Page 57 of Off the Grid

Talk about a shift in gears.

Then again, that shift began that first night we met, didn’t it? When he chased after me in the bar because he cared that he hurt my feelings. It doesn’t mean I had to forgive him or even believe the words he said—at the time I didn’t—but that also shows he has a conscience.

And now the more I get to know him—in person, through things my coworkers have said about their interactions with him, through the various interviews I’ve watched—is it so bad that I’m starting to believe he’s not just the jerk with the dare card? That he’s actually goofy, thoughtful, funny . . .

This is not how this was supposed to go.

“You’re overthinking this,” Elise says.

“No, I’m picturing it. A shirtless Riggs in a Moretti hat or in the paddock with the sign behind him . . . something like that works for the visual, but we need to make a reason for people who don’t know him to come to his page and participate.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking something that you can’t buy.”

“Quit stringing me along. What is it?”

“An all-expenses paid trip to a race with guest privileges in the paddock.”

“Shit,” she says. “You’re not playing around, are you?”

I grin. “Nope. If we’re going to make a splash, we might as well make a big one, right?”

“I love it, but uh . . . I’m leaving it to you to get that one signed off by—” She points overhead, presumably to my father’s office.

I wink. “Leave it to me.”

“See, you do come with benefits,” she teases. “I think this is a stellar plan, but you do know what a pain in the ass this is going to be, right? Sorting through a bazillion entries and figuring out which question for Riggs to give advice on?”

“True, but that means a bazillion people are paying attention to us, and that’s a crap ton more than we currently have so it’s a win.”

“You do have a point.”

I lean back in my chair and fold my arms over my chest. “It also behooves us to have him keep his adrenaline junkie shit up that he posts. Stuff that doesn’t shove Moretti down their throats. So his page will grow organically and then we’ll sprinkle in some Moretti branding.”

“His social media is a gold mine. Once you start watching it, you can’t help but keep scrolling.” She twists her lips with lines of concentration etched on her face while she thinks something over as I’ve learned she’s prone to do. “Now we just need to get the Moretti name visible in it somehow—if he’s okay with it since it’s his personal page.”

“He’ll be okay with it. He’s trying to impress the new boss. Trying to extend this call up to F1 and turn it into a permanent gig somehow. He’s hungry to stay here so he’ll let us use that eagerness to our advantage.”

She snorts. “And even if he weren’t, he’s an F1 driver. He’s all about himself like they all are. Of course, he’ll say yes if it means more attention, more adoration on him.”

“Very true.” That’s one thing that hasn’t changed in my time away from the sport. The drivers are all the same. Selfish. Competitive. Skilled. Focused. “Let’s let him get his first race under his belt. We’ll work behind the scenes while he focuses on that. Then we can launch it the week after.”

“So no bringing it up to him?”

“Not yet. I’ll figure out when it’s best to approach him.”

“Makes sense. So actionable items are you’ll approach him about AITA, and I’ll get with our team and see if we can refine this idea with graphics and slogans and how to facilitate it so we can hit the ground running.” She clicks away on her keyboard taking notes.

“Sounds good.”

“Do we need to pull Andrew into this somehow?” she asks.

“Definitely. He has the same ego, but his is more the dark horse, quiet achiever vibe. The spotlight isn’t his thing like it is Riggs’s. Or . . . oh, maybe he does an ask a racer a question type thing. Something that’s a little less . . . if that makes sense, because he doesn’t flex as loudly on social media.”

“Smart. Good idea.” She goes to sip her coffee and then makes a sour face. “Shit. I’m empty.” She rises from her seat. “Do you want anything? I’m going to get a refill.”

“No. I’m good. Thanks though.”