Page 6 of Away We Go

“I’ll show you around now, while it’s still fairly quiet, and then starting tomorrow, you’ll be free to do your thing.”

My feet falter and I put a hand on her arm to stop her. “Which is what?”

She frowns. “Hasn’t Nicky spoken to you?”

Not since my brother’s wedding and that’s a memory I only pull out and examine when I’m alone to blush and swoon in peace.

“Not really. He just gave a vague description of the role, and since then I’ve been communicating with his PA, Sue, to get all the logistics sorted.”

The mountain of logistics, that is. Scheduling flights and accommodation and luggage and personal effects had my head spinning so much, I hadn’t really thought much about what specifically I’d be doing when I was here. I’d assumed it would be backend, boring stuff. Out-of-the-way stuff. Stuff that wouldn’t have me anywhere near the world’s sixth sexiest sportsman on a regular basis.

“After I saw the photos on your Instagram, I decided I wanted you taking photos over the course of the weekend.”

Huh?

“Um.” I skip to catch up to her as she starts walking again. “You want me to what now?”

“Take photos.”

Yes, I got that part. But still.

“Don’t you have professional photographers to do that?”

She nods. “The team has ten.”

Ten?

“So…” I let this one word do the talking. Surely, they don’t need eleven?

Serena stops and I bump into her. “Sorry,” I mutter.

“Your work is different from what we usually see on ourVortex Motorspage. We want you to capture the in-between moments. To curate a social media page that tells a more personal story of what takes place over a race weekend.”

Oh, great. That clears it up.

“And everyone is okay with this?” If I do this, it means I’ll be around the drivers, the team, everyone, all weekend long! I’m not sure Nicky will be happy with any of it.

She flashes another grin, taking her beauty up another notch. “They have to be. Nicky insisted on it.”

I gulp. “Okay,” I say when I can find words again. “Great.”

We walk into the team garage together and I’m instantly blown away. It’s like the air is electrified.

“Pretty special, hey?” Serena asks, reading my expression with a knowing smile.

I look around at everyone working in unison. It’s like being privy to the inside of a beehive: a group of people all working in harmony with one goal in mind, to have the fastest car.

To win.

“Here, you need to wear this.”

She hands me a t-shirt and I breathe out another sigh of relief as she winks at me. It’s a team shirt, but not the usual bright red one, which when combined with my hair, makes me look like awalking red pepper. This one is black with red trim and has Nicky’s number on the back.

Just the thought of wearing it around him has me squirming inside, and I lecture myself about this reaction. There will be hundreds and thousands of fans out there with his name and number written on them (this is his home race, after all); there is nothing special whatsoever about me wearing it.

“You know, you must be pretty special to Nicky,” Serena says, like she’s arguing for the opposing side of my internal debate.

I blink up at her. “Why do you say that?”

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