[**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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"I'm not saying he's an arsehole," Amelia said. "I'm just saying that he behaves like one."
She jerked her head to the left. The green resistance band stretched, and the right side of her skull groaned in protest. What rep was this? Ten? Twelve? Fifty? She'd lost count. Which was just as well, Amelia thought; there was nothing worse than going to the gym and knowing how much more you had to suffer.
She relaxed. Her personal trainer tapped her on the shoulder.
"Five more," he said. "We're going for fifteen."
Amelia widened her eyes. "I thought that was fifteen?"
And Dave — who'd been training her for years, who looked like two London nightclub bouncers glued together — smirked and said, "Nice try, A.C."
Amelia glowered. "I hate you."
"You adore me." Dave reached over to adjust her band. "Now pull."
Amelia pulled.
Agony rippled down her neck. She gritted her teeth, trying to ignore the way sweat was trickling down her spine. This, she thought, had to be the least glamorous part of Formula 1 racing; and she included wriggling out of upside-down cars — covered in oil — in that statement. She turned back to her phone screen.
"Anyway," Amelia continued, "Noah Wood might be the paddock's sweetheart." Pull. "But I'm telling you, he can be a proper knob." Another pull, and Amelia made a noise. She dug her nails into her palm. "What he said to me after the crash—"
"Done," Dave announced.
She half-collapsed against the wall, clutching her neck. Connor — who was flipping pancakes on FaceTime — chuckled.
"What was that last noise?" he asked.
"You sound like a goat," Peter — her eldest brother — added helpfully. "Like a strangled, angry goat."
"No," Ethan said thoughtfully. "I don't think she does."
Her middle brother was shoving laundry into a machine, paying no attention to colour or texture. Amelia shot him a grateful look.
"Thank-you, Ethan."
"I think she sounds like a seal," Ethan continued, chucking in a red shirt. "You know the sound they make when they get stranded on a rock?" He closed the lid. "That's what Ammie sounds like when she's at the gym."
Amelia looked to Joe, half-expecting her youngest brother to join in. But Joe was leaning forward on the sofa, a remote control clutched in his hand. The sound of tyres squealing filled the room. Then again, Amelia thought, Joe rarely chimed into conversation. Her mother used to say that Joe offered his thoughts the way that women wore their most expensive perfume: sparingly, and always with purpose.
A sound went up from Joe's end of the call. There was the whoop of a crowd, and then an Australian voice said, "Get in there, mate!" Amelia half-closed her eyes.
