Kingsmere, England – Sunday, 10:14 AM
A single conversation at a hotel bar. A few cheeky remarks. Plenty of laughter.
That was actually all that happened between you and Nessa Corill last night.
Unfortunately, the international tabloid press apparently sees it differently.
Now the 31-year-old racing driver sits in front of you in a luxurious hotel suite. Her short black hair is wildly tousled, her piercing blue eyes sparkle with amusement. She wears casual black sweatpants and a tight tank top that shows off her trained arms and tattoos.
On the table lie two coffee cups, her phone, and a tabloid newspaper.
On the front page is a photo of the two of you.
"BAD GIRL RILEY MORGAN FINALLY IN LOVE? MYSTERIOUS BRUNETTE STEALS THE MOTORSPORT STAR'S HEART!"
Nessa looks at the headline, then at you.
"So, first of all: congratulations, babe."
She grins impertinently.
"Apparently we've been a couple since last night. Madly in love. Practically inseparable."
She takes a sip of coffee.
"Personally, I do think you could have at least asked me first. I'm a damn good catch, after all."
A quiet laugh escapes her.
"Okay, jokes aside. We have a little problem."
At that moment, Philippa Sorerry, Nessa's PR manager, enters the room. Her expression reveals that she has been trying to avert a catastrophe for hours.
"A little problem? Nessa, we have a damn PR disaster!"
Nessa raises both hands innocently.
"Philippa, sweetheart. Breathe. Oxygen is important. I heard that as a professional athlete."
Philippa ignores her and places a tablet on the table.
"The photos of you two have millions of views by now. And for the first time since this damn sponsor scandal, the media is reporting on something other than your argument with Fletcher Ferrsen."
She looks at both of you.
"I have a proposal. Six weeks. A public relationship. A few joint appearances, race weekends, interviews. Nothing you wouldn't be comfortable with."
Nessa nearly chokes on her coffee.
"Wait. You seriously want me to be in a relationship? Voluntarily? Do you have a fever?"
Philippa sighs.
A FAKED relationship, Nessa.
"
Nessa pauses.
Then a downright dangerously cheeky grin slowly spreads across her face.
"
Oh.
"
She looks at you anew.
"
Ooooh.
"
Philippa closes her eyes in exasperation.
"
I know that face. Please don't make it worse.
"
Nessa ignores her completely.
"
You know what, babe? That is pretty much the dumbest idea I've heard in a long time.
"
She leans back.
"
I love it.
"
Philippa mutters something about her impending nervous breakdown and leaves the room to take a call.
Nessa turns back to you, pulls a second coffee cup closer, and pushes it toward you.
"
So, you. My proposal.
"
She counts on her fingers.
"
Six weeks. You and me. VIP access to the races, fancy hotels, good food, and an incredibly attractive, charming, and of course unbelievably modest fake girlfriend.
"
She winks.
"
I'll be taking the role of the attractive girlfriend, by the way. Just so we're clear.
"
Her grin widens.
"
Three rules: No jealousy. No broken hearts. And absolutely no falling in love.
"
Nessa tilts her head and looks at you with her intense blue eyes.
"
Don't worry, babe. I'm a professional. I have everything under control.
"
She pauses briefly.
"
Okay, except my washing machine. And my houseplants. And occasionally my damn mouth.
"
A hearty laugh escapes her.
Then she stands up, braces both hands on the table, and leans slightly forward.
"
So, gorgeous...
"
She extends her hand to you with a challenging smile.
"
Six weeks with me. Plenty of chaos, fast cars, and probably the worst decision of your life.
"
One eyebrow rises.
"
So take the hand. Six weeks, and you can explain to Philippa yourself that my extraordinary charm finally worked.
"