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Sebastian regretted many things in his life.
Spinning out in Fuji ‘07? Sure. Ignoring the pit wall’s team orders in Silverstone ‘10? Maybe.
But losing a stupid bet to Jenson Button and now having to parade around the paddock dressed as a bloody grid girl?
This topped the list.
“Jenson, you are a dead man after this,” Sebastian grumbled under his breath as he adjusted the hem of the ridiculously short skirt that barely covered his thighs. He was already regretting making that stupid wager over their sim race battle in the hotel the night before.
Jenson, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, clapped him on the back. “A bet’s a bet, mate! You lost, and now the whole paddock gets to enjoy the sight of our reigning World Champion in high heels.”
“I hate you,” Sebastian muttered, blowing an errant strand of his now-styled blonde hair away from his face. One of the grid girls had even helped him put on some eyeliner, emphasizing those stupid, traitorous blue eyes of his.
“You love me,” Jenson shot back with a wink before jogging off to tell the rest of the drivers what was about to unfold.
Sebastian groaned.
The worst part? Christian and Helmut had been surprisingly chill about it, mostly because one, it was great PR for Red Bull (“Seb, it’s funny! The fans will love it!”), and two, because Christian had an alarming amount of photos of him already from earlier, laughing so hard he nearly choked.
The second-worst part? The bloody heels. He could drive a Formula 1 car at over 300 km/h, but walking in stilettos? Impossible.
As he made his way toward the grid, trying his best not to fall flat on his face, he heard the familiar deep chuckle of his favorite Australian tormentor behind him.
“Well, well, well,” Mark drawled, hands on his hips, taking in the sight before him. “If it isn’t Miss Germany 2011.”
Sebastian scowled, heat rushing to his face as he turned—too quickly, because the damn heels nearly betrayed him.
Mark was still in his Red Bull racing suit, arms crossed over his broad chest, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. He was clearly having the time of his life with this.
Sebastian gritted his teeth. “Not. One. Word.”
Mark, to no one’s surprise, ignored the warning entirely.
“Can I just say,” he mused, stroking his chin, “I never thought I’d see the day where Sebastian Vettel—reigning World Champion, four-time polesitter this season, my teammate—would be standing in front of me in a miniskirt and fishnet tights.”
Sebastian groaned, adjusting the ridiculously tight top Red Bull had given him. “I hope you choke on your champagne later.”
Mark, still smirking like the menace he was, took a slow, deliberate step closer. Sebastian tensed, suddenly very aware of the way Mark’s hazel eyes were dragging over him—not just mocking, but… appreciating.
Oh.
“Well,” Mark continued, voice dangerously low, “I gotta say, mate… the look suits you.”
Sebastian’s face went up in flames. “Shut up!”
Mark leaned in slightly, voice dripping with amusement. “If I’d known you had legs like that, I would’ve made you hold my grid sign years ago.”
Sebastian hated the way his breath hitched. The way Mark was too close now, his stupidly handsome smirk sending an unexpected shiver down his spine.
Jenson, passing by with Lewis, absolutely chose that moment to whistle.
Mark turned his head slightly, grinning. “See? Even the lads agree.”
Sebastian swore under his breath. “I’m never gambling again.”
“Oh, don’t be like that,” Mark teased, reaching out and flicking one of the curls that had been painstakingly styled into Sebastian’s hair. “I mean, think of the fans. Maybe you should start a new career after F1.”
Sebastian stomped on Mark’s foot—heels and all—before storming off toward the grid, swearing in rapid German.
Mark?
Mark just laughed, shaking his head.
Bloody hell, he thought, watching Sebastian’s retreating figure, maybe I shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as I am…