Chapter One
Charlotte
I’ve never really been a team player. Yeah, I get that it takes a team to build and maintain a race car. But, in the end, I’m the one hurling my body in an open steel machine, at 200 mph around an asphalt track for three hours.
Donavan Racing is slowly trying to change my mind about the team thing, though. My boss, Colton Donavan, insists we are the elite in the sport. More than that, he claims we are a family. Not that I know what it’s like to have a family, besides my sister, Lilly.
Mr. Donavan is constantly emphasizing that we win as a team and lose as a team. That is why I’m here at this elaborate event. To support my team. My family? That remains to be determined. So far, it’s been…nice being with this particular racing team. It’s taken me some time to get used to, considering the shit I’ve put up with over my career. Racing is clearly a man’s world, and me having a pair of tits and wanting to be taken seriously in the sport has been…a challenge at best.
Deep down, for once in my life, I’m in a good place, ending up with this group of guys. I genuinely believe they have my back. I’m confident we’ll see some victories this upcoming season.
Hopefully, I’ll be the one leading the pack.
Now, if I can find some damn food in this pretentious joint, I’ll be good, because I’m fungry! Fucking hungry! “What the hell am I doing here?” I grumble under my breath, searching frantically around the massive hotel ballroom for one of the waiters I saw earlier, handing out hot hors d’oeuvres. I knew I should have eaten a granola bar before I left the house.
I’ve been at this Corporate Cares charity fundraiser for over an hour, and they haven’t served dinner yet. Do rich people even eat? My stomach’s rumbling like a small car engine, and I’m about to start gnawing on my limbs.
I set down the half empty glass of champagne I’ve been nursing on a nearby service tray. I need some sustenance if I’m going to continue to drink this hoity-toity shit they call booze.
“Canapé?” A petite woman in uniformed tuxedo pants and a black server vest halts in front of me.
“Ooo…sure…what is it?” I survey the tiny puff pastry with grass-like flowers sprouting from the top and scrunch up my nose.
“Wild mushroom voulevant,” she states proudly.
Nope. “No, thank you.” I stroll away with a sigh. I hate mushrooms. I know, I know, hate is such a strong word, but if you’d witnessed the first time my mother fed them to me when I was about seven and experienced my projectile vomiting, you’d totally understand my hostility toward the vile fungus. Don’t try to debate this with me. The ugly toadstool is nothing but a fleshy, spore-bearing organism of fungi. They’re evil.
I tuck the gone rogue lock of hair, which annoyingly continues to fall in my eye, behind my ear. My sleek, jet-black mane is normally pin-straight and wrapped up in a neat ponytail, but Lilly helped style it into soft beach waves for the event.
I know I should relax and try to enjoy this rare night of freedom, but the upper crust here at this charity gala is starting to make me sweat. I don’t know why I shaved the top of my legs for this.
Most of the women here are dressed in long, sparkling designer gowns. I’m fumbling around this stuffy ballroom in a tight black cocktail dress with a sweetheart neckline that Lilly lent me. She assured me my ass looks great in it. But my younger sister is not only shorter than me by a few inches; she’s also skinnier.
I don’t know anyone, and the only reason I’m here is to support my new racing team. My new boss, Mr. Donavan, kindly invited the entire team. He’s sweet like that. His exact words, “If you want track time tomorrow, your asses will be there.” Don’t want to piss off the new boss.
The Kids Now Foundation is a great cause, and I appreciate what they’re doing here. I wish I had some of my own money to donate, but Mr. Donavan assured us the entire team would be represented with his generous donation.
Apparently, this fundraiser means a lot to my boss and his wife, Rylee, because he insisted—no threatened—we show our faces. So, I’m wondering where the hell the rest of the team is and why I don’t recognize one single person.
I need to locate my boss, introduce myself to his wife then slip out unnoticed. But as I search around the room for Mr. Donavan, I’m pretty sure I saw him and his wife exit a storage room a second ago, full-on giggling, looking a bit disheveled. Okaay, maybe later.
I head to the adjacent room, where the quiet, oak-paneled bar I saw earlier is located. Maybe they have some pretzels. Plus, I need something stronger than champagne if I’m going to make it through dinner with this posh group.
I carefully slide my ass onto the empty barstool, making sure my dress doesn’t ride up too far. I snatch my phone out of my purse and chuckle after I read the text from my sister.
Lilly: Stop being a killjoy! Let loose, and live a little tonight. Made popcorn with extra butter and didn’t even burn the house down. Go to the bar and find some hot racing stud. Take him upstairs in that fancy hotel and rock his world! Oh, and order a Moscow Mule for me.
Not happening. As lonely as I am, I’m just not ready. Besides, I’m not the type of girl who picks up some random stranger at a bar and has sex with him. Sex hasn’t been on my radar in over two years, and I’m not sure if my vagina even works anymore. God, I miss sex.
For two years, my sexual appetite has been in hibernation, but lately, my lady parts seem to have awakened. The last time I had sex… The grin slips off my face when I start thinking about Zach. God, I miss him. Another text pops up on my phone, distracting me from my depressing thoughts.
Lilly: I can hear you overthinking! You promised to have some fun before you dive into all work, no play, Charlotte.
Me: Ugh! I’ll think about it.
“A glass of wine for the lady from the gentleman at the end of the bar.” The bartender, an older man with ginger hair, sets a white wine in front of me, jerking his head toward the dark corner at the other end.
“Uh…no, thank you,” I mutter, scanning the far corner of the bar, curious to see who sent the drink over. “Can I get a…Moscow Mule?” I’m not quite sure what’s in it, but Lilly insists they’re delicious, and the only thing that’s going to make this party bearable is some hard liquor. “Oh, and do you have any pretzels?” I slide the wine glass away, glance one more time around the room.
“Not a fan of wine? How about some company?” A short man in a tuxedo takes a seat next to me, making his potbelly more prominent. His hair perfectly coiffed, he flashes me a smarmy grin underneath the sporadic facial hair sprouting on his cheeks.
“Thank you for the drink, but I’m enjoying my solitude.” I turn my face away. “Not looking to be romanced at the moment.”
“Who said anything about romance?” He rests his clammy hand on top of mine. “I thought we could share a drink before we head upstairs.”
What? “Does this usually work for you with women?” I flash him a not so endearing smile. “Because it’s definitely not your receding hairline making them swoon.” Okay, I’m clearly hangry.