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)
Francesca’s eyes flick to me, warm and teasing. “Regretting getting involved with me yet?”
“That still remains to be seen since I haven’t met Alessio.”
Everyone laughs and Giulia rises, collecting plates.
“No, Mamma,” Francesca says, jumping up, and I find myself doing the same with my coffee cup in hand.
“You cooked, we clean,” I offer.
“But you both have qualifying tomorrow,” she says, waving us off and taking my cup from me.
A surge of fondness hits me hard and I realize… I don’t think I’ve ever been fond of a person in my life. Sure, I’ve got all kinds of feelings for Francesca I’m still wading through but looking at her mamma right now—a woman who cooked an amazing meal with love and now wants to clean up because we have qualifying—warm affection bubbles in my chest. It’s funny, because in my upbringing, mothers didn’t cook, and I was never taught to help clean up. We had staff to do that.
And my mother most definitely never worried about me getting enough rest before a race.
Giulia shoots a pointed look at Luca, who starts clearing the table. She pats her daughter on the cheek. “I know it’s hard having us here because you and Ronan aren’t getting any privacy—”
“Mamma,” Francesca exclaims, cheeks going pink, and I duck my head so they can’t see my smirk.
“I’m just saying… you could use some time together. So how about you two go for a walk while your papà and I clean up. It’s a nice night out.”
Another wave of tenderness for this woman. It’s easy to see why she offers this to her daughter, but she’s doing this for me as well. I’m spontaneously unable to stop myself and I lean down to press a light kiss to her cheek. “We will accept your kind offer, Giulia.”
I take Francesca’s hand and pull her out of the kitchen. She waves to her parents, a silly smile on her face.
We grab our jackets by the door, hers a soft quilted thing in navy, mine a thin black one with the Crown Velocity logo stitched small on the sleeve. Francesca calls out, “Ciao, Mamma! Buona notte, Papà!” and the answering “Buona notte!” follows us out the door.
Outside, the air bites sharper than I expect. March in Surrey is unpredictable—cold but damp, the kind of chill that can inch its way under your clothes. The street is quiet, lit by the glow of tall Victorian lampposts. Rows of semi-detached brick houses stretch out in both directions, their windows glowing warm with evening light. Somewhere down the road, I hear the faint bark of a dog.
Francesca pulls her jacket tighter and I fall into step beside her. For a few strides, I keep my hands shoved into my pockets, trying to contain the restless energy pulsing through me. But the street is empty, the night almost suspended in time, and before I can second-guess it, I reach out and catch her hand.
She looks up at me in surprise, eyes catching the lamplight, and then she threads her fingers through mine without hesitation. The warmth of skin against mine is grounding, a small thing that feels monumental.
For once, I don’t think about who might see us. I don’t think about the press or the stories or my team’s inevitable reaction. I think only of the woman beside me, and how, in this quiet stretch of Woking, she is the one thing in the world that makes sense.
“I’ve only ever held a girl’s hand once before,” I say, breaking the easy silence as we stroll along.
Francesca’s hand jerks in mine, her face turning to me in question. “It was this girl I liked when I was eighteen… Katherine. I brought her home to meet my parents and well… you met Vivienne. I’m sure you can imagine how it went. So, Katherine was the first and the last. I never dated or let myself like someone enough to hold their hand since… until you.”
Her fingers squeeze mine before she pulls free. I mourn the loss no more than a heartbeat because she’s slipping her hand into the crook of my arm, using her other hand to hold tight to me. She presses in closer as we walk.
“I don’t know how you survived that,” Francesca says quietly. “I’ve seen your mamma twice now, and both times were horrible. And please know I’m not judging her, merely reflecting on your situation, that you have to deal with it and her.”
“I survived by not letting anyone get close to me,” I admit. “It’s easier than having someone let you down, and I certainly didn’t want to subject anyone to this… family dynamic. Vivienne is my cross to bear since my dad has washed his hands of her.” I stop on the sidewalk and turn to face Francesca. “But today… you handled her brilliantly, and I don’t even know how to begin to thank you for what you did.”