Page 2 of Double Apex

“I admire your grit, chickadee,” he says with a sigh, adjusting the washcloth over his eyes as if to remind me of his headache. “But we’re not spending over a hundred million bucks a year running this team to make a statement.”

A dozen testy comebacks spring to mind, but I know how and when to pick my battles with Edward Morgan. It’s so much easier to make Cosmin the target of my anger. Though it’d be a hell of a lot more satisfying if the guy didn’t seem to love it so much.

“Bitter pill or not, I trust you to work through these growing pains Klaus says you and our hotshot driver are having and give him your best,” my dad concludes. He lifts the rag and shoots a scold-softening, crooked smile my way. “And if Cosmin keeps sassing you, roll up a newspaper and give that pupyour best good smack.”

I cross the room to press a kiss to my dad’s cool, damp cheek. “You know I won’t let you down. Need anything before I go—water, food?”

“I’m good, thanks. Dim the lights more on your way out.”

I’m striding down the hall toward the garage when Lars catches up.

“Cosmin shaved three-tenths off his lap time,” he tells me, beaming.

“What?No way.” I chew at the inside of my cheek. “The douchebag can drive—I’ll give him that.”

Lars’s expression is careful. “Try not to yell at him.Again.For, y’know, the comments earlier. Sometimes you just have to smile and let it ride.”

“Don’t tell me tosmile, for fuck’s sake. Ardelean’s insufferable.”

“People love Cosmin. He’s a cut-up.”

“More like a pervy party clown.”

Lars shoves his hands in his pockets, sighing. “Listen, can I be candid?”

“Could I stop you if I wanted to?” I wave an arm grandly. “Have at it.”

He clears his throat. “You’re being too free with the pro-Sage-anti-Cosmin stuff. Mo and Klaus made the choice, and the ink is dry. But your resentment is like…a thing. Everyone feels it. And don’t think the press wouldn’t have a field day with a ‘girls versus boys’ war. Race-day radio comms are public, so it’ll be more than just the team noticing tension pretty soon.”

Our watchful head of communications, Reece—the woman in charge of PR and media relations—has essentially told me the same thing.

I keep my face neutral as I try pivoting to another point of contention. “That’s in the past. I’m over it, seriously. It’s Ardelean’s lack of respect that bugs me. The faux-flirty back talk. It’s—”

“Trust me, you need to ignore that. I’ve already heard people joking around in the garage, saying your annoyance with Cosmin is the result of, uh…”

My jaw goes hard. “I’m not entertaining anysexual tensiongossip, thanks. I acknowledge that most women find F1 Dracula irresistible, but I’m not one of them.”

Since the era of ’76 world champion James Hunt, fewdrivers have puffed the panties of female fans like our swaggering new acquisition. Last year, Cosmin Ardelean drove for a team that couldn’t find its own ass with both hands and GPS, and his pretty face was stilleverywherein the media.

Lars shrugs with a weak smile. “All right. Don’t kill the messenger.”

“Copy,” I grumble, walking away. “Understood.”

I duck into a conference room and grab a bottled water from the mini fridge. When Cosmin’s car rolls in, I wait long enough for the fawning to die down and for that dipshit to climb out of the cockpit, and then I head to the garage.

Our new golden boy is talking with a pair of mechanics while combing his fingers through hair the color of blond sand strewn with amber. It’s hair most women would kill for. He doesn’t deserve it, much like his stupidly long lashes and plump lips with a perfect Cupid’s bow. When his hair isn’t sweaty and helmet-squashed, it’s a tousled dream that’d be in effortlessly beachy waves if it were long.

Cosmin. Fucking. Ardelean.

I sink my hands into the pockets of my black slacks—we all wear the same style of hideous middle-aged-dude pants with the green polo bearing the team’s logo—and cross to where the summit is happening.

“Hey there, Legs,” I direct at Cosmin when there’s a pause to cut in. “I need a word.”

He thinks I call him this because he’s tall—just shy of 188 centimeters, which is like six foot two. What he doesn’t know is that I call him “legs” because in the body of the team, thispeacock may be the movement, but he’s far from the brains and sure as hell not the heart.

I recognize the PR value in a good-looking, charismatic driver. For the team’s sake, I want Cosmin Ardelean to besomagnetic that the press can’t stop talking to him, guys buy the pricey sunglasses he wears and the beer he drinks, and women douse the men in their lives with Cosmin’s cologne. Sponsor cash is what oils the gears in a Formula 1 team.

We all want a championship for Emerald, full stop.

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