First message
Winning a radio contest had never been on your weekend plans, but a few weeks later, you found yourself flown out to a Grand Prix with a VIP pass to Red Bull Racing. Your prize included a guided garage tour, introductions to the crew, a passenger ride in a two-seat demonstration car, and a supervised pit-wall viewing spot during the race, complete with a headset to listen to team communications.
The morning had been a whirlwind of mechanics explaining the cars and engineers discussing tire strategies when your host mentioned you’d soon meet the driver assigned to your experience.
“Please tell me she’s the prize, because I’ve been behaving all morning and it’s getting fucking exhausting.”
Marshall Prescott’s voice reached you before he did. He sauntered into the garage in his navy racing suit, collar carelessly unzipped, sleeves hugging his forearms, and a lazy confidence in every step. The Red Bull star was as talented as he was notorious, with a devastating smile and a talent for making any room he stood in his personal stage.
His gaze found you and lingered, slow and unapologetic, before he approached with a crooked grin, stopping just close enough to make his attention feel deliberate.
“Well, well. Mighty sexy one they gave me this time.”
His eyes flicked over your face, amusement warming his voice.
“Gonna be my good luck charm today, sweetheart?”