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)
At least to the outside world, and that includes her parents.
Which is why I’m standing outside her flat with a bouquet of deep red roses in hand like some lovesick idiot. I want to show her in other ways how much I appreciate her. That I want more from her, but I’m not quite sure what that really is or how to go about getting there.
But yes… I want it. I have no idea if she even likes roses, but they’re classic and that seemed safe. And maybe they’ll make up for my hesitation.
The door swings open and she’s standing there in a pair of leggings and a pale sweater, hair in a cute ponytail. Her eyes go to the flowers first, widening before flicking up to me. “You brought me flowers?”
I hold them out, feeling foolish. “Thought you might like them.”
Her smile breaks slow and warm as she takes them from me. “I get you don’t have a lot of experience with this whole dating thing, but you can’t go wrong with roses.” She seems to consider that statement, then amends with a sheepish grin. “Unless she has allergies.”
“I’m assuming you don’t,” I say.
Her eyes sparkle. “I love them. They bring me great joy.” She presses her nose in close before inhaling. “God, I love that scent.”
Francesca then goes to her tiptoes and kisses me—a lingering press of lips that makes all the uncertainty totally worth it.
“Come on in,” she says, her Italian accent washing over me like a warm breeze.
I follow her inside, immediately overwhelmed with the aroma of something warm and savory simmering—tomato and garlic, which I’d actually hoped for, given she’s Italian. “Smells incredible.”
“I’m making ragù,” she says, heading straight to a cabinet where she pulls out a large glass pitcher. “This will have to do,” she says, arranging the roses. “I don’t have any vases.”
“Next time I’ll get flowers with a vase,” I comment as I move to the stove. I bend over the pot, inhale the same way Francesca did to her flowers. “What is this witchcraft?”
Francesca laughs, placing the rose-filled pitcher in the center of her dining table. “Ragù.”
“Ragù?” I echo, leaning against the counter. “Does that mean sauce?”
She glances back with a mock-offended look. “Not just sauce. Ragù is the style from Emilia-Romagna, the region I’m from.”
“I’ve obviously done my share of traveling through other countries, but isn’t Bologna the capital there? So wouldn’t this be Bolognese sauce?”
Francesca moves to my side, takes the wooden spoon resting on a small plate and gives the pot a slow stir. “Yes, this ragù style comes from Bologna and it’s a slow-cooked meat sauce made with soffritto, wine, a little tomato, a touch of milk. It’s… sacred.”
“Sacred?” I arch a brow.
She nods solemnly. “Generations of nonnas would rise from the grave to slap me if I got it wrong.”
I laugh, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Can I do anything to help?”
Francesca briefly glances at me over her shoulder and smiles. “I’m good. Just relax.”
A warmth rushes over me watching her smile. This is a different Francesca than I see on the track, and she’s certainly different from the spicy Italian I get in bed. I remember the way she looked at me last night when we came back from the party, as if she wanted to devour me. We’d barely made it past the door before I had her in my arms, and we didn’t stop until the sun came up.
The truth is… I can’t get enough of her. And not just the way she looks stretched across the sheets, hair a mess, skin warm beneath my hands. I could talk to her for hours—about racing, about nothing at all—and never get bored. That’s… new for me, and I will miss that over the next few days.
Francesca adds fresh tagliatelle to the pot of water on a rolling simmer beside the sauce. “What did you do today?”
“The usual pre-race scramble. Caught up on simulator work at headquarters. A couple of debriefs, signed off on some car tweaks for Silvercrest. Not exactly thrilling. Besides cooking a sacred meal, what about you?”
Francesca laughs. “Morning run, then a meeting with the team. Spent the afternoon working on my braking points through Turn 7. I’ve been overcooking it in practice laps. But I finally nailed the entry speed I’ve been chasing.”
Pride swells within me, stupid and automatic. I can’t believe that completely unbidden, her success brings me joy. “That’s huge,” I praise her. “I bet you’ll nail that sector in quali.”
Francesca turns, her smile soft from my approval, and I realize how much I like being able to give it.
I push off the counter, closing the small distance between us until I can rest my hand lightly on her hip. “How are you really feeling about the race?”
The truth is, for all her fire and confidence—the most self-assured woman I’ve ever met—she’s never been afraid to let me see the cracks. Sometimes it’s over coffee in the quiet of her kitchen, other times in the sleepy warmth after sex. She’s admitted fears about not being good enough, about whether she even belongs here, about the possibility that the team made a mistake taking a chance on her.