[**ON HIATUS**]
Noah Wood is a Mercedes driver. Scrappy, charming, and far too handsome, Noah is one of the best drivers on the grid. But a newcomer is threatening to steal his seat, and Noah must win this year's Grand Prix - or risk being booted ou...
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Noah scanned the paddock.
Engineers scurried in and out of garages, wielding tools bigger than their heads. Helmets were jammed on. Reporters were shouting. Umbrellas floated overhead like striped clouds, blocking out some of Bahrain's fierce sunlight. Noah dodged a harried-looking woman carrying a Gatorade, craning his neck.
Not that he was looking for someone.
Definitely not.
Noah took a swig of water, continuing his search through the paddock. Normally, he loved the first race of a season. The excitement. The anticipation. Hell, he even had a good shot at winning today; he'd qualified P3 yesterday, and Mercedes had fixed their engine issues. The odds of him becoming a human flame thrower were looking slimmer and slimmer.
Yes.
Everything was on track.
There was just one problem, Noah thought, rising up on his toes, that could ruin everything. Or rather, one person. Amelia Cartwell was the wild card this season, which was exactly why he wanted to meet her.
So where the hell was she?
"Noah!"
He turned.
A female reporter was hurrying towards him, clutching a microphone. Stacey, Noah recalled; she'd adopted a Pit Bull last year that used to roam around the paddock, wagging its tail and stealing cheese off the snack table when nobody was looking.
He smiled. "Stacey. How's the puppy?"
The reporter's face lit up. "You remembered! She's great. Not a puppy anymore, really; she takes up most of my couch." She angled the microphone towards him. "How are you feeling before the race?"
Noah leaned against a wall. "Hungry."
"For a win?" Stacey asked.
Noah considered this. "For a granola bar, mostly." He fished in his pocket, producing an apple-and-cinnamon bar. "Do you want some?"
Stacey laughed. It was a nice laugh, Noah thought, as far as laughs went; it tipped up at the end, like water sloshing over the rim of a cup. He'd always been attracted to a woman's laugh. Not, he thought hastily, that he was looking for a woman this season. Winning. That had to be the goal. No other distractions allowed.
He sighed.
Speaking of which, where was Cartwell? Surely she had to be in the paddock by now.
Stacey accepted the granola bar. "Do you ever take anything seriously?"
Noah winked. "Who said that was a joke?" A familiar face caught his eye further down the paddock, and he hastily stuffed the granola bar wrapper into his pocket. "Excuse me, Stace. I see someone that I need to annoy."
Noah heard Cedro before he saw him. The Italian driver was saying something about the course conditions to a reporter, gesturing to the track in a way that was so Cedro-like it made Noah smile.
