A SECOND CHANCE MAY BE TOO HOT TO HANDLE
They say there are no second chances, and for Lily Onassis, ever since she walked away from Formula World driver Max Becker, she's considered this true. Instead of a glitzy, glamorous life on the auto racing...
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I've been to a lot of team parties, starting when I was a child. Mom used to take me for an hour or so, before the real fun started, and when I interned for Dad, I'd often stay up all night, partying with Anh and the grid girls and the other interns.
Tonight's party, held on the rooftop bar of our hotel, is one of the most jubilant I've been to, or perhaps that's just my mood. Probably it's because we had such a great showing in today's race, or because of our incredible comeback from last week's circuit. Or it's because I'm the de facto team owner and the victory is just that much sweeter.
But everyone I see is laughing and drinking. The mood is so positive — with the added sweetness of my hookup with Max earlier — that I'm giddy when Tanya pulls me aside to a high-top table.
"What's up?" I ask, clinking my glass of champagne to hers.
She takes a sip and eyes me up and down. "Cute dress," she says.
I'd worn the one bodycon dress I'd packed. It was essentially a strapless black tube of fabric that hugs my body, paired with some strappy heels. At first I wasn't sure, but when I spotted Max's eyes grow wide when I walked in, I knew I'd made the right choice.
As I'm thanking Tanya for her compliment, she interrupts.
"Don't freak out, but I have some news."
I pause and stare at her over the top of my glasses. "You've pretty much guaranteed I'll freak out now."
"I'm hearing rumors about you and Max. But it's okay! I've asked around and no one seems to have anything on you. I think it's because of that reporter's question the other day."
"Hmm." I sip my champagne, turning this information over in my mind.
"Just be discreet, is all. I'm going to come up with messaging. I was kind of thinking..." her voice trails off and she stares into the distance.
"Thinking what?"
"How would you feel about going out on a fake date with someone? Like a sponsor?"
"What?" I yelp.
"It could deflect attention. It's a common PR tactic."
I'm shocked that she's mentioning this so casually. "Seems weird."
"It's just dinner. I have someone in mind."
My expression contorts into a grimace, the kind that my mom used to claim would freeze on my face if I made it too often.
"He's from a beer company. One of their executive VPs that deals with brand partnerships. Seems like a decent guy. I was thinking that you could go to dinner with him in Montreal before the next race, we could tip off the paparazzi, you know, that kind of thing."
That kind of thing that I absolutely loathe. I roll my eyes.
