Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
I’m tempted to give her the standard Ronan Barnes deflection—to be glib about how boring I was off the track—but she’s watching me like she’ll know if I lie.
And part of me is in awe that she wants to dig deep with me. Women don’t usually look past the fame and money.
“Busy,” I say finally, and she settles back onto me. My hand absently glides along her spine. “That’s what it was like. School during the week, karting every spare second. My dad handled the schedule. My mum… she showed up when she could. Which usually meant when she was sober enough not to cause a scene.”
Her breathing shifts. “She… made scenes?”
I give a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Awards dinners, qualifying days, school events. You name it. Always a surprise what version of her I’d get. Eventually, I told her to stop coming to races altogether because it was easier for us both. For everyone. I didn’t have to worry about being embarrassed and she could stay at the house and drink without anyone judging her.”
Francesca offers a sympathetic hum and at once, I regret letting her in that deep. Pity isn’t an emotional response I’ve ever been able to take. I shift, propping myself up on an elbow. “It wasn’t all bad. I learned to stay in my lane—literally. Driving was the only place I could control the variables.”
“That sounds… lonely,” she says softly as she looks up at me.
I don’t answer right away. Lonely is not a word I like, even if it’s accurate. “It made me good at being alone. There’s a difference.”
She studies me for a moment longer before a small, almost wistful smile tugs at her mouth. “That’s so different from me, it’s hard to understand. My family’s… well, they’re loud, opinionated and competitive as hell. But they’ve always been there. Every race they could make it to, every phone call, every decision. I’ve always felt very loved.”
It’s a life I can’t even picture, one where unconditional support isn’t something you have to earn. “They sound amazing,” I say, a bit jealous that I will never have that.
“They’re not perfect,” she admits with a laugh, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead. “But they’re mine. And I know how lucky I am.”
“Yeah.” My thumb finds the curve of her cheekbone. “I can tell you do.”
She leans into the touch, and for a second, I forget the rest of the world exists. But then I remember a name I’ve been trying to shove aside since earlier tonight. “Speaking of people in your corner… you and Carlos.”
Her head comes up, golden eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Still on that, huh?”
“Not on it,” I say, even though the twist in my gut betrays me. “Just… clarifying.”
Her smile blooms, slow and smug. “Carlos is one of my best friends. That’s it. No secret romance, no unresolved tension. You can stop scowling every time he’s within two meters of me.”
I let my gaze drift over her face, and I can tell she means it. More importantly, I trust her. “All right,” I murmur. “You’re convincing.”
“Convincing?” She swats at me, laughing. “I told you the truth.”
I bite back a smile because the faint pink in her cheeks is fucking adorable. I don’t say that. Instead, I let my fingers trail down the line of her arm, slow enough to feel the goose bumps rise.
She quiets after a moment, eyes searching mine. “I saw you talking to Posey tonight.”
I roll onto my back again, exhaling through my nose. She stays propped on her elbow. “Yes… told her I regretted the way I handled things. She didn’t throw a drink at me, so I’m counting it as progress.”
Francesca’s expression softens, the teasing gone. “That’s not just progress. That’s… you trying.”
The words settle deep within me, and I’m not sure if I feel pride or discomfort. It’s definitely strange. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”
“It is a thing,” she says simply and then rests her head against my shoulder like she’s staking a claim.
I curl my arm around her, the quiet stretching between us in a way that’s grounded.
I could get used to this if I’m not careful.
CHAPTER 16
Francesca
The hiss of an air gun cuts like a starter pistol. I lean against the padded wall at the edge of our mock pit lane, arms folded, watching the crew descend on Nash’s car in a blur. Tires are swapped in the blink of an eye, the jack slams down, and the front tire gunner slaps the nose with a shout of, “Go, go, go!”
Nash launches forward in a short, fierce burst, the rear tires chirping against the concrete. The “lane” here at headquarters isn’t full length—just a painted strip long enough for him to accelerate a few car lengths before braking hard on the mark so the pit crew can do their job. Without screaming crowds or rival cars flying past, it’s a controlled environment, but when a fraction of a second is like gold, it’s every bit as intense.