TILLY MARIE NEARLY loses faith in her passion as she refuses to listen to everyone who told her to quit. Everyone but one. And it's the man she met years ago at a racing event she didn't want to attend. Who would have thought that her father's parti...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
iv. fast lane but not the weekend kind
"Regards, Tilly Hearth..."
That should be okay, I tell myself silently as I put away my laptop. It's only 6 pm, and I already wish to retire to my bed early.
I can be doing a lot, but instead I'm moping inside my hotel room while I'm waiting for Lewis. Being on a paid vacation is nice; I don't have to do anything and deal with people. But at the same time, I'm craving more tasks to occupy my time because truthfully, I do NOT want to be stuck in a hotel in Silverstone with nothing to do. I spent my early 20's being away from people, but now I'm entering my early 30's, I'm slowly thinking that I probably should've done more than attend festivals by myself or with my sisters.
None of the people I was around with earlier had looked my way until after they'd been told that I was working in communications and was a boss' child. The staff from the other teams also did the same—but some of them knew who I was already and had already made themselves comfortable. Just how I wanted.
But then again, this is my first day. And Sunday would probably be my last considering that I'll be back to my stuffy office the next week.
I can take up the role as a consultant for communications. My father did offer me that role for Ferrari, Red Bull and McLaren—telling me that I can do so much more in Formula One than my no-good employers.
Bunch of bullshit, I curse out. He wouldn't let go of his legacy like that.
I already told him about writing for magazines or simply writing in general, but he still placed these executive positions in front of me as if he knew I'd give in. Sad fact is that he actually is right; I'm close to giving up on my job. If The Devil Wears Prada didn't warn me the first time, Lauren Weisberger should have at least taken both of my shoulders and shaken them.
It didn't hurt to think about balancing Formula One and journalism out. After all, it's what I can do as a journalist—know enough about racing and engines and ensure that my knowledge is being shared through my writing and published works.
I try my best to relax in my bed, lying flat on the mattress with my hands resting on my stomach. The silence is deafening and I can hear my steady breathing. My eyes are growing tired as they continue to look up at the ceiling of my room.
For a moment, I debated whether or not I should come downstairs for dinner with Lewis. If there's anything that I know about him, he takes his dear time to get ready—and I have an endless closet at home. That's telling you a lot.
A knock on my door makes me stand fast and rush to open it. Daniel Ricciardo stands there with a grin.
