Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73568 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73568 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
I nearly lunge for the machine, knowing that one cup will make me feel better, only to be immediately frustrated by the realization I can’t get to the water with Posey in the bathroom. I’m almost desperate enough to test the lock on the door to see if I can sneak in to grab the necessary life liquid to make me a cup of java.
But then the shower goes silent and I decide to wait it out. I consider lying back down but I’ve always been the type, no matter how bad or hungover I feel, once I’m up, I get going. Caving into weakness is against all I stand for.
My eyes land on the desk near the window, a laptop open on it with a screen saver rotating photos of animals—fuzzy puppies, cute goats, tiny kittens. If I didn’t know this was Posey’s room before, I know it now.
A bit nosy, maybe, but my curiosity gets the better of me. She is, after all, writing an article about Crown Velocity and she’s doing it from the perspective of being at my side. What exactly has she said so far?
I glance back at the bathroom, count on the fact she’s a girl and will take a bit to come out, and without an ounce of shame, quickly tap on the mouse pad to disengage the screen saver.
Bingo… there’s an open document. Her security is abysmal, not even a login required, and well… it’s almost like she just left it out in a public place waiting to be read.
I scan the visible text and quickly discern it’s not a news piece at all, but I’m not quite sure what the hell it is.
The words on the screen jump out at me. “He pulled her closer, his hands roaming her body as she moaned against his lips, the heat between them unbearable…”
Chin jerking inward, only to extend forward so I can get closer to the screen, I frown at the laptop. What the hell is this? I scroll down, skimming over the sentences. It’s not just one scene—it’s a full-blown, spicy-as-hell sex scene. Names I don’t recognize, characters I’ve never heard of. It’s… a story?
“Well, well, well,” I murmur to myself, a grin creeping onto my face. “What cheeky bit of fun is this?”
Straitlaced, all-business with a side of fuzzy puppies Posey Evans writing a sex scene? I glance at the closed bathroom door before scrolling back up, wanting to make sense of it all, and that’s when I see the title: Formula Fling.
That’s when it clicks.
This isn’t an article. It’s a book. A sexy book… I guess what you’d classify as a romance novel. Or maybe it’s erotic literature. I really don’t know the difference and didn’t read enough to make a solid opinion, but a suspicion forms in my mind.
Posey’s not here to write a piece on Crown Velocity or FI at all. She’s writing a damn novel and if the title is any evidence, it’s based on the formula racing world.
And not just any novel—it appears to be a bloody romance novel, with me as her inside man.
I step back from the desk, rubbing my chin as the realization sinks in. My amusement turns into something more like disbelief as I pull out my phone and type into the search bar: Elizabeth Evans.
Yes, that’s how Rosalind first introduced her even though I acted like I didn’t hear it. I’m not the oblivious sort.
I add the words romance author and hit enter.
My eyes roam the results but I can’t see anything that fits. I quickly amend the search to Posey Evans, romance author, and bingo… her profile comes up with a website and what looks to be several listings of books on various retailer sites. I navigate to the website, another quick look at the closed bathroom door, and start reading.
I first take in her professional photo and there’s no doubt she’s incredibly pretty. Not in a sexy, get my dick hard kind of way, but she’s sitting outside on what looks like a porch swing. She’s got on faded jeans, bare feet and a flowing blouse. Her eyes are beautiful as she smiles into the camera, head coyly tilted. No makeup… just freckles and lip gloss.
I glance at the books she’s written. The covers all have shirtless men locked in a passionate embrace with busty women in long gowns. Titles that make me snort.
Un-fucking-believable.
“Priceless,” I murmur, chuckling to myself. “This just got intriguing.”
Somehow, she’s wormed her way into Crown Velocity and as I continue to add things up, I’m guessing she’s no journalist at all. None of the Google results indicate she has anything to do with journalism or sports reporting. She’s just a woman who writes smut and for some reason, this seems like the best thing to have happened to me in ages.