Page 45 of Hot Lap
“No. He has no business with either team. His ownership is minor and in WolfBett Racing only.”
"Oh.” I bite my lip, then nod. “Okay. Sponsor dinner it is."
"I can have someone from the hotel's salon come up. Help with your hair, makeup... whatever you want." His voice sounds lighter, and I think maybe he’s relieved that I said yes.
I smile, and shake my head even though he can't see me. I’m pretty sure it’s a genuine offer, not a sign of disapproval. "Thanks, but I'm used to doing my own everything."
"Of course. Just want to make sure you have whatever you need."
“What time should I be ready?”
“Seven. Is that doable?”
“Sure.”
“Good. It’s a date then.”
“I guess it is.”
I haul my ass off the floor and look through the clothes Branca arranged for me. I haven’t forgotten what the WAGs said at lunch, but maybe there’s something here I can make my own.
After a few minutes, I settle on a chiffon A-line pale-apricot dress. It has long lantern sleeves that hide the bruises on my wrist, a modest V-neck with a narrow upright collar, and falls to mid-calf. It’s simple, elegant, and flowing, and I can customize the shit out of it. I grab a rich cranberry-colored pashmina and fold it into a wide, obi-like sash to cinch my waist. It adds a pop of color and a bit of my signature flair, turning the otherwise unremarkable dress into something moreme. Paired with delicate gold sandals and a matching clutch, it feels like me:demure enough but with a little boldness, and still appropriate for a sponsor dinner. I hope.
I pull my hair up into a loose, effortless knot at the nape of my neck, letting a few wisps fall to soften the look. For makeup, I go light on the foundation, a soft blush, and a nude lip. My eyes? They’re another story, of course. A smoky, sultry blend of charcoal and plum that makes my dark blue irises pop.
As I lean closer to the mirror to apply the last swipe of mascara, I catch my own gaze and nod. “Okay, that’s pretty, and no one will be offended.”
Except me because I hate having to consider everything I do and wear through that lens.
It’s as I’m putting away my makeup, that I spot the tube of liquid gold eyeliner. Annnd, fuck it. This girlneedssparkle. I can only take so muchdemure.
Reece Pritchard didn’t marry a wallflower.
I apply fake eyelashes and trace the gold eyeliner along my upper lid, then add some to the inner corner of each eye. I put down the liner and lean back.
“Oh, yes, that’s more like it.”
Ready or not, Maiken Lange, here we go.
CHAPTER TEN
Reece standsin front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of his jacket for the third damn time.
This shouldn't matter so much. It’s just a sponsor dinner, small, friendly, low-pressure. He's been to hundreds of these things.
Yet tonight is different.
Mai saidyes.
She didn't ask for an annulment. She didn't slam the door on this crazy marriage. She agreed to let him date her. Backwards as hell, but he'll take it. He’ll take whatever shot she gives him.
Still, a knot of nerves sits in his stomach, like butterflies before a qualifying session when the car’s been difficult all weekend.
This dinner isn't just dinner. It's F1 politics with a capital P. Everyone who matters — Nitro, Telco, and sponsors who write the checks that keep the circus rolling — they'll all be there. Every single guest with eyes on the two of them tonight.
They won't say anything, not openly. But they'll be waiting to see if he screwed up when he married Maiken.
He doesn't want that for her. She's already completely out of her element, thrown into the deep end of a world most peoplespend years learning to survive. He just wants her to enjoy herself. To feel welcome. To know that she matters because of who she is, not because of who she married.
