Daytona International Speedway…
So that’s him.
The famous racecar driver, Johnny “Boy” Jones.
The dark tousled hair, the iconic grin, the deep blue eyes.
I should’ve known the man would be even sexier in person than in his photos. He practically oozes masculinity.
I’ve never been into car racing. In fact, this is the first time I’ve ever been to a race or even seen one on television.
I have to admit though, the race today was something else.
I never would’ve dreamed I could spend an entire afternoon watching cars drive around and around the same track without being bored out of my mind.
For the first time, I can see the appeal for the hundreds of thousands of race fans who religiously follow the sport.
Making the decision to sponsor a racing team is exactly what Kitty Kat Kibble needs to propel itself into the main consumer market as a major cat food player this year.
When I look up into the crowd of fans, all I see is new customers who we need to educate about our products.
Mr. Jones is making his way toward me now through the crowd. He certainly looks happy to see me.
Maybe he’s already been told that we’re his new racing team sponsor. Our first meeting might go better than I expected, which would be a huge relief.
Truth is, I’d been dreading meeting the racecar drivers.
Switching off sponsors must be stressful for them. Having a new boss always is.
“I haven’t seen you here in the pits before,” he says when he reaches my side.
His eyes slide up and down my body with male appreciation.
“This is my first time at a race,” I say, “and it was almost as great as they told me it would be.”
His brow raises at me.
“Almost? Were you here for the whole race? Didn’t you see that stunt I pulled near the end? The crowd was going nuts.”
Remembering the excitement that sliced through me as Johnny pulled an insane last-minute move to cut off the lead driver, I nod with a little laugh.
“My heart actually stopped beating for a second there,” I say.
He steps in closer, so close that I can almost feel his breath on my hair.
“Giving everyone a thrill is what I’m here for, baby. Even you, if you’re interested.”
It suddenly occurs to me that he obviously doesn’t have a clue who I am.
Oh no.
As his eyes run over me once more, I wonder if this is the time to point out that I’m his new boss. And therefore, not someone he should call “baby.”
“What’s your name?” Johnny continues, “And why haven’t we met before?”
I resist the urge to smile.
Mr. Jones’s cockiness is legendary, along with his long history of being a ladies’ man with a different woman on his arm every race.
“Summer Stanley,” I say, “I’m only here for work.”
“Ah,” Johnny says, sweeping his arm around me, “listen up then Summer. I’ve recently had what you might call some very bad news and I could use a little cheering up. You want to help a poor fellow like me out? Maybe join me later while I drown my sorrows?”
“Didn’t I just see you win the race?” I ask, wondering what could be so bad to ruin his fantastic win.
“You sure did,” he answers, “But winning isn’t everything. Actually, I should take that back. Winning is everything. Unfortunately, the news I received has totally ruined my party mood.”
“I hope something hasn’t happened to your family,” I say, already imagining a million different bad scenarios.
He waves a hand at me. “No, nothing like that,” he says, “My racecar team sponsorship has been bought out by a stupid cat food company. Can you believe that shit? The world gets crazier every day.”
He keeps talking without noticing my glare.
“My buddies and I always go out after a race and have a big feast. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if a pretty girl like you joined us.”
He gives me a big wink.
“What do you say?” he continues, “Want to meet me in thirty minutes at the press box? I should be finished giving interviews by then. If you have any sexy friends with you, feel free to bring them along. We’ll find a place at the table for them too.”
I realize this is supposed to be the offer of the century.
“Sorry,” I say smoothly, trying to keep the snark out of my tone, “as the Vice-President of Kitty Kat Kibble, I need to always be on my A-game. I don’t party. I have press interviews of my own to give. In fact, I’m running a little late for one of them now.”
It takes a few seconds for the cold, hard truth to dawn in Johnny’s intense blue eyes.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on,” he says, gaping at me, “you’re the owner of… that thing?”
He points a finger at our banner, the one I brought and set up myself.
“I am,” I say simply, smiling politely up at him.
Johnny shakes his head.
“You’re the company who bought out my racing team sponsorship?”
“I am,” I say, “And I’d highly recommend that as your sponsor you don’t go publicly bad mouthing us. It’s not good for our image or for you.”
The second part of what I said came out bitchier than intended. I’m protective of Kitty Kat Kibble. My dad and I have worked hard to build up the company and I’m proud of it.
If Johnny Jones wants a manly engine oil sponsor that isn’t my problem. My money spends as good as theirs.
Johnny’s lips twitch, working from one side to the other, as if deciding whether to scowl or smirk.
“My bad, but you have to admit your logo really is ridiculous.”
He gestures at his racing suit.
“Can you imagine wearing this with a big, white fluffy cat on it? It wouldn’t fit my bad boy image. You know what I mean?”
I don’t return his smile.
“Seriously though,” he says, “I don’t have a problem with your company. I’m sure it’s a great cat food. What if we just put the name in a small black font, maybe on our sleeve or something? Or even on a hat? I could do that. No problem. I’m easy to work with.”
Glaring at him, I shake my head.
“The company logo is how our customers recognize us,” I say. “We’ve done numerous focus groups to establish this fact.”
Johnny’s eyebrows dip in a V formation. His voice lowers to a furious slowness.
“Let me get this straight. You’re saying that you’re going to make me and my team wear a stupid fat white cat on our racing suits?”
“The cat isn’t fat, it’s poofy,” I snap back, “I would know, she’s my Dad’s cat.”
“I don’t give a damn who the fat cat belongs to,” Johnny snarls, “there’s no way in hell I’m going to be wearing that logo.”
“As your new boss, I don’t think you have a choice,” I say coolly, taking a step back from him.
Right now, it’s taking all my composure to avoid raising my voice and yelling at him. I had my suspicions that Jones was a jerk, but not to these outrageous proportions. I need to establish right away who is the boss here or he’ll run right over me.
At the word “boss,” Johnny’s eyes narrow further.
“What you’re saying is that you are now my boss.”
He keeps repeating everything back to me. Is he slow in the head?
“You got it,” I reply in a sugary-sweet tone.
Leaning over the Kitty Kat Kibble duffel bag on the grass beside me, I rifle inside until my hand finds a folded, pink cotton t-shirt. I toss it to him.
“You can start by giving your press interviews today wearing this,” I say. “Welcome to our team.”
Johnny unfurls and holds the pink shirt as if it’s infested with lice. Finally, he angrily throws it back at me.
“No fucking way, sweetheart. Not in this lifetime.”
He turns and storms off without another word.
I watch him go, not realizing that I’ve angrily balled up the t-shirt in my hand. Gingerly, I shake it out and fold it carefully before tucking it back into the bag.
The next time I look up, Johnny is out of sight. My lips tighten into a determined line.
Screw Johnny Jones.
We’ll see what my dad has to say about this.