[**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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"You're not Cedro," Noah said.
It was, he realized in retrospect, a very dumb thing to say; of course she wasn't Cedro. Amelia Cartwell looked absolutely nothing like a 5'9 Italian man with rosy cheeks and a penchant for cotoletta alla valdostana. Standing in front of her burning car, a hand on her hip, she looked like... Like...
Well.
Very pissed off, at the moment.
She strode towards him, helmet tucked under her arm. Brown hair spilled around her flushed face, and her green eyes were narrowed. Not, Noah thought, that he could really see her eye colour from this distance, but he'd stalked her Instagram once.
Okay, twice.
Three times maximum.
"You hit me!" Amelia said.
Noah blinked. Later, he would think of several good responses — technically, I hit your car, or you can't deny that we really have a spark — but as it was, he looked at the ridiculously attractive brunette glaring up at him and said, "What?"
What.
That was it. One word. Four letters.
Noah half-closed his eyes. He was glad that Matthew and Cedro weren't here to witness this; if the boys ever saw the infamously charming Noah Wood at a loss for words like this, he'd never live it down. Never.
Amelia crossed her arms. "Let me guess. You didn't check your rearviews, tried to move left, realized Carr was there and then swerved right."
Incredulity filled him. "You didn't leave me any room."
Amelia snorted. "It's called racing, Wood. It's not a goddamn escalator in a London tube station." She flicked her hair over her shoulder. Actually, Noah thought, flicked was the wrong word — it was far too delicate to describe how Amelia moved. 'Aggressively shoved' might be better. "Well, go on then."
Noah raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Apologize."
She was still crossing her arms, one foot tapping against the asphalt. The burning car was a bonfire behind her. Not that Amelia seemed to care, Noah thought in exasperation; he'd seen people sunbathing on Byron Beach look more distressed.
Noah blew out a breath. "I didn't come here to apologize. I came to make sure that you were alright."
Her expression didn't change. "You thought I was Cedro, didn't you?"
"I would have checked on you anyway." It was the truth.
Amelia made a noise. "Right."
Irritation pricked at him. "I would have."
"Okay."
"Jesus." Noah rocked back on his heels. "What's your issue with me?"
"My issue," Amelia said slowly — deliberately — "is that you fucked my car."
