Page 51 of Away We Go

I nod. Boy had Frieda been unhappy about that post. She’d lectured me for a solid twenty minutes about supporting a charity ‘we know nothing about.’ Usually, as a very public figure, I’m careful about who and what I throw my support behind, but on that day, I hadn’t cared. Cherry had wanted to make a difference and my post about it got that done. It shouldn’t have been a big deal.

My publicist had vehemently disagreed. But what she was most concerned about was the picture of the two of us, looking ‘very much like a couple.’ Her words, not mine. She’d been livid that I’d been so reckless when we’d just got the rumour mill under control. That photo had shot us both back into the spotlight, and that’s where she likes to be in charge. My spotlight is her domain.

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Her huff rings with annoyance through the phone. “You should know better.”

I do know better. Cherry has scrambled my brain.

“What’s the damage?”

My phone vibrates against my ear. “I’ve sent you a couple of articles. None from anywhere we have to worry about—noTMZorDaily Mail—but there is a photo of the two of you dancing together that isn’t helping our narrative.”

Now it’s my turn to let out an annoyed huff. I was careless last night. “Sorry about that, too.”

Frieda’s silences are scarier than her outbursts and I pace my room, waiting for the next shoe to drop. Something she’s not telling me yet.

“People are digging into Cherry. Into who she was before she joined the team, who she worked for, who she dated. Luckily, she’s pretty boring, so nothing much has come from it. But she needs to be prepared. If the two of you continue to be friendly in public.” Idon’t miss the emphasis on the word friendly. “Then this is only going to get worse.”

My heart sinks. I knew this was something to worry about before she joined the team; it was a concern I raised with Matt. We live life in the public eye, travelling with the media watching our every move. It’s the part of this sport that I hate. We’re not just race drivers, sometimes we’re like performing monkeys. And Cherry? Well, she’s young and achingly beautiful, there was zero chance of her fading into the background. Of her escaping this scrutiny.

It's up to me to help her manage it.

“I’ll talk to her. Make sure she’s prepared.”

More silence.

“Anything else?” I press.

Her sigh is less annoyed, wearier. “Just be careful with her, Nicky. No one can be prepared for this.”

“Yeah, I get it.” I know what she’s saying. It’s hard enough to deal with the gossip about my love life when it’s true; it’s brutal when people are spreading lies.

Though, given how I feel about her, the lie is looking a lot like the truth.

“Thanks.”

I end the call and pull up the text message chain with Cherry. Chuckling at our last exchange, I check the time to see if it’s too early to contact her. When I’d left the club, she’d been tipsy and happy, and according to James who messaged me after he got her back to the hotel safely, she’d been in bed around 2.30 a.m.

Hmmm, she may not appreciate a 6.30 a.m. wake-up text from me. I better sweeten it with an offer to bring coffee.

Nicky

Morning, sunshine. How’s the hangover?

Three dots appear on the screen, matching the bubbles dancing in my stomach at the thought of hearing from her. Of getting to see her again soon.

This is now the man I’ve become. Eagerly watching dots on a screen.

Cherry

Want to die.

Poor thing. I rarely drink anymore—hangovers in your thirties hit differently—but I can imagine after the champagne and tequila she was downing last night; she’ll be pretty rough today.

Nicky

Want coffee?

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