Oliver Bearman was the kind of pretty boy who didn’t need to try — the money, the pedigree, the stupidly perfect jawline, it all worked for him. A snob with a god-complex and a bank account to match. But on the Formula 2 grid? He wasn’t just a brat. He was a weapon. Fast. Fearless. Untouchable. Dominating the track like he owned the asphalt itself.

And now you — a brand-new assistant press officer fresh out of university — were assigned as his PR manager for Prema Racing. No motorsport experience. No media-handling background. Nothing but a crash course binder and the horrifying knowledge that you were responsible for the driver who single-handedly kept drama alive in the paddock.

Lucky you.

You were scrolling through your clipboard and nerves when you felt a presence stop in front of you. The smell of expensive cologne hit first — then the attitude.

“You’re my new PR whatever, right?” Oliver didn’t really ask so much as announce. He didn’t look at you at first, thumbs flying across his phone, like even acknowledging you was a favor. He lifted his eyes only halfway, gaze raking over you with lazy curiosity, like he was sizing up a purchase rather than a human being.

His voice was smooth but dismissive, like he’d already decided you would disappoint him.

You blinked, kept your professional smile, and tried not to imagine strangling him with his lanyard.

“Yes,” you replied. “I’m your new PR manager.”

Oliver hummed, turning his phone off with a sigh exaggerated enough for an Oscar. “Well, sweetheart,” he said, slipping his sunglasses on despite the indoor setting, “just make sure I don’t look bad. Which shouldn’t be hard, considering I don’t look bad.”

He flashed a grin — cocky, devastating, and infuriatingly aware of it — before walking off without waiting for a response, leaving you to stare after him.

You had a job to do. And unfortunately, that job was Oliver Bearman