Page 20 of Downforce

“Annalise!”

Startled, I leap to my feet, knocking my bag onto the floor, spilling the contents out. I inhale sharply and go to pick up my tablet, hoping it’s not broken or damaged, but a hand stops me.

I peer up to see a man with dark brown hair grinning down at me.

“Allow me,” Edwin says. He rises to his full height, handing me my tablet. “Doesn’t look damaged.”

“Thank you,” I tell Max’s assistant or manager or agent or whatever the hell he is to Max.

“Annalise,” the photographer calls again. “We need you over here to help with the blocking.”

When I look at Max, his eyes are slightly narrowed, the sparkling that was apparent earlier all but faded. Maybe it’s just that I can’t see it from my vantage point. Either way, it doesn’t matter to me what’s altered his mood.

“Uh,” I glance over at Edwin. “How about Edwin handling it? He’s probably a better match for blocking than I am.”

At that precise moment, Edwin pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Sorry, important call,” he claims. “Max, this is the one we’ve been waiting for.”

Max nods and waves him off to take the call.

“Annalise, we don’t have much time.”

I squeeze my lips together, wanting to blatantly refuse, but none of the other drivers have arrived yet. And all of the Amato employees present look engaged in one form of work or another.

After placing my bag and phone on the chair, I go over to the staged shoot.

“Where do you want me?”

The photographer’s grin lets me know I’m about to regret what I’ve just said.

“That’s exactly what the woman I had last night asked me.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “It was a very good night.”

My stomach churns and I’m about to tell this guy to keep it cute or else this shoot is about to get very uncomfortable for everyone. This isn’t the first time I’ve encountered this guy, and though he’s gotten better over the years, every now and again I have to remind him to keep his comments professional.

“Keep it professional or we can get someone else to do the shoot.”

My eyes widen at the sharpness of Max’s tone. When I look at him, he’s glaring at the photographer, who immediately capitulates.

“M-Mi dispiace,” he stutters out. “It was a joke.” He tries to laugh, which only pisses me off because of how quickly some men are to correct their behavior in the face of another man when confronted. It wasn’t enough that I’ve told him about his comments before.

But I don’t allow myself to get swallowed up by resentment. This photographer is frequently used by the FIA and the last thing I want to do is make trouble for anyone, especially not my brother when he shows up.

Yet, when I cast my attention on Max, his glare continues to drill holes in the side of the photographer’s head. He suddenly found his camera very interesting, fiddling around with it, avoiding eye contact with Max.

Clearing my throat, I move closer to the set up. “Where should I stand?” I ask, choosing my words more carefully this time.

“Just over there,” the photographer states, his voice changing to a more serious tone. “Can we have her hold Travis’ helmet?” he asks one of the Amato employees.

Someone brings over the red and white helmet. It always surprises me when I hold one of these how light they actually are despite their size.

I peer inside the empty helmet and my mind all of a sudden flashes with all of the things that could go wrong if I were to put the helmet on my head.

What if it’s bad luck to wear someone else’s helmet?

What if I break it?

Would Travis want me to wear his helmet?

My eyes drop to the inside of the helmet, seeing my brother’s name.