At Full Sprint (A BBW Shifter Romance) (Last of the Shapeshifters) Read Free

validation?
    Look at me… writing the word ‘validation’. I feel like an idiot using buzzwords.
    We’re flying business class. I’m actually more excited than I probably should be about that. I mean… a large seat in no way compares to the comfort of my bed, but I’m excited to try it out nonetheless. I don’t imagine the food will be much better than in economy, and that I’ll be with my boss means I won’t be able to take advantage of free-flowing expensive drinks, either.
    Which is a bit of a shame!
    I’ve never been to Australia before. I like the accent, though. It’s going to be nice going somewhere warmer than here. It’s the tail-end of summer over there, so a bit of sun will be very welcome. I don’t think I’ll have the chance to get a tan, but from what I’ve read, Melbourne’s beaches aren’t great for that, anyway.
    Despite my wandering mind right now, I cannot shake the feeling that I’m going to mess this up.
    I really don’t want to.
    This is such a great opportunity, and it would be so like me to just stuff it up.
    How can I ensure that I won’t?
    I mean, what if I say something stupid to Cheat Cohen in front of Ms. Jennings?
    Speaking of Cheat Cohen… I did some research (obviously). Wow… yeah. Stop it, Circe, because that’s only happening in your dreams.
    Dreams. I hope I get some sleep on the flight.
    Sleep.
    I hope I don’t snore in front of Ms. Jennings!
     
     

T he cars screamed by, their high-pitched wails like souls of the damned being dragged down to hell.
    And they were only warming up.
    Circe Cole was glad that she was wearing protective earmuffs, and she looked toward Stephanie Lee Jennings, her enigmatic boss and idol, and grinned.
    “Wow,” she mouthed silently. “It’s so loud.”
    BZZT! Her boss’ voice came in loud through her left earmuff. “These are radios, too, you know.”
    A wave of embarrassment crashed over Circe as she reached atop her head to find, sure enough, a microphone pointing straight upward. She angled it back down until it was in front of her mouth, and for the first time, noticed that on the other side of her boss’ face, there was a mic, too.
    “Oops,” she whispered into the microphone, shrugging. “Uh, why do we have mics?”
    “We’ll be hooked into Cohen’s frequency once the race starts proper,” Ms. Jennings told her.
    “Pay attention,” Ms. Jennings told her. “No, no, put your bloody notepad away. Listen to the cars. Watch them as they weave on the track, warming their tires. See how fat and smooth the rubber is? It’s dry weather, and those tires will wear down fast. Look at Miles. Go on, look at him!”
    Circe nodded and followed the woman’s finger, pointing at the red-and-white Formula One car currently weaving in rapid zig-zags across the steaming grey concrete-asphalt mix. Miles ‘Cheat’ Cohen held records in nearly every professional racing outfit there was. Currently the reigning, and seven-time consecutive Formula One champion, he also was the most accomplished driver in Formula Three, Australia’s V8 Supercars, the British Touring Car Championship; he was a one-time winner of Le Mans, one-time champion of the Rolex Sports Car Series, and one-time champion of NASCAR. In short, the man had done it all, and was regarded by armchair experts and other drivers alike to be most skilled driver… ever.
    Circe had made sure to do her homework before boarding that plane with her boss. She laughed as she recounted his curriculum vitae in her head. Quite simply put, he was straight out of fantasy, larger than life, and, ultimately, impenetrable. Nobody knew anything about him outside of his professional work. He was never seen with a girlfriend, wasn’t married as far as anybody could tell, and seemed to have no family to speak of. No parents, no siblings, no distant cousin, no anything.
    Stories popped up now and again of beautiful women claiming to have spent a night with Cheat Cohen. These were almost always