I swallow. And the goal for myself?
To not end up with a ridiculous crush on him afterward.
I check in, and then I’m on the elevator up to my room, with my bags soon to follow behind. I can’t wait to sleep. I don’t sleep well on airplanes, and I’ve been running on airport Starbucks and protein bars.
Once my bags are brought up, I take a moment to text everyone who needs to know my whereabouts. My mom and dad, of course. Then Hadleigh, who told me I’m to video document everything so she can live this experience with me. I contact the producer for The Downforce Network, who replies and tells me everything is a go for tomorrow. They rent a villa here at the resort every year for the race—it’s used to entertain their elite advertisers and top executives. I have it for a few hours on Thursday afternoon, and my videographer and sound person will meet me there prior to the interview.
I sink down on the edge of the bed. Now I have to send one more text before I can unpack, change into a T-shirt and shorts, slap on my eye mask, and hopefully fall into a deep sleep.
I open up my contacts and stop on Caleb Collings. I ignore how my heart speeds up as I see his name. I mean, I’m tired. Exhaustion is more at play here than having a stupid reaction to his name.
Yes. This is exactly what is at play here.
I type a message to him:
Hey, just wanted to let you know I’ve arrived in Italy. The Downforce Network put me up at the same resort where we’ll have our interview, so I have a lovely room to sleep in and I’m looking forward to it. I’ll check in with Catherine tomorrow to reconfirm all the details.
Then I hit send.
Caleb and I haven’t texted since Miami. In fact, all of my conversations about the interview have been with Catherine. He simply asked that I let him know once I made it to Bologna, and I told him I would.
Hmm. Maybe he’s changed his mind about being interested in me. Like he left Miami on a high with a third-place finish and once he got on the Collings Motors private plane, he realized he had been talking crazy all week to the American content creator, and has decided to go back to having complete focus on the track. Caleb’s only doing the interview because he’s nice and wants to help me—and he committed to it.
That’s it.
So if that’s exactly what I want, why do I feel weird about it? Whenever I think of Caleb—and his interest in me—I get this exhilarating roller-coaster feeling inside. It’s a mixture of excitement and danger. It’s the thrill of someone like Caleb being interested in more than my looks. It’s knowing he keepshimself so tightly wrapped in secrecy and mystery and he’s willing to give me a peek inside.
Just me.Nobody else.
I shouldn’t think about him outside of the interview. Caleb is—and always will be—off limits if I want a career in F1.
So there’s the danger I feel.
Because I can’t stop thinking about him.
I put my phone on the nightstand and notice a card propped up next to the lamp. Ooh! It’s a pillow-butler service. I pick up the card and read. If I don’t like the pillows I have, I can call guest services and have a different type brought up. Firm, down, down alternative … whatever I need, the pillow butler will make it happen.
Okay. I might be thinking of Caleb a lot, but I have to admit, this whole pillow-butler thing is a great distraction.
Pillow butlers. Who knew that existed as a profession?
As I lay the card down next to my phone, an idea strikes me. Ooh! That would make for an interesting story. I wonder if I could interview him or her and use that as part of my travel content for my YouTube channel. I’ll ask about it tomorrow. Or whenever I wake up.
I’m about to reach over and inspect the pillows on my bed to see if I’m satisfied with the current ones dressed in crisp white cases and propped against the plush gray headboard when my phone buzzes. I glance over at it.
Caleb has messaged me back.
Despite the danger, despite reality, and despite the fact that his interest in me might very well have been left trackside in Miami, my heart jumps to life inside my chest upon seeing his name lit up on my screen. I eagerly pick up my phone and tap open his message:
Aren’t you posh? I’m in a motorhome. Practically roughing it compared to you.
I situate myself against the pillows and grin as I reply:
Something tells me your motorhome is as posh as my resort. Then again, you probably don’t have a pillow butler there. I might be winning.
My teasing aside, I know his motorhome is like a posh condo on wheels. In doing my research about the Emilia-Romagna Grand Prix, I know a lot of drivers stay in super-expensive motorhomes near the track. They have twenty-four-hour security, too.
An immediate reply comes from Caleb: