Page 18 of Drive Me Crazy
THE HARD PART about writing a biography with a planned release date just a few short months after the season ends is that we have to do everything simultaneously. Research. Interview. Write. Edit. Interview some more. Edit a little. Write a lot more. George’s motorsport expertise allows him to easily identify the aspects of Blake’s life and story that might be worth exploring more in depth, and I dig deep to find the details we need to fill the pages. We’re working through a shared document so we’re able to collaborate in real time, but it’s still exhausting.
After another few days of my routine, I decide to take a break and relax. One afternoon reading by the pool won’t kill me. Poppy thinks I’m a workaholic and she’s not wrong, but it’s what gives me purpose. Right now, I need that. And the views of the French Riviera definitely don’t hurt either.
I find Blake out by his pool in a plush lounge chair, his tan body contrasting with the white and blue towel underneath him. I’m not sure if I’m more surprised by his presence or his swim trunks. They’re so unbelievably short, my eyes don’tknow where to focus—his thighs, his abs, his arms, his face. I’m thankful that my sunglasses are already on, so he can’t see my eyes going haywire. If Michelangelo had lived five centuries later, I can guarantee he’d be sculpting Blake’s body instead of David’s.
Blake’s been spending his afternoons anywhere but his house, so I’m not sure why he’s here today, but I’m too rattled to ask. I settle into a lounge chair a few away from him, not wanting to invade his personal space. He nods in greeting then looks back at the newspaper in his hands. It takes me a second to recognize that he’s doing a crossword puzzle. I’m a journalist and don’t even read a physical newspaper, yet here Blake is filling out the tiny squares with a stubby pencil.Stars, they’re just like us! They do daily crosswords while lying out at their million-dollar mansions in Monaco!
Tapping his pencil against the paper, his eyebrows knit in frustration. “Do you know a three-letter word for the clue: you may need this to go on?”
Thanks to the heavenly mix of his cologne and sunscreen, I can barely remember my own name. “Um … no idea. Can I phone a friend?”
He chuckles, a curl to his lips. “Thought you’d be good since you like words.”
“Writing them,” I clarify. “Not guessing them based on confusing clues.”
Blake glances up, his eyes settling on my bikini-clad body. My heart plummets to my stomach. I don’t want Blake sitting there, analyzing my body as if that’s the most interesting thing about me.Been there, done that.Plus, he’s slept with models, whereas I don’t even have a thigh gap. I have a body that rolls when I sit and bloats when I eat one too many fries. If I knew he’d be out here, I would’ve worn a one-piece or a burlap sack.
“Whoever makes these clues is the bane of my existence,”he grumbles, looking back down. “Swear they make half of this shit up.”
Trying not to laugh at his frustrated frown—which is very adorable—I take out my book and leave Blake to his puzzle. I’m so used to seeing him in his racing suit, or an actual suit at sponsor events, that it’s hard to stay focused on my reading. His thighs are a major distraction. I’ve reread the same page of Emily Henry’s newest release maybe ten times already because I’m too flustered. A frustrated growl escapes my lips and I freeze, praying that it was inside my head. No such luck.
“All good?” he calls over.
I keep my eyes trained down even though I can still see Blake out of my peripheral vision. He’s looking at me with mild curiosity.
“Yep! Just a part in my book.”
Nice save, Ella.I mentally high-five myself.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Or not.
“You know … if you want me to keep telling you things, you’re going to have to tell me things too.”
Um, contractually, I’m going to have to do no such thing. I don’t answer him but track his movements as he makes his way over to the seat next to mine. Apparently, the courtesy of not invading one another’s personal space does not extend to me. For the eleventh time, I reread the same damn page of my book. His near-naked body is too close for me to concentrate on anything but remembering how to breathe. In and out. In and out. There should be a fucking Lamaze class for how to breathe when an extremely gorgeous man is a foot away from you while wearing the world’s shortest shorts. I’d pay good money for that.
“That page in your book must be really interesting.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Care to share what it’s about, love?”
Ugh.I hate how he so casually uses the pet namelove. It’s frustratingly charming.
“Nope. But you can borrow it once I’m done if you’d like.”
That may be in four to five years depending on how many times I can reread the same page, but oh well. He continues staring at me and I continue fake reading, finally flipping the page although I still don’t know what happened on the last one. My cheeks are flushed from the sun, so he’s unaware of the effect his intense gaze is having on me.
After ten minutes of him blatantly observing me, I’ve had enough. If we go on like this, I’ll have to finish the book without reading a single word.
“Can you not? You’re distracting me.”
He cocks his head to the side. “I haven’t said anything.”
“Okay, well, you and your thighs are in my area and it’s distracting. So, if you could remove yourself from my bubble, that’d be greatly appreciated.”
“My thighs?”
