Page 19 of Hot Lap
"Pack comfortably. We're going to Qatar." Her accent adds emphasis to her already authoritative tone.
“Cutter?”
“Qatar. On the Persian Gulf.”
"What the— No. I'm not going to the Middle East!"
She tilts her chin ever so slightly. "You prefer to stay here with them?" She gestures toward the gathered paparazzi outside.
"No, but I have obligations. Classes I teach. Shows I'm booked for." I cross my arms. "I'm not giving up my life for any man, especially not one who apparently married me as some twisted rebellion against his daddy."
Her expression softens, and she nods. "Good. You shouldn't. Who can cover for you while you're gone?"
The question catches me off guard. I expected her to ignore my concerns, not acknowledge them.
"I... well, Delilah and Yasmine can cover my classes and shows, and there's a sub for the kids' ballet, but..." I run a hand through my hair. "You don't understand. I need the money. I have bills and rent. I can't just disappear to Qatar."
She sighs and looks at me like I'm a particularly dense child. "Your husband will take care of your bills. Trust me, he can afford to cover your rent."
I open my mouth to argue, then remember the thousand-dollar tip. The giant diamond on my finger. The casual way he paid for everything last night.
"Fine." I turn to my workspace. "But only for a few days."
She pivots on her heel and steps out onto the walkway, addressing the gathered press with a voice that somehow fills the entire complex.
"Listen to me very carefully. You are trespassing. Sixty seconds to leave before I call the police and press charges. And PNW Nitro Racing will blacklist any publication that stays." She checks her watch with a flick of her wrist. "The time is running."
The threat is delivered so matter-of-factly, that no one even argues. They just start packing up.
"How the hell did you do that?" I’m impressed.
Branca shrugs one elegant shoulder. "They know I mean it. Now, what are you packing?"
"I have no idea. What do I need?"
She looks me up and down. "Conservative clothing to cover your shoulders and knees, nothing too tight or revealing in public. We respect local customs. You'll need to be mindful of appropriate behavior at the track and in public."
"What? Is there, like, a rulebook for racing wives?"
"Not officially, but there are expectations. Don't overshadow your husband during race weekends. Avoid social media controversies.” She smiles ruefully and adds, “A little difficult in your case, but we’ll work around it. WAGs support without intrusion.”
“Who?”
“WAGs. Wives and girlfriends. The paddock — that's the area where the teams work — has restricted access, so you'll need proper credentials. And most importantly, remember that everything you do reflects not just on Reece, but on his team, their sponsors, and Formula One."
Great. So I'm supposed to be a perfect, demure little wifey? I bite back the sarcastic comment. Branca isn't the enemy here.
"Do you have a current passport?" She moves through my apartment.
"Yeah." I pull it from my dresser drawer. "Wait, Reece is going to Qatar?"
"Yes. PNW Nitro's jet just took off." She walks into my workroom and picks up an unfinished red satin corset. It’s for myCherry Bombroutine. "Beautiful work. You're talented." She examines my costumes with genuine interest.
"Thanks."
"Pack this too." She means the corset. "And anything else you're working on. The hotel suite has a lounge area you can use as a workspace."
I start throwing clothes into my suitcase — a jean jumpsuit, blouses and pants, a cute polka-dotted 1940’s dress, shoes, stilettos, and underclothes. I grab my travel sewing kit, the half-finished red corset, and a blue velvet gown. Branca finds my toiletry bag, chargers, and computer bag before I even think to look for them. Obviously, she’s done this before.
