Summary: The British dust that looms around the attractive British racer affects even the people who don't believe in it.
Words: 901
♡♡♡♡♡
Everyone says that British men have a special aura around them. Some might even say there is a thing called 'the British dust'.
You thought it was bullshit.
You never understood the hype around the British men. They were humans just like everyone else, but every single person you came across was of the opinion that they had something special.
Again, you thought that was absolute crap.
Until you met George freaking Russell.
♡♡♡♡♡
Getting a job in F1 has been your dream ever since you could remember.
Your father had always been a fan of racing, watching them every single weekend and even attending a couple of Grands Prix over the years.
When you got a bit older, you started taking an interest in the sport, your father proving to be one hell of a coach who taught you everything there was to know about the sport, the teams, the drivers, the rules.
Going into college, your one true dream was still a job in the F1 industry. A journalist, perhaps, or even a PR manager. Hell, even a janitor would be okay with you as long as you got to go to Grands Prix and meet all of the drivers and see the action in real life every single time.
And, when the opportunity presented itself to become a PR manager at Mercedes, you didn't think twice about taking the job.
Only problem was, you were tasked with being George Russell's manager. The infamous 'British dust' guy.
You didn't think he was that special. Yes, he was hot and one hell of a driver, but you didn't find anything special. He was just another British dude who you had to work with.
"Hello?" George's voice snapped you out of your daydreaming, making you look up at him where he stood in the doorstep of your office.
"Yes, hello. Come in" you stood up and shook his hand, which you found to be incredibly soft and warm, before clearing your throat and motioning for him to take a seat in front of you.
"You've already got an office, that's nice. I only have a small room which could even be classifies as a broom cupboard" he commented, smiling as he looked around your still unpacked and disorganized office.
You laughed and nodded your head, "Yeah, I heard about your rooms. Not the comfiest places on Earth to stay in, I imagine"
"They're the worst. I barely have the space to stretch my legs out and I need the space because I'm tall as a tree" he said, making you laugh out loud.
He was funny, you had to give him that. Unknown to you, he smiled when he heard you laugh, his heart swelling at the sound of your voice.
"I can imagine. Shall we get down to business then?" you asked once you'd finally calmed down.
"If we must, of course" he exhaled, giving you a subtle wink before leaning back and motioning for you to start speaking.
You went through your agenda for the day, explaining the schedule for the media days in the upcoming days and sorting out any issues he'd previously had.
By the end of your meeting, you had warmed up to the famous Brit, his energy and attitude making you feel comfortable and overall giddy on the inside.
"Do you think I'll win this weekend?" he asked as he stood up, making his way towards your door.
"I don't know, perhaps you will, perhaps you won't" you teased, shrugging your shoulders trying to be nonchalant.
"Wanna make a bet?" the twinkle in his eyes should've been a sign for you not to agree with him, but you found yourself nodding your head.
"Do tell"
"If I don't win, I'll grant you access to my media accounts for the rest of the season" he said.
"And if you win?"
"You go on a date with me" he bluntly said, making you freeze.
This would be highly unprofessional, going out with George even if it was for a bet, but something in you told you to say yes.
"You've got yourself a deal, Mr. Russell"
What harm could a date do, right?
♡♡♡♡♡
Damn you, George.
He had actually done it.
He won the race.
You were proud of him, you really were. But the butterflies in your stomach freaking out over the fact that you now had to go on a date with George were sending nerves to every single cell in your body.
You took a moment before stepping out of the Mercedes garage to find George and get the media part covered.
"Congratulations!" you squealed once you met up with him, surprised when he enveloped you in his arms and lifted you off the ground, spinning you around.
"I did it because of you" he whispered as he sat you down, not letting go of you.
"Because of me?" you questioned, your eyebrows scrunching together.
"I couldn't pass up the opportunity to take you out, could I?" he teased, his breath hot on your neck under your ear.
Your body let out an involuntary shudder, which made George laugh and finally release you from the tight and long hug.
"You are one of a kind, George Russell" you commented, but a big smile couldn't be wiped off your face.
"What can I say, the British dust must really be a thing" he winked.
You rolled your eyes and pushed him towards the reporters waiting for interviews with the race winner.
Damn you, British dust.
Damn you, George Russell.
♡♡♡♡♡
