Page 4 of Away We Go

I turn to the owner of the loud, impatient voice and step to the side with an apologetic smile, watching as they scan their pass and are promptly let through with a serene green light and a melodic “Have a nice day.”

“So, youdowork,” I mutter to the scanner in front of me. It’s my new nemesis and as I once again scan my pass, unsuccessfully, I think it may be out to get me.

“Having some trouble?”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention at the growly voice behind me and I take a beat to get my racing heart under control. I’d know that voice anywhere—it had featured in every one of my teenage (and beyond) fantasies. And it now belonged to my boss.

It’s not appropriate to have a crush on your boss, Cherry, I lecture myself. Even if said boss has been a part of your life since day one. Even if said boss was the person responsible for naming you.You must be professional.

“Nicky!” I launch myself at him, failing at the first opportunity to behave like a professional. This is not appropriate behaviour for the employee/employer dynamic I know we are supposed to adopt.

“Cherry.” His arms wrap around me, holding me close for several blissful seconds, before taking a step back, his gaze scanning the crowd around us.

My cheeks heat and I know I’ve already messed up. When you’re as famous as Nicky—Nicolai—Dimitrios, you can’t be seen in public hugging random women. Even if the random woman is an old family friend.

“Sorry,” I mumble, fanning my face to get my cheeks under control. It’s the bane of my redheaded existence, the ability to blush at the drop of a hat. I’d rather have been born with just about any other talent, but here we are.

“It’s fine,” he waves away my apology, his warm brown eyes sweeping over me, giving my cheeks another reason to heat. I’d agonised for hours, days, weeks, over what to wear for my first day with theVortex Motorsteam at the Albert Park racetrack and had settled on simple is best. Simple means jeans and a white t-shirt. Nothing to scream, “Look at me!”

“Do I look okay?” I ask when he continues to stare and not say anything. I hate the note of uncertainty in my voice and want toblame Troy for putting that self-doubt there in a place it had never been, but really, it was my fault for letting him treat me like that. For not being strong enough to stand up for myself. For not getting out sooner.

Nicky blinks slowly, tilting his head, his eyebrows slanting. “You look more than okay, Cherry.”

I beam at him, soaking in the fact that the world’s sixth sexiest sportsman (yes, this is an actual thing) thinks I look more than okay.

“But,” he continues, and my shoulders round inwards, ready for the blow.

Great. Just like Troy said, there’s always something I need to improve on.

“Yes?” My voice quivers on just this one word and I breathe in deeply to brace for what’s next.

He traces his finger over the sleeve of my white t-shirt. “You need to wear our team colours.”

I try but cannot hide my grimace. What he doesn’t know is I have half a wardrobe filled with his team merchandise and paraphernalia; I just can’t bring myself to wear any of them. Fire engine red just does not work with my hair colour.

I keep this bit of vanity to myself and nod. “Will do.”

His lips tip up into that half-smile of his that drives the F1 female audience wild. It’s part of his brand, the elusive Ice Man who rarely deigns to give a full laugh or smile. They’ve rarely been gifted with a full Nicolai grin, one that’s been shared with me generously throughout my life growing up.

“Shall we go in?” He motions to my enemy (the security scanner) and I hang my head. I’ve faltered at the first obstacle; unable to even get my pass to work.

“You go,” I urge, noting the pack of people waiting for him just through the gates. We’re at the paddock entrance, away from the public, and I’m sure he has somewhere much more important to be.

Me? I need to find another way in.

“Come on, Cherry.” He takes my hand into his much larger one and pulls me along behind him. “She’s with me,” he tells the burly security guard who waves us in without so much as a blink of his squinty, scary eyes.

She’s with me. Three little words that mean nothing to him, but have my heart dancing. What would it be like to have that be true? To have someone like the man who’s just dropped my hand like a hot potato claim me as his own?

Never going to happen, Cherry.You need to get out of your head and grow up.

I nod, so entrenched in my internal lectures I lose sight of Nicky being swallowed up by the pack of media around him. They’re sticking microphones in his face and taking photos of his every step, and he moves through them like a boat cutting through water: his handsome head is held high, sunglasses now down over his eyes, and his profile (the only part I can see of him) carved in stone.

What must it be like to live under a microscope like that?

I’m jostled to the back of the pack and almost lose my footing due to the sheer volume of people clamouring to get to him when a hand darts out—fast as lightning—and grabs my wrist.

Startled, I look up to find Nicky pulling me up close next to him, sparing me the swiftest of glances, like he’s reassuring himself I’m unharmed, before placing his hand on the small of my back and hurrying us into the team hospitality trailer, leaving the trail of media behind us.

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