“I’ve never done anything like this.” I’d been babbling ever since Jeremy left the room, leaving me alone with Richard and King. Surprisingly both men simply sat and listened. They didn’t make faces or interrupt. “I have no idea how a logo is created or what plan of action should be put in place. I don’t even know how long stuff like this takes!”

I couldn’t tell if I was more flustered by my sudden uptick in responsibilities or that I’d be working closely with King—the guy who made my lady bits ache, my heart skip beats. He gave me the nervous sweats.

“Do you feel better now?” Richard smiled kindly. He really was a very nice guy and a great boss. Who else would take the time to teach his employees how to be better at their job? Good bosses, that’s who.

“Why did you guys let me babble like that?” It was cathartic while I was doing it but now I just felt ridiculous.

Again.

What was with today? Was it Ridiculous Day? Was there a full moon or some sort of gravitational pull in the sign of Scorpio?

King cocked his head slightly to the side. “Because when you’re overwhelmed it helps to let it out. Just be grateful you’re doing it in a conference room and not on the track like I do.”

That was the moment I knew I’d never want to do anything on live television. This was embarrassing enough. To have it recorded and shown over and over again for years? The idea made me nauseous.

“Look,” Richard leaned forward. “You don’t have to worry about any of that stuff. It’s why I’ll lead this entire process. You’ll be the brains while I make it happen, and King here will make it work.” He patted King on the shoulder.

King did not seem to enjoy the physical contact. His gaze slid back to me. “Your plan is good and that’s all that really matters.”

“But experience matters too!” Even I could see I was overly hung up on this particular nuance. I was a twenty-two-year-old grad student, not an eighteen-year-old freshman. I had the knowledge, the skill, and this was all my freaking idea. I just never had to put anything into action before.

“Maybe you’re right,” King mused, “I’m the second youngest guy on the circuit. I take shit day-in and day-out for my youth and inexperience. I can’t have someone shaping my brand who doesn’t believe in me.” His eyes glittered with challenge.

And dammit all, I rose to it. “That isn’t what I said.”

“Ah. But you did. You said you didn’t have the experience despite being totally qualified. Like me.”

He was twisting my words to make a point. A good point, but still. “Fine, it’s not my age or experience that’s the problem.”

His eyebrows rose. “Then what is the problem?”

I fidgeted. Twisted my fingers together. Looked anywhere but at his challenging brown eyes. When I didn’t think they’d let me sit silently another moment I blurted, “Because I don’t belong here!”

King and Richard glanced at each other, then back at me. “I’m not sure I understand,” Richard said very slowly.

I took a chance and looked at King. Gorgeous King in all his glory. He was probably about to become the best driver in history . . . if Braun-Evans would put their effort behind him. He was too talented. He fit in this world of fast cars, technology, and money.

I did not.

So I took a deep breath and tried to explain. Unfortunately I was the kind of talker who used her hands. A lot. The next few sentences might as well have been given in sign language. “I’m a researcher. I study things. I accumulate data and look at it for hours and then have someone else look at it for hours and then debate that person about the results . . . for hours. I write up results and delve into the potential meaning of the observed data. My classes are in a basement.” I waved around the glass room of light. “I don’t know how to operate in this world.”

Richard continued to frown but, if I wasn’t mistaken, King understood. There was a crinkle between his brows that people generally get when they’re putting two-and-two together. Plus he leaned into his hand and scrubbed it over his stubble. “That’s all?”

Not exactly the words I was hoping to hear. You’re fired. Go back to your cubicle and update clicks. We’ll take it from here. All acceptable answers.

King saying, “That’s all,” confused me.

Even more so when he kept talking. “You can’t hide in the Ivory Tower of academia forever. I know it’s scary here and pretty cutthroat but give it a shot. I’ll help. Please?”

Help? How on earth . . . “I’m sorry, what?”

He sat forward, his eyes lighting up with excitement. “I’ll be your guide; walk you through it all. I know how hard it is to find your place in Braun-Evans. While you and Richard make your plans a reality, I’ll work on your acclimatization into the racing culture.” His eyes glittered. “Consider it an ethnography of racing.”

Ethnography? How the hell did King even know that word? And was it really, really dismissive of me to assume he wouldn’t know? Probably. I knew he was smart but understanding the particulars of a specific area of study like anthropology would be a stretch for anyone.

Case in point: the very next thing out of Richard’s mouth. “What the hell is an ethnography?”

“An on-the-ground study of a culture,” King replied without looking away.

I blinked, almost positive I was still asleep. Jess’s paper ball was fake. Jess was fake. This whole meeting was a figment of my imagination.

And then King touched my hand, sending an electric jolt up my arm, disproving everything.

Oh, I was awake. I was very, very awake.

“Fine,” he sighed, “I’ll beg. Isabel, please do this. It’s my entire future and right now the only people I have in my corner that I can trust are you two and my chief strategist. Everyone else is looking out for themselves. I can race the wheels off my car, I can out-drive everyone else, but if I don’t make a mark by the end of this season—on and off the track—my future stops here.” He still had a finger on top of my hand, which was weird but also delightful.

Richard didn’t seem to notice because he sat back in his cushy conference chair to pinch the bridge of his nose. “King is right. As far as the team is concerned he’s got one year to prove he’s worth the money. If he doesn’t they’ll replace him with another driver with potential.”

For some reason that made the breath catch in my lungs. It was so . . . harsh. My fate was generally in my own hands. It was research. How hard I worked, how well I interpreted information, even how eloquently I wrote it up, was all in my control. But for King, most of it was out of his hands. He couldn’t control how well Yedlin raced or the efforts of his engineering team, just as he couldn’t will the management or team owners to want him.

All he had was his own ability on the track and a chance to win over the fans. And even then . . . the owners might not care.

“But surely another team would pick you up?”

King smiled but it was the sad kind. The you-really-don’t-get-it look of exhaustion. “It’s possible, but remote.”

Richard mirrored him. “King’s too talented not to land somewhere, but it might not be in F1.”

Once upon a time I had a fantasy where two men were begging me. I did not think this was how it would play out in reality. “Fine. I’ll stop freaking out about this. But the minute you realize you’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake please feel free to fire me.”

“It’s not a mistake,” King said, his fingers grazing from the back of my hand to the inside of my wrist. For the briefest of moments it felt like he was touching me everywhere all at once. “You’ll see.”