Page 27 of Hot Lap
The internet informed me that Reece drives for PNW Nitro, and the team is based in England. He’s been in Formula One for seven years, since he was twenty. Which makes him three years older than me. Okay, fine, no worries there. But the second video to pop up — some behind-the-scenes show calledPaddock Access— captured him arriving at a racetrack in Japan with a statuesque blonde on his arm.
I saw that and realized I wasnotready to dig deeper. Watching him smile at some rich, glamorous chick just pissed me off more. Especially when the show ID’d her as Peony Jones-Musgrove. I’d briefly considered prying the big fat diamond ring off my finger and dropping it into the nearest toilet.
Instead, I’d closed my laptop and taken a looong nap. Mental health for the win.
Now, I follow Branca through the terminal, using all my years of stagecraft to appear far more put together than I actually am. In reality, my bones are concrete, my brain is dragging ass about three feet behind my body, and the airport lights pierce my eyes like tiny daggers. I've never experienced this epic level of jet lag. The farthest I've ever flown was New York City, and that felt like crossing town compared to this intercontinental odyssey.
Thank god for my massive ’80s sunglasses — the better to hide my bloodshot eyes from the press with, my dear. My mouth tastes like stale champagne and recycled air even though I brushed my teeth twice on the plane.
"Claudia is meeting us." Branca checks her phone with quick, efficient movements. Her gestures are crisp and alert, as if theconcept of jet lag is something that happens to lesser mortals. "She'll manage the situation from here."
How is Branca so damned awake?
"Claudia?" I adjust my purse strap on my shoulder and am grateful for a suitcase with rollers. Unlike Reece’s manager, I wasn't prepared for international travel. Most of my wardrobe consists of hastily grabbed clothes that may or may not be appropriate for a Middle Eastern country.
"She’s the PR lead for PNW Nitro. She handles Reece and Petra Hayter's media."
PR manager. Great. Another person whose job is damage control for myhusband'swild Vegas escapade. I resent being someone'ssituation to manage. Still, I school my expression. I know how to control other people’s impressions of me. I do it nightly on stage. This is just a different performance for a different audience.
We approach the customs area, but instead of lining up with the other passengers, Branca steers me toward a side entrance where a uniformed official and a woman in an elegant green dress wait.
The woman steps forward with an outstretched hand. "Maiken, welcome to Qatar. I'm Claudia Rossi." She’s Italian, maybe mid-thirties, with glossy dark hair and this kind of calm that makes me think she’s never encountered a shitstorm she couldn’t weather. Her handshake is firm but not aggressive.
I like her immediately, and that makes me suspicious of my own judgment. Which, I gotta admit, hasn’t been performing optimally for at least thirty hours.
"Thank you." I feel travel-rumpled next to her polished perfection.
Her smile seems genuine though. "We have expedited clearance. The car is waiting."
The customs official barely glances at my passport before waving us through. Must be nice to have this kind of access just because you're fast on four wheels.
Outside, the air is chillier than I expected, but it’s a desert and it’s late, so duh. I’m thankful for the sweater I packed. Looks like I’ll need it.
Another sleek black SUV waits at the curb. As we approach, I notice a few photographers lingering nearby and some people who must be fans, but they're keeping a respectful distance.
"We won't have the media circus here that you experienced in Las Vegas," Claudia explains as we slide into the back seat.
Branca takes the front passenger seat. "Qatar is more conservative. There are strict rules about public behavior, especially for women. The team will make sure you're briefed on local customs."
As we pull away, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the tinted window. I look exhausted and overwhelmed.
"Long flight?" Claudia sounds sympathetic.
"The longest." I twist the ring on my finger. I've been fidgeting with it since this morning, but I haven't taken it off. Part of me is back to feeling bitchy and wants to chuck it out the window. A saner part is afraid of what will happen if I do. "So what's the plan now? Is there a protocol for someone in my situation?"
"The situation being that you married one of our drivers after knowing him for less than twelve hours?" Claudia’s tone is light, but her eyes are assessing.
I sigh. "That would be the one."
"First, we get you settled at the hotel. Tomorrow morning at eleven, you'll meet with Coy Hayter, the team principal."
"The boss?"
"Yes. He'll discuss any concerns you may have regarding your marriage to Reece." She pauses. "Including options for annulment, if that's what you want."
Annulment.
The word lands like a stone in my stomach, which isn’t what I expected. I turn the ring and glance at her. "Is that what Reece wants?"
