Page 6 of Double Apex

Natalia sits on the bed and adjusts the strap on one heel. “Why not? Planning to get sloshed and dribble all over it?”

“F1 Dracula told me to wear white. I’m not letting him think I wore this on his order.” I fling the closet wide and peruse my options. “I’m the one who tellshimwhat to do.”

“I doubt he’d remember he said it. He’s like a fountain spraying out flirty comments. Try it on! You know I have a great eye.”

I whip off myCAMPSOH-CAH-TOA trigonometry tee and toss it at Nat, who ducks, laughing. She goes to the minibar and gets a tiny bottle of Courvoisier, then takes a bowl of chocolate-dipped strawberries from the refrigerator.

“Things are fancy up here on the top floors,” she says around a mouthful of fruit. “You know what’s in the fridge in my room? Mini Babybels and bottled water.” She cracks open the cognac and downs half.

I adjust the shirt, staring into the vanity mirror. It’s true I don’t own anything white—mostly because I assumed it’d make my pale, lightly freckled skin look weird. To my shock, white is divine on me. The cut of this shirt is magic: my waist looks tiny and my barely B cups are uncharacteristically alluring.

I turn to Nat and hold my arms out awkwardly. “Eh?”

“It’s sexy as hell. It’d help if you weren’t standing all stiff and pained, like you’re waiting to be sprayed down with delousing agent in a Siberian prison.”

“You know I’m more comfortable in jeans and T-shirts.” I grab the hem of the shirt to remove it.

“Don’t you dare!” Nat barks. “You look fantastic. If you schlump down to the lounge in a baggy nerd-shirt and ripped jeans, I will scream.”

“I don’t wanna play dress up! Especially not around the ‘randy rookie’—as they called that oversexed idiot last year.”

She lifts one expertly groomed eyebrow and pops another strawberry between her red-painted lips. “You can wear the ripped jeans, butwiththat shirt.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Hello—who understands fashion? Moi. The combination of an elegant Paris boutique shirt and jeans that look like you’ve had them since your teens—”

“Ihavehad them since my teens,” I cut in.

“—will be very stylish. It says to the world,I’m refined enough for this gorgeous shirt, yet devil-may-care enough for threadbare jeans.”

I rotate to look in the mirror again. “Fine. But I’m not putting on makeup.”

“A touch of mascara,” she asserts. “Your green eyes are one of your best features. Ooh, and a dab of lipstick—those bee-stung lips need advertising.”

“I’m not for sale.” I pull my shoulders back and twist forty-five degrees, checking out everything the shirt is doing for my figure. “And if I were,” I add under my breath, “he couldn’t afford me.”

Team Principal Klaus is waiting to get into the elevator as Nat and I step out on the first floor. Near him is a starstruck blonde half his age, staring up at him as if a map leading to the Holy Grail is projected on the side of his head.

Admittedly, Klaus is an almost-silver fox. Forty-five,toweringly tall, rich, obsessive about his workouts. And with that brand of aloofness women find captivating—like he’d be doing you a favor to fuck you.

To the world it seems like arrogance, but I know him well enough to recognize that he refuses to let anyone get close ever since his wife died five years ago. He finds a different girl at every GP and—according to gossip—tells them he can’t exchange contact info due to “security protocol.”

Hilarious. Maybe Klaus’s disposing of women as if they were coffee pods is the last gasp of his midlife crisis, before he gets into model trains or bird-watching. But I’d still put my money on grief.

Klaus gives me what models call a “smize.”

“Good evening, Schatzi,” he says, using the fatherly nickname he’s called me for years. His gaze moves to Natalia. “And?” he prompts, raising his eyebrows at her while the blonde glowers in the background.

“Natalia Evans,” Nat says, offering a frosty smile. “FromAuto Racing.”

The blonde clears her throat, holding the elevator door open as it tries to close.

“Have a lovely evening,” Klaus directs at me. “Delightful meeting you,” he tells Nat before stepping into the elevator.

She turns away and steams off toward the bar so quickly I have to trot to catch up.

“Whoa there, speedy. Where’s the fire?” With a smirk, I add, “Oh,I know. The fire was six foot five and standing by the elevator.”

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