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)
Luca’s laughing now, shaking his head. “Straight toward the olive trees! I’m shouting, ‘Brake! Brake!’ and she—”
“—is shouting, ‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it!’” Giulia finishes, the two of them talking over each other, laughing so hard they can barely breathe.
Francesca drops her hand from her face just enough to glare at them, but she’s fighting a smile. “I didn’t hit the trees.”
“No,” Luca says, eyes warm with pride, “but only because I grabbed the wheel.”
The three of them dissolve into another round of laughter, and I sit back, watching it unfold. No scathing words, no bitterness—a family who knows one another’s stories by heart and loves telling them anyway.
“Nothing’s changed,” I tell her father with a wink. “Still takes her corners too fast.”
“Better than being slow,” Francesca fires back, and we all laugh.
As the conversation flows and pasta is devoured, I hear story after story about Francesca’s teenage years, her first race in Italy, the time she tried to make her own pasta and somehow glued it to the ceiling. The tales keep coming because I keep asking questions, starved for more information about this woman.
This isn’t what I grew up with. My parents’ dinner table was a cold stage for silence or carefully curated pleasantries. But sitting here, hearing her parents tease her with affection, watching her throw it right back at them, I don’t feel jealous.
I feel… glad. Genuinely glad she has this. That she knows what love without conditions looks like.
When her father pours me another glass of wine and Francesca asks if I’d like to stay for tiramisu, it’s the easiest thing in the world to smile and say, “Absolutely.”
CHAPTER 22
Francesca
The first free practice session—FP1—isn’t about glory or points. It’s a sixty-minute shakedown, a chance to test out the car, run through test programs, and see how it responds on the track before qualifying and race day. Teams swap between different fuel loads, try new setups, and push just enough to gather useful data without risking the car. Times matter, but not as much as the information we take back to the garage.
Still, there’s no denying the surge of gleeful satisfaction when the checkered flag waves and my name sits sixth on the timing sheet.
As the mechanics and engineers swarm my car, I remove my helmet before peeling off my gloves. My fingers are damp with sweat inside the Nomex lining and my hair is even sweatier as I pull off the balaclava. Engineers move around me with the quick precision of muscle memory, plugging in cooling fans, checking tire pressures, and downloading telemetry.
And then I see him.
Ronan’s leaning against the low wall outside our garage in the paddock, fire suit unzipped to his waist, undershirt clinging to him in all the right ways. His arms are folded, ankles crossed, posture loose, his eyes locked on me.
“P6,” he says when I walk over, voice low enough that only I can hear it. I settle in beside him, the picture of two drivers making small talk. “You’re making half the grid nervous, Accardi.”
I flash him a grin as I pull the zipper down, shrugging out of my sleeves and letting the fire suit fall to my waist. “Good. I’m aiming to make you nervous too.”
His mouth tips in that slow, dangerous smile that never fails to short-circuit my brain. He stares across the paddock. “You already do. But not because of the track.”
I tilt my head, pretending I’m not hanging on every word. “Then why?”
His head turns my way and he leans in a fraction, close enough that the rest of the garage blurs into background static. “Because I’m invested now in your success. It’s starting to mess with my head.”
I laugh it off, but it’s not the flippant sound I was aiming for. It’s much softer, genuinely from the heart. “Careful, Barnes. Someone might think you like me.”
His knuckles graze my forearm, the touch light enough to be deniable if anyone’s watching. But it heats me all the way to my toes.
“Go do your press,” he murmurs, straightening up. “I’ll see you after.”
I nod, already missing the heat of his proximity as I turn toward the press room, and realize I’m smiling like a complete idiot.
Inside, the air is a little too cold from the AC, the overhead lights buzzing faintly. Nash is already seated at the table, leaning back in his chair with that lazy grin he’s become known for. I slide into the empty seat beside him and tap the mic to ensure it’s on.
We start with the usual—track grip levels, weather forecasts, tire choices. I keep my answers short but confident, the way the team likes it. Then one of the reporters leans forward, pen poised.
“Francesca, as the only woman in Formula International, is there extra pressure to perform? To prove you belong here?”