Page 76 of Coming in Hot

ONE MONTH LATER

NATALIA

The night I walked out on Klaus and went to stay with Phaedra, she tried to pry out of me what had happened, but all I would say was, “I’m not wasting the rest of my thirties on another broken bird. Best of luck to the next girl.”

I knew the breakup could throw a wrench into the deep-dive article I’d been working on for over five damned months, but I kept things professional. Most of it was written at that point, and I did my best to ensure there wasn’t a shift in tone. I can’t pretend my heart didn’t ache every time I sat down to work on it, though, vividly bringing to life all the fantastic Klaus Franke qualities I needed to showcase.

Nefeli’s required “thirst trap” pics bewitched and haunted me when I penned the article’s cutlines. His intense espresso-dark stare, focused in the gym, a sexy sheen of sweat gilding his skin.That serious V of his brows as he chatted with colleagues in a meeting. The charming openness as he led a factory tour. And especially killing to me was the warm, candid snapshot of Klaus with a group of adoring children during a Jump Start event. So natural, like he was born for it.

Every sentence I wrote stung, but I knocked it out of the park. No one who reads those five thousand words will have any clue my heart is broken.

After turning in “Klaus Franke: Wizard of the Emerald F1 City,” I ask for a week of personal leave.ARJarranges to send Alexander to the first race after the August summer break, the Belgian Grand Prix. I hole up in my flat in West Ham, working on a new project, though I do go into the office once to shoot an episode ofARJ Buzz—a “Spill-the-Tea Special,” focusing on silly season and all the wild rumors swirling around, driver lineups and general gossip, murmurs of feuds, alliances, offers, and swaps.

On the weekend before my return to the office, I email Nefeli two things: the first chapter of the book I’m working on and a letter of resignation.

She calls me in twenty minutes after I arrive on Monday.

“What the bloody hell is this?” she demands, pointing at her laptop screen.

“Uh, which thing?”

“Don’t be obtuse.The resignation letter.Am I to get our solicitors involved? I’ll remind you, you’re under contract.”

I sit across from her desk, and I think the look on my face changes her angle of approach.

“Don’t eventrywith the long puss, love. You know I have no heart,” she says with an indulgent half-smile. “If you need to avoid You-Know-Who now that your fling has run its course, we can work something out temporarily. But I can’t lose you.”

Her closing words—the same thing Klaus said the night I walked out—spur a wave of pain, and I have to pinch my leg to keep an impassive expression.

“I don’t want to sound like a jerk, playing hardball,” I tell her soberly, “but my contract says if I leave early, all I have to do is return my signing bonus, which I’m willing to do.”

Nefeli sighs, leaning back. “That bad, eh?”

“It’s not entirely the issue you think. Things are changing for me, and… I’ve actually been questioning my career path all year anyway. I want to try being closer to my family, and I need to work on this book.” I sit up, eager to hear her verdict on the writing sample. “Do you think it has promise?”

By way of reply, she prods her keyboard and adjusts her glasses to peer at the computer screen. “I wish I could discourage you by saying it’s shite, but I fucking love it. Do you already have an arrangement with a publisher?”

I laugh. “Um,no. This is just a dream, currently.”

“Willing to put it all on the line for a dream?” She lifts an eyebrow. “I don’t know if I admire your pluck or think you’re daft.” She taps at her keyboard again. “But I’m chummy with someone at Abacus Books—history and memoirs and that. I’ll send this over if you’d like.”

“Holy sh—I mean,wow, thank you! Yes, please.”

“But upon one condition: You merely take a leave of absence for the remainder of the season, and in January give me the chance tocoax you back.Noresigning today. I won’t say youmustreturn—I’m not a monster, contrary to popular belief. You’ll have four months to work on your book. Then”—she lifts her hands—“we’ll see if I can sweeten the pot.”

We spend a long time talking things over. Nefeli, despite being a flinty old gal, has surprisingly sensitive and insightful advice about my career, my cautious beginnings of a relationship with Sherri and Jason, and even my broken heart.

I feel lighter when I leave her office. I’ve agreed to continue doing theARJ Buzzsegments remotely for the remainder of the season but make no appearances at the grands prix, letting Alexander take over for now. Next step: arrangements to move back to Kentucky.

As I walk to my office, my heart stirring with real optimism for the first time in weeks, Alexander leans out of his doorway.

“Evans! A word, please?”

When I go in, he’s holding a handful of papers, which he extends toward me. Confused, I take it, looking down to see the first page of my book project—Faded Sunlight: A Mother’s Nightmare in a California Women’s Prison.

“How did you get your hands on this?” I demand. “Did Nefeli give you a copy?”

“She sent it to me last night, yes.”

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