Smokin' & Spinnin' (3 page)

Gail meets my gaze and smiles hesitantly. “I apologize for the interruption, but that was my good friend Jerri Andrews. She is the office manager for GCR Racing. Apparently, they have had some issues with their receptionist. She did not show up for work this morning. Would you be interested in filling in until Jerri can hire a replacement?” she says, putting me on the spot.

I am not sure about taking a receptionist position, but at the same time, I don’t want to tell Gail no. “Sure,” I say confidently, although I am not feeling as positive as I sound. “GCR Racing…What type of business is that?”

Gail is stunned, but replies, “Whitney, are you not familiar with NASCAR?”

I shake my head.

“GCR Racing is a NASCAR race organization that is owned and operated by Garrett Ryan Carter Sr., one of the most legendary drivers in NASCAR.” Gail raises her eyebrows at me.

Really?
I smile sheepishly from embarrassment. This information means nothing to me since I know nothing about the sport.

Gail looks concerned. “Well, maybe I should send someone else over.”

I hold up my hand in defense. “No, I can do it. I am a quick learner and always up for a challenge.”

Gail laughs, “This will be a challenge, no doubt.”

I raise my eyebrow at her skeptically.
What does she mean by that?

“Let me give you a quick rundown,” she says.

Gail briefly educates me on the world of stock car racing. “NASCAR is big business in Charlotte. A large majority of the race teams are based in and around the Charlotte area.”

Gail continues her brief overview, but gives no background on why this job will be challenging.
Hmmm…
I feel a lump rising in my throat from feeling stupid. I despise feeling or being treated as if I am. Or it could be the anticipation of a new job that I know nothing about has me in a panic. But it is nothing that I can’t handle.

I manage to mutter, “Will my lack of knowledge of the sport create a problem?”

Gail laughs, “No! It might actually work out better in the long run.” She winks at me as she slides the directions to GCR headquarters over to me, a gesture that gives me surety that there is more to this story than what she is disclosing.

I journey out of Charlotte on Interstate 77 North en route to Mooresville, an outlying suburb of the metro area. Approximately forty-five minutes later, I arrive at a huge concrete building with an impressive glass facade. The sign on the building, GCR Racing, lets me know that I have reached the right address. I park my Honda in the expansive lot and make my way to the entrance.

As I walk through the door of the extraordinary building, I am greeted warmly by an elderly security guard. He is dressed very casually in khaki pants and a cobalt-blue polo shirt that sports the GCR Racing logo. His smile puts me at ease as I introduce myself.

“Hi, I am Whitney Parker. I am the new receptionist.”

“Why, hello, Miss Parker.” He regards me closely in typical elderly fashion. “Mrs. Andrews is expecting you. Please take the elevator to
the third floor,” he says as he gestures toward the elevator vestibule. I smile and nod my head to thank him.

Before I head over to the elevator, I pause for a moment to look around the lobby. The first floor appears to be some type of a museum and merchandise store. I make a mental note to take a look around when I have the opportunity. I should at least know who I am working for. I am not sure what I was expecting working for a race team, but this place is top-notch.

I stride into the elevator glad that Brooke and I made that shopping trip. Thanks to her, I am smartly dressed in a new and very trendy maxi dress with a bright chevron print, heeled strappy sandals, and my best coordinating jewelry. Accessories can make or break any outfit, and I have hit a home run today, which gives me that extra boost of confidence I so desperately need. I mean, who am I kidding? Accessories are really a girl’s best friend, right? Well…now they are, since I hocked the diamond less than seventy-two hours ago.
Jeezus! Enough of that, Whitney.

I select three on the elevator keypad. As the door begins to close, I hear a slight commotion in the lobby that sounds like a protest.

“Stop!”

A young male in his early to midthirties throws his body through the closing doors. Stunned, I glance at the intruder and give him a quick nervous smile, then jump out of his way so he doesn’t completely knock me over. He looks back at me with wry amusement although he is out of breath. The stranger gives me a glowing megawatt smile, and his blue eyes dance mischievously.

My heart does a somersault in my chest. Sweet Jesus! He is handsome—no…no…“hot” would be a better term to describe him,
especially if you like that bad-boy, smoldering kind. Seriously, I haven’t met a girl who didn’t like that type of guy. He looks a little rough around the edges, literally, as I note the light stubble across his chin and down his jawline. It tells me that he didn’t bother to shave this morning. And he is casually dressed in a T-shirt bearing the GCR Racing logo, khaki shorts, and brown leather flip-flops.

Yes, he is…oh-my-God hot!

I shake my head and roll my eyes to rid myself of my wayward thoughts. Then I realize he is regarding me just as carefully. Because I can feel his eyes on me. I shift uncomfortably as I look back up at him. Our eyes meet and lock in a heated stare. My heart flutters in my chest again. I feel like I am going to jump out of my skin.
Damn!

It feels like an hour has passed since he jumped into the elevator. The silence is unnerving as we continue to make our assessments of one another.

Then suddenly, “Who the hell are you?” the dashing stranger snaps, breaking the hushed anxiety.

Shocked by his arrogance, his outburst takes me by surprise, and I am momentarily lost for words.
Who am I? Oh! Yes…right!

I stand up straight, square my shoulders toward him, and rebound quickly. “Whitney Parker,” is all I can manage, but I do say it firmly, with tenacity. Then, I add just as rudely, “And you are?”

The hot young cad looks back at me, rolls his eyes, and looks confused all at the same time. The elevator door opens with a ping, and he laughs aloud as if I had just told the most hilarious joke. And then he is gone.
What a bastard!

I step out onto the third floor. I walk into the reception area behind the handsome jerk and am met by mass chaos. The telephone is incessantly ringing. I watch Mr. Pompous Ass disappear into the back as I look around for someone to direct me to Mrs. Andrews’s office, but no one even acknowledges my presence.
What the hell?
I wonder vaguely if everyone is as rude as him.

I spy a vacant desk, which I assume to be the receptionist area. I place my bag underneath it and snatch up the phone. “GCR Racing, this is Whitney.” Suddenly, I am grateful for countless part-time jobs that have helped me to at least know how to answer the phone properly. Of course, I have no idea who anyone is, so I take a message.

I field a handful of calls and corresponding messages for various people throughout the office. How I will get these notes delivered to the appropriate people is baffling me. I set out to find someone in the office to help me, when an immaculately dressed woman in her midforties approaches me. This must be Jerri. She reminds me very much of Gail, and I can see why they are friends. They look to be cut from the same cloth.

“Whitney?” she asks uncertainly.

I smile appreciatively.
Finally!
“Yes, ma’am.”

She looks relieved and makes a haphazard attempt to smooth her hair, which is flawlessly styled and not at all out of place. “I was wondering who was answering the phone. Thank you for jumping right in. It is a little crazy in here this morning,” she confesses.

“Yes, ma’am! I can see that.” I laugh a little to mask my nervousness.

“I am Jerri Andrews,” she says to introduce herself.

I smile knowingly. She offers her hand in introduction, which I grasp and shake firmly, never breaking eye contact.

“Most of us have been in a series of meetings this morning. There were some issues at the race on Sunday, so we are all scrambling. Not to mention the fact that our receptionist has evidently quit.” Jerri rolls her eyes in exasperation, which seems a little uncharacteristic for such a professional-looking woman, but she is female. Eye rolling is a standard option for our gender.

Jerri gives me a few simple instructions and promises to get with me after lunch for a more detailed description of my job duties. “Oh! And Whitney…please plan to hang around with us for a few weeks. It is going to be a while before I can start looking for a replacement,” she says, strained.

“Sure! I can stay for as long as you need me,” I offer.

I can tell Jerri is relieved, but before she can say anything, Mr. Pompous Ass materializes from the back offices. Her face immediately falls. She looks agitated. He strides purposefully back to the elevators without acknowledging either one of us.

Jerri calls out to him, “Four o’clock, Ryan! Don’t forget!”

He doesn’t dignify her reminder with a response, but he throws up his hand as if to say, “I got this!”

What a jerk!
I must have an irritated look on my face because Jerri quickly snaps, “My thoughts exactly!” And we both erupt in laughter.

After our shared moment, I face Jerri to ask, “Who is he?”

She looks at me as if my face just exploded.

“What?” I question.

“Whitney!” Jerri gasps. “That is Ryan Carter, Garrett Carter’s son.”

I shake my head and raise my eyebrows at her because that information does not help me
at all
.

Jerri looks distraught. “Gail said you were not familiar with NASCAR, but surely you know who Ryan Carter is?”

I give her my best “I have no freaking clue” look with big, innocent eyes. “I’m sorry,” I stammer.

She smiles warmly at me. “It’s OK. It may actually be a good thing!”

Really
! That is the second time I have heard that phrase today. I hope to figure out what it means soon.
Or do I?

After lunch, the activity within the office seems to calm down considerably. I have had a few minutes to walk around the floor to acquaint myself with the layout and some of the people who take the time to acknowledge me. The ones who do are surprisingly welcoming and polite, but I notice that I am carefully observed. It must be the new-girl syndrome.

I make a mental note to make some work friends fast. I need some inside information on this organization so I can properly do my job. I don’t want to continue to be known as the girl who has no idea about stock car racing. I make a vow to learn as much as I can about NASCAR and the GCR Racing organization. I want to make sure that I am doing my job to the best of my abilities. Plus, a little knowledge never hurt anyone.

As promised, Jerri briefly sits down with me to give me some light instructions on my job duties. I like her right away. She reminds me
of my mother. She gives me a company directory of employees, which includes office locations, telephone extensions, and job descriptions. This will be extremely helpful.

Then Jerri sighs deeply, “I feel like I need to warn you about Ryan.”

Her statement takes me aback. “Oh?”

“Yes,” she says, defeated. “He is the reason why we stay in chaos around here. Just last Sunday, he shot his mouth off in a pre-race interview with the Speed Channel about the new NASCAR car dynamics for this season. He was fined fifty thousand dollars for his derogatory statements.”

“Oh my God!” I exclaim. That is an insane amount of money!

“Oh no! It gets better!” Jerri says sarcastically. “During the race, Ryan was subsequently fined twenty-five thousand more dollars for his explicit language over his team communications during the race.”

“Whoa!”

She nods her head. “And that leaves me to deal with our sponsors, who believe that if he has all this money to blow on these fines each week, then he must not need their corporate contribution.”

“Wow!” I say again, still not knowing exactly what to say to her since she has just dumped a wealth of knowledge on me on my very first day of work. Jerri has a lot to deal with. I am not sure whether to run away screaming or stick around to watch this three-ring circus and get paid for it.

* * *

When I arrive home around six o’clock in the evening, I phone Brooke to inform her of my new job status. She screams like a teenager into the phone, “Oh my God!”

My ear is ringing! She oozes with jealously when I tell her that I am working for GCR Racing.

“Shut up! You are not serious!” she says, still in teenager mode. The very first question out of her mouth is, “Did you see Ryan Carter?”

I groan, “How do you know who he is and I don’t?”

I can tell by her voice that she is rolling her eyes at me. “Whitney! I have lived in Charlotte for the past three years! NASCAR is big business here!”

I joke, “So I have been told!”

Brooke whines like an impatient child, “Did you see him?”

“Yes!” I exclaim. And Brooke shrieks
again
like a giddy teenager. Then she begins pumping me with information about the infamous Ryan Carter.

According to the gospel of Brooke, Ryan is Garrett Ryan Carter Jr., son of NASCAR legend Garrett Ryan Carter Sr. He is the ultimate bad boy, hothead, and general troublemaker of the stock car racing world, not to mention the only heir to the GCR Racing throne. Brooke goes on and on about Ryan.

“He only dates Victoria Secret supermodels and the like, but he never dates them long.”

“Brooke, stop!” I interject. “First of all, how do you know all this information about him?”

I can hear Brooke gasp. “Whitney, he is a major celebrity. He is all over
People
magazine. In fact, he was just featured in the ‘Sexiest Man Alive’ issue. I mean…have you been living under a rock?”

“Why yes, I have!” I snap and then groan. “Well, secondly, I know why he doesn’t keep a girlfriend long.”

“Oh?” Brooke responds. “Why is that?”

“Because he is a straight-up jackass!” I exclaim.