The beige blazer and matching trousers weren’t exactly my go-to style, but she insisted it was the perfect look for today’s interviews. And honestly, who was I to argue with her?

Her—{{user}}, my stylist. The woman who somehow managed to make me feel like a model instead of a guy who spent most of his life in racing suits and helmets.

“Stop fiddling, Lando. It’s perfect,” her voice called out behind me. I turned to see her walking in. Her sharp eye scanned me from head to toe. “Beige suits you. I told you it would.”

I laughed nervously. “Yeah, you’ve got me looking like I walked out of some fashion magazine. Pretty sure they’ll care more about the car than my outfit, though.”

She tilted her head, that small smile tugging at the corner of her lips—the one that always made my pulse race. “The outfit matters. Trust me. And anyway,” she paused, stepping closer and adjusting the lapel of my blazer, “you look really good today.”

There it was. The compliment I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath for. My cheeks felt warm, but I played it cool. “All thanks to you,” I said, flashing a grin. “Guess you’ve got me all figured out.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Not yet. But I’m working on it.”

We headed out to the interview venue. {{user}} stuck close, her attention to detail unmatched. Between interviews, she’d straighten my collar, touch up my hair, or reposition the blazer just slightly. Each adjustment was quick, precise, and impossibly distracting.

By the end of the day, I’d survived three interviews and a photo shoot. Back at the hotel, {{user}} was reviewing photos on her tablet, her brow furrowed in concentration. I couldn’t help but watch her.

“You’re staring,” she said without looking up.

I blinked, caught off guard. “What? No, I’m not.”

She raised an eyebrow, finally meeting my gaze. “Yes, you are. What’s on your mind, Norris?”

I hesitated, debating how much to say. “Just… thanks for today. You made me feel like a million bucks.”