Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73568 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73568 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
This could actually be quite fun.
The doorknob rattles behind me and I jump away from the desk, practically throwing myself down on the settee. Posey steps out, her hair wet, dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I glance at the laptop and it’s still got her manuscript showing, the screen saver not having activated yet.
Her eyes come to me and I get a censuring look of disapproval but she remains silent.
I’m up for a bit of a fight though. “What?” I demand.
Lips flattened, she shakes her head as if disappointed. “Your behavior last night was abysmal. You were so drunk you couldn’t tell me where you lived and I had to cart you up here to pass out on my couch. Your job is to help me learn this sport over the next few weeks, not follow you around on drunken expeditions. I’m going to have to insist that doesn’t happen again or else I’ll have to write about that.”
It’s a threat.
It’s cute and without teeth.
I shake my head, smiling knowingly. “Is that so? You’re going to write about it in your article?” I use air quotes around the term article and that causes her to narrow her eyes at me.
Posey’s gaze slides from me to the laptop and she freezes as the color drains from her face when she takes in her novel on the screen. She knows I’ve seen it.
“Okay, look,” she starts, her voice shaky. “Before you say anything—”
“I’m not gonna say anything,” I cut her off, my tone low and amused. “But you’re the one who’s got some explaining to do, don’t you think?”
She crosses her arms, glaring at me, trying to put on a brave face. “I don’t know what you think you know, but—”
“I know you’re not a journalist,” I say, grinning like the cat that caught the mouse. I mean, I don’t know that with absolute certainty, but it’s a good bet. “You’re an author. A romance author, to be exact. At least judging by that sexy scene I read on your computer.”
She blinks, stunned, then tries to recover. “So what if I am?”
“So what?” I laugh. “You blagged your way into one of the top teams in Formula International by pretending to be a journalist, and now you’re writing a bloody romance novel about it?”
She doesn’t answer, just glares at me, her jaw clenched. I can tell she’s scared, but I’m impressed she’s got a straight backbone going. I’m not about to let her off that easy.
“How long did you think you could keep this up?” I ask, still smug. “You must’ve known you’d get caught eventually.”
“I didn’t… I didn’t think it would matter,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, I write romance but I make a good living at it. I want to write a romance about formula racing.”
“But why?” I ask, brows furrowed because it seems ridiculous.
She sighs in exasperation. “Because sports romance is big and I think there could be a market for FI racing. I started watching that documentary—”
I grin broadly. “Oh, yeah… always fun filming that.”
“Yes, you clearly come across as wanting to have fun,” she replies dryly. “But I really started liking the sport. Started watching all the races, read articles, watched interviews. It’s fascinating and I thought it would be a great sport to weave with romance. But I want authenticity and accuracy in my work. I’m not just some hack, you know. I needed to see it all firsthand.”
“Right. Firsthand,” I repeat, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “You know, I could have you thrown out of here. Tell Harley, tell the team. Your little scam would be over.”
Posey’s eyes widen, panic flashing across her face. “No! Please, don’t.”
I raise an eyebrow, waiting for her to explain. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because…” She takes a deep breath, struggling to find the words. “Because I’m not here to hurt anyone. I’m just trying to write a book, and I needed to learn about the sport. I want it to be the best book possible. That’s all.”
“So why lie about it?”
“Because…” She looks around, almost helpless, before her eyes come back to me. “No one takes romance seriously. I would’ve been laughed at if I’d reached out for behind-the-scenes privileges to write a romance novel. But I knew posing as a journalist would give me the credibility I need.”
Makes sense.
“And just how did you fake it?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I honestly thought I’d be found out. I didn’t do much other than write an email using my legal name of Elizabeth Evans, said I was a freelance sportswriter. Harley called me directly and I’m guessing she liked my pitch so much, she didn’t bother to check me out.”
I nod thoughtfully. “Harley is big on handing out opportunity. She was given the biggest when offered this job and she pays it forward.”