Throttled

Maya

Three months have passed since Santiago signed his new deal with Bandini Racing. I am living with him while he gets ready for the new season, making sure to keep myself busy by starting my vlog. I want to share all my travels while I follow Santi around the world. My computer is jam-packed with research on different things to do in each city while he preps for races. Pride surges through me at my foresight to plan.

I inhale the exotic smell of Melbourne, Australia. All right, the scent lacks the exoticness I had hoped for. A mix of car exhaust and airport fuel wafts through the air since the Outback is a far reach away. Best I’ll get for now. But it seems foreign enough, and I relish in my first experience of visiting a different continent.

Professionals call Santi’s first Prix a “flyaway race.” I made sure to catch up on all the F1 terms because I don’t want fans to think of me as ill-prepared.

I say “G’day mate!” to one of the flight attendants as I exit the plane. A poorly executed slip of the tongue. She doesn’t look amused in the slightest at my poor attempt to crack a joke, so I delete the saying off my phone once I step inside the airport.

I keep a translated list of popular phrases from each country we visit to prevent making myself look like a fool, at least not more than usual. Note to self: double-check what phrases sound stupid.

I stretch my sore legs after a twenty-hour flight from Madrid, my muscles thanking me for the special attention. Santi grabs my luggage off the carousel while I find the Bandini town car.

We get dropped off at the hotel where the team stays. I look around the elegant lobby, distracting myself with a funky art piece while Santi talks to the front desk. He texts his assistant to check each accommodation for two-room suites because he tends to be a needy man-child.

Our suite looks modern and fresh, with a minimalist color palette and a balcony overlooking the track. I throw myself on the living room couch. Comfortable cushions practically swallow me whole like a welcoming hug after a long day.

“I have to go to a couple sponsor meetings before working out kinks in the new car. You’ll be good without me?” His brown eyes gaze down at me as he places a Bandini baseball cap over his head.

“Sure. I have plans for the day anyway. Don’t worry about me.” I shoot him a toothy grin.

“I’ll always worry about you. You are a handful.”

I send him a mock-offended look. “No need to throw around charged words.”

He waves at me over his shoulder before exiting the suite. I throw a pillow at the door as it closes, missing my opportunity by a few seconds.

I take in my surroundings. The suite can’t compare to Santi’s previous digs, our upgrade having a television the size of my bed back home, a dining table fit for eight people, and a large sectional that surrounds me.

After changing into my bathing suit and grabbing my camera, I check out the hotel. My stomach grumbles during my tour, encouraging me to grab a quick bite to eat before I head to the pool. I relax and doze off on a lounge chair, heat from the sun enveloping me like a warm blanket, ta

“I have a press conference today and I want you to come.” Santi walks into my room and plops himself on my bed. His post-practice round makes him a sweaty, sticky mess, with dirty skin contrasting against the white comforter.

“Oh, please come lie on my bed in your sweaty clothes. Make yourself at home.” My voice drips with sarcasm.

He ignores me as he grabs one of the pillows. I continue to put on my makeup, keeping it fresh and light, my go-to look. My skin glows in the mirror after my long ta

He lets out a grunt. “Noah’s an ass and you keep me in check. I won’t be an idiot if you’re there. Please come.” His words distract me, and I stab myself in the eyeball with my mascara wand. Shit. Is there a greater pain than mascara on your eye?

My heart accelerates at the thought of Noah Slade. He’s hot, in a devilishly handsome kind of way. Messy hair so dark it looks black, sharp cheekbones that can shave ice, and lips every woman can envy. I see pictures of him everywhere—ads, commercials, gossip mags. You name it, he’s been on it. Not to mention how my brother has stood at the podium with him multiple times. I may have watched one or twenty times on my TV at home. Hard to resist seeing Noah get showered with champagne on a Prix podium while he beams down at the trophy in his hand.

I let out a sigh. Noah’s the type of guy you don’t bring home to mom; he’s the one you screw around with before you find the guy you finally take home to mom, ensuring her you’ve moved on from your wild ways. His list of past partners happens to be longer than my grocery list and to-do list combined. Gross yet oddly fascinating how women like that.

“You do understand you’re an adult, right? How on earth do I keep you in check?”

“Because I won’t say anything too nasty for my sister’s ears.” He bats his long, dark lashes at me in a ridiculous gesture that softens my heart. Damn him and his goofiness. I fall for it every single time, a victim to Santi’s boyish ways.

“Your i

He throws a pillow straight at my face, smudging my mascara even more.

“Ugh, you’re messing up my makeup! Fine, I’ll go. But get off my bed. Now.”

He hops off my bed triumphantly because I fell for his plan. Hook, line, and sinker.

“See you later. I’ll send up someone to grab you when it’s time.” He taps away at his phone.

“The things I do for you. I’ll try not to fall asleep on the side of the panel, but no promises.”

He lets out a deep laugh. “F1 panels are juicy. You’ll enjoy it, I know it.” He leaves with a smile plastered on his face. I can’t tell if he means to be serious when he rubs his hands together like an evil genius. Shady side eye included.

I wrap up getting ready. An attendant shows me the way to the press conference area where my brother waves at me from the panel table. My grin mirrors his own. Warmth fills my heart at seeing him up there living his dream, wearing signature scarlet Bandini gear—everything he’s wanted since he was a kid.

I snap a quick picture for my Instagram story. Hate to break it to the thirsty females out there, but I’m his number-one fan. After fiddling with my phone, I glance up at the panel, my eyes meeting Noah’s blue ones—a strikingly beautiful color framed by dark lashes and brows. His plump lips turn down as he checks me out. My body heats at his appraisal, aware of the beautiful human in front of me because I’m dumb not blind. I find it impossible to calm my racing heart, thumping against my rib cage, as I take him in. Fuck me. I don’t think I’ve ever thought of a guy as gorgeous until now.

He rakes a hand through his thick, unruly strands. His hair looks like he continuously runs his fingers through the locks all day. Corded arms lay on the table, revealing tan skin and large hands, taking my mind to dirty places. Noah’s lean kind of muscular is ideal for racing. Shit, the kind of muscular perfect for fucking against a door, in a shower, or on a counter. Vivid images fly through my head of Noah in compromising positions. My body hums with excitement at the sight of Noah smirking at me, my lower half clearly not understanding the difference between danger and lust. Turns out press conferences offer more eye candy than I thought.