Page 28 of Hot Lap
Claudia’s brows arch, like she wasn’t expecting me to ask about him. "No. He's been quite clear that he doesn't. However, he won’t fight you if that’s what you choose to do."
"Oh." I stare out the window at the Doha skyline, a collection of futuristic spires against the night sky. It's almost nine p.m. local time and the city is alive with lights. "I don't know what I want."
"Not surprising. It's been a chaotic day for you."
That is an understatement of epic proportions.
"Where’s he now?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
"At the hotel, likely getting in a light workout before going to bed. The team arrived several hours ago, and he needs to reset his body clock to Qatar time as quickly as possible. Race week maintains a strict schedule."
I nod, suddenly aware of how little I know about Formula 1 and what Reece's life actually entails. The spontaneous man who beat me at Mario Kart in Las Vegas seems disconnected from this world of first-class flights and global schedules.
When we arrive at the hotel I’m stunned stupid by what I see. The building is a towering crescent of glass and steel, gleaming like it was carved from light itself. We’re ushered through doors so tall they feel ceremonial, and I’m sure I’m entering a temple for the absurdly rich. Inside, the air is cool, filtered, and expensive. The gleaming marble lobby stretches wide. I look up and stare at a glittering cut-gem ceiling. Embedded lightspulse gently within its geometric patterns, and I’ve never seen a building so breathtaking.
A scent wraps around me, jasmine edged with citrus. The lighting is low and buttery, casting soft gold over mirrored walls and plush velvet seating. There’s no music, but there is sound — the hush of a hidden waterfall, the murmur of clipped accents, the whisper of wheels on polished stone.
Staff materialize without a word. Their uniforms are so crisp they look starched into submission, their smiles rehearsed but not fake. One lifts my carry-on before I can protest.
I don't belong here, but I’m not being asked to leave either. It’s a weird feeling for the little girl whose bed was her granny’s old couch and who never had a bedroom until the day she rented her own apartment.
Claudia hands me a key card. "You're in room 2418. Reece is in 2420, with connecting doors." If she notices that I’m overwhelmed, she’s kind enough to say nothing.
I look at the card, then her. "Adjoining rooms?"
"He thought you might appreciate your own space, given the unusual circumstances. The team has the entire floor."
"So I won't be sharing a room with my husband?" I'm not sure if I'm relieved or offended.
"That's entirely up to you. The connecting doors can be unlocked from either side." Claudia's expression remains neutral; god she’s good. "Reece insisted you have the option of privacy."
Of course he did. Mr. Perfect Gentleman, even when he's brought me halfway around the world after a drunken Vegas wedding and an abrupt introduction to his asshole father.
"Fine. Anything else I need to know tonight?" Exhaustion makes me a little bitchy, and not even the splendor of this hotel can dull my edge.
"Your credentials and a team information packet are in your room. Take the credentials whenever you leave. Feel free to order anything you need from room service. It’s covered by the team." She checks her watch. "I'll come for you at ten forty-five tomorrow for the meeting with Coy. Dress is business casual."
"I'll wear my Sunday best," I mutter, earning a small smile from Claudia.
"Get some rest, Maiken. Things will seem clearer in the morning."
I doubt it, but I nod anyway.
A bellhop takes me to my room. It’s a suite with soaring arches, velvet upholstery, and more gold accents than Liberace’s underwear. There’s a separate living area, a bathroom bigger than my entire apartment, and floor to ceiling curtains that must be hiding a helluva view. Right now though, I'm too tired to admire any of it.
I drop my bags and immediately spot the closed adjoining door.
Is Reece really asleep on the other side, or is he avoiding me?
Which is worse?
My phone buzzes with an incoming video call from my mother. I'd texted Frankie from the airport when we landed, promising to explain everything.
I kick off my shoes and collapse onto the massive bed, answering the call.
Frankie's face fills the screen, her expression a mixture of worry and fury. At thirty-eight, my mother still looks young enough that people often mistake us for sisters. Right now, she looks like a very pissed-off older sister as she yells, "YOU FUCKING GOTMARRIED?"
"Hello to you too." I try for casual, but I just sound raspy and exhausted.
