notebook, then curls up in her oversized seat. She scribbles on the page, lower lip caught between her teeth as she concentrates. I know then that I’m fully hooked. I’m not letting her go anywhere unless it’s by my side.
At least not until the summer’s over and our time together is done. Fuck knows how I’ll ever let her walk away again.
——
Sunday brings blue skies and sunshine as bright as my mood. I’m once again feeling like nothing out there can stop me. It’s a welcome reprieve from the weight that’s been pushing down on my shoulders.
Practice on Friday went off without a hitch, and I qualified eleventh yesterday. Adding to my buoyant mood, Nathaniel qualified seventeenth, so it’s unlikely team orders will affect my race. Can’t tell me to stay behind him if I’m already leagues ahead.
I avoid him as all the drivers gather at the back of a modified flatbed semi-truck, which we’ll be riding on for the drivers’ parade. I greet Thomas Maxwell-Brown with a grin and a shot to the shoulder, teasing him about the douchey yacht pictures he posted last week. The guy’s posher than a British royal . . . which he actually might be, if his bloodline was traced back far enough.
I’ve just climbed up on the truck when Zaid Yousef lifts his chin, motioning me to the free spot by the railing next to him – and away from the reporters. I freeze for a second before forcing my feet to move.
It’s ridiculous, but I still get starstruck when I see Zaid. He’s literally just a guy, and one I’ve been racing against for years, but he’s been a god in my eyes since I was a kid. With seven championship titles under his belt and a near infinite number of records broken, he’s easily the greatest of all time. And as a fellow brown guy – the Middle Eastern kind of brown compared to my South Asian brown – he showed me that it was possible for people who looked like us to reach the highest level of motorsport.
‘You good?’ he asks me after we slap hands. His English accent is a little more working class than Thomas’s.
