[**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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Blood roared in his ears.
Noah blinked. Blinked again. The image of Amelia Cartwell didn't vanish: she was reclining on the massive pillowed bed, her face flushed and green eyes bright, and her hand... the way her hand was positioned under the covers...
His entire mouth was dry.
Fuck. Was he so drunk that he was hallucinating? That must be it. Because there wasn't a chance, Noah thought, that he would accidentally stumble across Amelia Cartwell getting herself off two weeks after they almost slept together. Surely — surely — the world wasn't that cruel.
"Wood." Amelia's voice was terse. "Would you mind... er...?"
Oh. Oh.
"Shit!" Noah slapped a hand over his eyes, pedalling backwards. "Shit, sorry. I didn't realize..." Every part of him felt like it was burning up, and he groped blindly for the door. "I'll just, ah, leave. Now."
Noah found the door handle. Twisted. Walked into a shelf. Pain radiated across his temple, and he swore, massaging his skull.
"That's a supply closet," Amelia offered helpfully.
"Right."
Noah changed direction, peeking through his fingers. Amelia was watching him, her eyebrow raised. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was wearing an oversized white top that read "Girls Don't Like Boys, Girls Like (Driving) Cars and (Making) Money!" One tanned leg peeked out from the bedsheets; her toes were painted green.
Every part of him felt too tight for his skin.
"Right," Noah repeated, his hand on the door handle. "So... goodnight."
Amelia looked almost amused. "Goodnight."
Noah stepped through the door that adjoined their bedrooms, closing it behind him. Then he leaned against the wood, closing his eyes. His breathing was ragged. Fuck. Fuck. Had that really just happened? Had he really just walked in on Amelia...?
Yes.
Yes, he had.
Noah crossed to the marble sink, splashing cold water on his face. His reflection stared back at him: cropped brown hair, blue eyes, angular jaw. It was strange, Noah thought, to see himself without a Mercedes baseball cap on; the top half of his face was paler than the bottom, usually shielded from the sun.
Noah moved to the bed. Stood. Paced to the fireplace, then stared into the empty grate. He glanced at the adjoining door.
What was Cartwell even doing in there? Had she switched off the light and gone to bed? Was she reading a book? Or was she... was she...?
Noah groaned, smacking his forehead against the mantle.
He'd never get to sleep tonight. Maybe that was her plan, Noah thought, raising his head. Maybe Amelia intended to drive him mad with sleep deprivation so that he lost the race. If so, it was a brilliant move. Solid strategy.
