"Oh. Hi," I say, taking a step back and forcing him to release my elbows, which he'd caught to avoid knocking me over. It's dumb, but I immediately miss the touch of his warm fingers on my skin. Next time, I should definitely add a shawl to my outfit to stave off the cold. 

"Ciao." He looks me up and down. "You look nice."

My face gets so hot, so fast that I'm pretty sure in spite of the previous chill my cheeks are on fire. Add 'raising the ambient temperature' to Seb Bianchi's growing list of skills, I suppose. 

At any rate, it's a good thing this corner is semi-dark. I'd hate to reveal my involuntary reaction. "Thank you," I say, smoothing out my already pristine skirt as I get a look at my teammate. He's one of the few men here not in a tux, but he's still wearing the hell out of the tailored, charcoal gray suit. Hot damn.

Catching myself staring, I clear my throat. "You clean up pretty well yourself," I manage to croak out.

"Clean up? What does this mean?" He draws his brows together at the unfamiliar idiom.

It's both innocent and adorable, and I smile. "You look nice, too."

"Ah. Thank you." He tucks his hands in his pockets and smiles back, literally melting my heart with the simple gesture. If someone cracked me open right this second, I would bet that inside I'd be a big puddle of goo, and honestly, I love the feeling. 

"Miss Dimas, could we have a quick word?" The question comes from an older woman standing a polite distance behind Seb.

After an evening of having every one of my words scrutinized by my table mates, I want nothing more than to continue this awkward conversation with my suddenly dorky teammate. I'm ready to kindly dismiss the woman's request, but Seb touches my shoulder and squeezes past. "Pardon me. I am on the way out anyway."

My heart sinks as my eyes follow him out the nearby door. Taking the opportunity, the woman grabs a man who's part of a nearby conversation and pulls him beside her. "My name is Elspeth Widemere and this is my husband George. We were at table ten over there."

With a deep breath, I plaster on a smile and shake hands with both. "It's nice to meet you."

"The pleasure is all ours," George says. "We had an offer on your lot in the auction—the access passes for the weekend—but I'm afraid we were outbid."

I remember Tim from York's enthusiasm over getting the lot. "Well, that's a shame. You're fans, then?"

"Oh, absolutely. George here has been a lifelong petrol head, but I recently started watching because of you," Elspeth says.

"You remind us of our daughter Leah, you see," George adds.

"Oh, thank you." I instinctively search the room behind them. "Is she here, too?"

"Sadly, she passed three years ago. Childhood leukemia took her at sixteen, but she was a fighter." Elspeth puts a hand against her mouth, trying to hide her frown. After pausing briefly, she continues. "Like you, she persisted even when everything seemed to be against her."

"I'm so sorry." I reach out to give her a hug. After I pull back and see the woman's tears, my eyes also get cloudy. "But you give me too much credit. What I do is nothing compared to what it must have been like for Leah to fight such a horrible disease."

"You're still an inspiration, and I think you two would have gotten along grand," George says, lovingly rubbing his wife's back. "It's especially heartwarming to see you support causes like this."

"Thank you." I sniffle and try to keep from crying, but it's too late. Wiping the tears from the corner of my eye, I look away. "I hope you enjoy the race. Excuse me."

I bolt before completely losing it. With my head down, I finally make it out of the room and follow the signs to the ladies' room. Finding only hand dryers—damn Europeans and their ecological efficiency—I duck into a stall to grab a wad of toilet paper to wipe my face. Something about how the door slams open makes me self-conscious. I need another minute before I can deal with people right now, so I lock myself in the stall.

"Can you believe tonight? All everyone wants to talk about is her," says a woman with a faint German accent and a heap of cattiness.

"But it's true that she is special." The meek voice is familiar. Peeking through the crack in the doorframe, I recognize Junko, Tobei's wife. Reflected in the mirror, she's smoothing out her long, black hair with her fingers. Beside her, Luca's girlfriend Corinne—the first one who talked—is reapplying her red lipstick.

"Special my ass. The only reason anyone cares is because she has tits," says another girl who I still can't see. "No guy performing so poorly would ever get as much attention."

I back away and lean against the side of the stall. Are they talking about me? What should I do?

"That is awful to say, Hadley. Lauren is a very sweet girl." Junko confirms my fear while coming to my defense. I always knew I liked her the best. But why are the other two being such beeyotches? I'd never done anything to them. Maybe my first impression of the WAGs wasn't so far off, after all.

"Did you see her hair?" Corinne asks. "I suppose that's what she gets for not coming with us to our place."

"Oh my god, yes." Hadley agrees, busting out laughing. "It looks like a drunk raccoon just piled everything on top of her head."

I touch my loose, messy up-do. Sure, it's not a chic blowout like Junko's, a perfect tumble of waves like Hadley's, or an Elsa-worthy braid like Corinne's, but I thought it looked perfectly acceptable. Plus, I'm young, pretty, and popular. What the hell am I doing hiding in a toilet? Screw it. I don't need to listen to all this passive-aggressive nonsense. Pulling myself straight, I dab the corners of my eyes one more time and unlock the door.

All three jump as they catch my reflection in the mirror. Junko is frozen to her spot, but Corinne turns to me. "Lauren, darling. We did not know you were here."

I lean against the counter to check my mascara. Splurging on the good stuff paid off. Not a run in sight. "Obviously," I reply without making eye contact.

"You are having a nice time?" Junko asks hesitantly.

After running my finger along my lower lashes to even out the splotchy foundation, I turn and cross my arms. "I am having an amazing time. It's really cool to be the center of attention just for having breasts. Oh, no. I mean tits." I look at Hadley and scrunch my nose. "Maybe it's because mine are bigger than yours. I'm a 36-C. What are you? 34-A on a good day?"

"We didn't—" she begins, but I'm not done yet.

"You didn't what? Mean to be caught trash talking me? Yeah, I got that," I say before storming out.

This is such bullshit. I've done everything in my power to avoid Hadley's squad after that stupid Persephone article came out to stop giving the press easy things to pick apart, but maybe it backfired? Or maybe there's just no way for me to win at this. Join them and I get criticized (unfairly, of course) for caring more about fitting-in with 'the girls' than about actual racing. Avoid them and they take it personally, assuming I'm a hater who thinks she's better and then causing all this shade. Either way, it hurts.

Arriving back in the ballroom, I head straight to the one person I know who could cheer me up. I'd missed most of the conversation, but when I get to Shane's table, everyone is rolling from laughter. Crouching down beside him, I smile. "It looks like you got a fun group."

If at all possible, I swear he looks even happier after he sees me. "Yeah. You?" He grins.

I shrug. "It's okay. Although you still win since I'm pretty sure no one asked you if you were in this business just to troll for dates." I internally cringe at the German blogger-woman's earlier question.

"What?" he asks with a frown.

I shake my head and touch his shoulder. "Never mind. Wanna dance?"

Luckily, Shane says yes. My night would have been totally ruined if another thing went wrong.

We move to the edge of the dance floor where a decent crowd is already partying. Shane moves his chair's wheel with his hands back and forth to the rhythm while I bob along to the Euro-pop song across from him. As we get more into it, he takes my hand and I duck under his arm for a spin. When I make it all the way around, he keeps a tight hold on my fingers and pulls me closer.

"Hypothetically speaking, if I didn't have to keep a professional distance from you, would you ever consider going out with me?" he yells into my ear over the bass.

Oh, shit. Not you too! I get that being friend-zoned sucks, but why does everyone think Lauren Dimas is out for some smash-and-dash? This has to seriously stop, and I know just how.

Without missing a beat, I shake my head. "No."

"Well, that hurt, but okay." He laughs uncomfortably before letting go and rolling back to increase the space between us. "I appreciate you not beating around the bush, I guess."

Continuing to sway to the music, I advance on him. "You're out of my league, Shane." I'm not lying. He's funny and sweet and totally hot. The difference in where we are in our lives is probably why I'm just not attracted to him.

"What does that supposed to mean?" He pouts.

"You have all of your shit figured out. I'm just happy my dad and my agent know what's best for me so I don't have to worry about it myself," I admit, circling him. "But don't tell them I said that."

"Your secret's safe with me," he says, the bitterness in his voice evident even with all the noise. "But do you think I'm too old for you?"

"Maybe?" I say, suddenly unsure and regretting starting this conversation. Now I owe him a real explanation. "I mean, you've done the college thing and you have a real job—"

He stops. "I'm twenty-four, Lauren. That's only a couple of years older than you and believe me, I do not have my shit figured out," he says, the pain peeking through his usually unflappable façade. He rakes his fingers through his dark hair. "Breaking your back falling off a mountain tends to put a damper on your previous plans for the future."

"You're only twenty-four?" Somehow that part sticks out for me, but I know that's not the point. I need to turn this thing around and fast. Steadying my hands on his chair's armrests, I lean down so only he could hear and circle back to my original plan. "I still don't think we could date, but I might consider sleeping with you," I say.

"Oh. Wow. Well . . .." He stammers, as the tips of his ears turn red.

Holding back a smile, I slip into his lap and put my hands around his neck. "Assuming everything works properly down there, that is," I whisper.

Shane clears his throat. "Uhm, yeah."

"Good." I grin.

"I mean, you'd have to do most of the work—"

"I'm okay with that," I say, barely able to hold back my laughter from trolling him so hard. It's terrible of me, but he's the one who took us down this lecherous path.

"Oh my god." He rubs his jaw with his hand. "I can't believe we're actually talking about this."

"You're the one who started hitting on me." I wink. "Hypothetically, of course."

"Oh, fuck." His mouth drops open. "You've been messing with me."

I stand up. "Maybe. ... Maybe not."

As the song ends, Shane smiles and shakes his head in disbelief. "They were right about calling you Persephone because you really are queen of the underworld."

I finally laugh, feeling like he got the point, but not at the price of our friendship. Before I can officially ask for forgiveness, someone taps my shoulder.

"Can I have the next dance?" Diego Martin asks.