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)
Ronan shakes his head tightly. “I should go,” he says roughly.
I force my expression to stay neutral. “You don’t have to.”
“Yes. I do.” He stands. Finishes what’s left in his pint. Tosses a few notes on the bar without ever looking at me.
Then he walks toward the exit like it’s his only salvation.
I can’t let him leave without saying it. I do so quietly. Just loud enough to reach him. “You don’t have to want me, Barnes. But don’t lie to yourself about whether you do.”
I know he heard me by the tensing of his posture, but it doesn’t stop him from walking out the door.
CHAPTER 9
Francesca
Silvercrest sprawls before us, legendary and treacherous. The track is located almost exactly halfway between Woking and Guildford and next week will host one of the most high-profile global prix on the FI calendar. The balance of sweeping straights and tight, technical corners demands both aggression and finesse, and the subtle elevation changes have a nasty habit of exposing weaknesses in even the best drivers.
The track hums with life under a flat gray sky, the wind tugging at my jacket, and I welcome the refreshing breeze. I barely slept last night because every time I closed my eyes, I saw Ronan.
His heated stare. The fire in his voice when he said I didn’t understand. And God help me, the moment his eyes dropped to my mouth like he might kiss me, all while hating me.
I should have shaken it off by now, but my brain refuses to let it go. I told myself this morning that I’d keep things simple. Stay professional. Focus on the shoot.
But now, standing here, that promise feels about as solid as the mist curling over the asphalt.
The place is crawling with crew today. Drivex banners snap in the breeze. Camera rigs line the paddock lanes. A photographer adjusts his lighting angles near the pit wall while Timmy flits from setup to setup, glittering with praise and stress.
It’s showtime.
I spot Nash near the Drivex trailer, chatting easily with Lex, who gives me a warm wave when I approach.
“Mornin’, superstar,” Lex says, his grin easy and unbothered, like he’s been doing this kind of dog-and-pony show his entire life. “Ready to pretend we all like each other for the cameras?”
I smirk, shoving my hands in the pockets of my jacket. “That’s the spirit.”
Nash looks more than relaxed, as if this is just another morning at the track instead of a staged PR circus. He lifts his fist toward me, and I knock mine against it.
“You sleep okay?” he asks, casual, but his eyes flick over me like he’s looking for cracks.
“Sure,” I lie. The word comes out too easily because no one needs to know I spent half the night staring at the ceiling while replaying last night’s conversation.
I paste on another smile, hoping neither of them notices the exhaustion tugging at the corners of my mouth. Cameras will be snapping soon and the last thing I need is for anyone to see how rattled I really am.
And yet I can’t help but ask, “Is Barnes here yet?”
Nash nods past me and I turn, watching Ronan walk through the paddock with the confidence of someone who’s actually won two podiums here. His gaze skims over the three of us standing together—and then shifts away.
Timmy, already buzzing with caffeine and sparkle, is in full creative mode. “All right, darlings, let’s make some magic. Singles first, then pairings, then group stills. No one leaves until I say we’re done or dead.”
We start with solo shots. Helmets, hands on hips, smoldering glances. The usual.
I tug at the sleeve of my racing suit, the familiar Titans purple trimmed in steel gray and crisp white. The tailoring is sleek and made to move as well as protect. Timmy had strong opinions this morning and insisted my long hair be worn loose—not in the braid I always use for race days. He wouldn’t even consider a practical ponytail like I wear for media events. He wanted it unbound because, as he put it, “This isn’t just racing, darling, it’s history. Let them see it.”
As if the suit didn’t already hug my curves. As if my chest plate didn’t give it away. No one needs to see my hair to know I’m a woman.
Still, I let him have that win. But when he came at me with a full face of makeup, I pushed back. Hard.
He pouted—actually pouted—when I refused the bronzer and blush. We settled on a touch of lip gloss and some powder to kill the shine.
Nash looks sharp in the same Titans colors beside me—his suit identical in design. He’s holding his signature helmet under one arm, matte purple with white lightning streaks crossing the top. Each driver has a unique helmet, and I enjoyed helping to design mine. It’s glossy black, detailed with hand-painted constellations arcing across the top and sides, a quiet tribute to the stars my parents always told me to chase.