Page 40 of Spin Control

My stomach plummets as I understand what this favor is. “You want me to go.”

“I wouldn’t ask it of you if there were anyone else stateside.”

I close my eyes and grit my teeth as a large portion of my Todd-free days with Jane are ripped away from me. But, duty calls.

“I understand,” I say. “Send me the details and I’ll be there.”

I hang up and look at Jane.

“What happened?” she asks.

I sigh. “Wes fucking Grant.”

18

Elizabeth Jacobs is the last person I expected to fill in for a PR handler.

But here she is, in the lobby of this hotel, wearing a black pantsuit and those sexy-as-hell glasses, with her hair slicked back in a ponytail.

And here I am, dumbstruck.

“Good morning, Wes,” Jack Carmichael says. A tall, lean, white man in his 50s with a close-shaven head, the Martine aerodynamicist is unassuming in a way that only the most brilliant people I’ve met are.

I was surprised when he invited me to attend this conference with him and the senior R&D leads. It’s a high-profile event where the brightest minds in engineering come together annually to present findings, publicly poke holes in their rivals’ latest theorems, and, of course, network. I always keep up with the news that comes out of this conference, but I never thought I’d attend. Now here I am, walking into a day where I’m going to be interviewed for an article in a science journal and will sit on a panel about the application of thermodynamics in F1.

I’ve never done this sort of work before. I’ve never been asked to talk about the science of racing in detail. To say I’m nervous is an understatement.

“Morning, Elizabeth,” Jack says after we’ve crossed the lobby to her. “Thanks for making it on such short notice.”

“Of course,” she says. “I understand that we have a very full day ahead of us.”

“We do, indeed,” Jack says with a smile.

And with that, our very full day begins. Thankfully, the first interview is a breeze. Part of me thought this science writer might try to stump me to get a headline like, “F1 Driver Does Not Have Basic Understanding of Physics,” but she was incredibly kind and we had a genuinely great conversation.

The experience gave me confidence. Though I was still nervous about the panel and facing an entire room full of literal geniuses, luckily, it went off without a hitch. Most of the questions were for our R&D team, but I was able to answer the ones that came my way with ease.

By the time I’m at the networking drinks, I’m more relaxed, though still low-key intimidated by the company I’m in—and Jack seems to know everyone. When he introduces me to the MIT physicist who authored the aerodynamics paper that inspired our thermal upgrade, it’s all I can do to remember how to speak. I didn’t even realize I could feel starstruck anymore.

Eventually, I look around for Elizabeth. She’s been quiet today, sticking to the back corner of rooms while she takes notes, snaps photos, and records videos—as if she’s the kind of person who could ever escape notice. She was with us when we walked in here, but at some point she melted into the crowd.

I wonder if she left. But no—she wouldn’t leave us here when we could be approached by enterprising journalists or fucking Elio Rocca. Not that he would deign to attend something like this. There are too few people donning Loro Piana and the title of CEO.

I finally spot her in the sea of people near the bar, and make my way over. Maybe we can go somewhere quiet so I can apologize properly. But as I get closer, it’s obvious something isn’t right. Her posture is rigid, her fists are clenched, and her gaze is fixed on a blond man with a square jaw in a navy suit—who is leaning toward a pretty redhead, his hand cupped around her elbow.

My gut twists. I know next to nothing about Elizabeth’s personal life. She doesn’t wear a ring, but that doesn’t mean she’s single. She’s never mentioned a partner, but I’ve also never asked. With the way she’s staring daggers at this guy, it seems she’s just caught her man red-handed.

The thought makes me simultaneously irate, disappointed, and thrilled.

“Jacobs,” I say, sidling up beside her. “You look like you’re about to defenestrate someone.”

“I am,” she says through gritted teeth, her voice lower and harder than I’ve ever heard it.

“Need any help?”

I expect a grin or, at the very least, a lip twitch of amusement. But Elizabeth is the kind of mad that completely erases a sense of humor. “No.”

She walks purposefully over to the man and woman. I know I should keep my distance, but I follow her anyway, finding a spot at the bar on the other side of the redhead.