Fair point.
I laugh at that.
Caleb Collings is typing …
Do you want to know what I think, Isla?
WHY YES, CALEB, YES, I DO.
I reply:
I think you’re going to tell me whether I want to know or not, Caleb.
Caleb Collings is typing …
I’m ignoring that smart remark.
I smile as another message drops in:
I think you need to be told again how much I do not want your gratitude. Meaning I tell you in English but make the argument more persuasive by providing your favourite language of french toast whilst doing it.
My heart stops as I read his words. Is Caleb suggesting what I think he is?
Suddenly my phone rings, and with a jolt, I see Caleb has decided to call me.
OH MY GOD WHY IS THE MAN CALLING ME?
I answer the call, pausing for a brief second to calm myself before speaking.
“Did you get tired of texting?” I manage to ask.
“Yes. I’m about to do this bloody press conference, but my question to you is more important than anything they’re going to ask me.”
OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
I regroup. “Right. Like questions about your coffee order. Only esteemed members of the press pose questions like that to you,” I say smartly.
He chuckles, his voice low and seductive sounding. I swear it’s reverberated through the phone line and right through me, it’s so sensual.
“I told you, I found that question entertaining. I like entertaining.”
So do I,I think as I listen to him.
He clears his throat. “Anyway, here’s my question for you. I obviously didn’t communicate my wishes about gratitudeclearly, as you insist on continuously thanking me, so I need to try again. I will combine my language—English—with your favorite language—french toast—to get the point across.”
I feel my mouth fall open. WHAT? WHAT IS HE ASKING ME?
“Isla,” he says, his voice low and rumbling, “meet me in the paddock tomorrow. And allow me to make myself clear over breakfast.”
Chapter Five
What is this breakfast really about?
And did I do the right thing by saying yes?
My brain is still trying to sort out this puzzle in my head as I walk through the paddock on Friday morning. It’s early, but it’s already buzzing with activity as crews and drivers arrive for the day. After all, there are lots of things going on today. Practice begins at twelve-thirty, and qualifying for the sprint race—a nineteen-lap race that still earns points toward both the Drivers’ and Constructors’ Championships—begins at four.
I suck in an excited breath of air. I still can’t believe I’mhere. I see people with all the different team shirts pass by: Drago. Hoffman. Vipera.