Instead, I lift my microphone and say, “Stella and I figured there was no use in waiting. We wanted to get married as soon as possible, and with our crazy schedules—she’s a very successful business owner, you know—we thought there was no better time or place than right here in Las Vegas.” I flash my most charming smile to the crowd. “If anything, having our wedding so quickly has allowed me to focus exclusively on this weekend and what’s at stake.”
Steven obviously wants to press for details, but he’s cut off by Dev Anderson grabbing Reid Coleman’s hand and declaring that he’d also like to announce their marriage.
“We may race for different teams,” Dev says, grinning so widely that I’m amazed it fits on his face. “But our love is real.”
Reid rolls his eyes and removes his hand from Dev’s clutches, though he doesn’t seem particularly upset. We’re all used to Dev’s antics. He’s gotten a little more insufferable now that he’s moved from one of the worst teams on the grid to one of the best—if notthebest—but at least he’s entertaining. The Mascort team is lucky to have him filling in for their numberone driver, Zaid Yousef, while he recovers from the broken wrists he sustained in the Singapore crash.
“I don’t think your girlfriend would appreciate you saying that,” Reid remarks before turning his attention back to Steven. “Can we talk about racing now, please?”
Steven goes red in the face and clears his throat. “Right. Yes. Of course. As I mentioned, Reid, McMorris and D’Ambrosi are nearly neck and neck in the points. Do you think D’Ambrosi will be able to pull further ahead after this weekend?”
Reid, dressed in head-to-toe D’Ambrosi red, doesn’t glance my way as he answers. “We have a strong car that should perform well on this track. There’s a good chance we’ll be able to expand our lead, but we do have a rookie on our team who’s still learning the car. It certainly makes things tougher.”
What he’s not saying is that the man who’s supposed to be in that other D’Ambrosi car, Lorenzo Castellucci, will likely never drive again. And even though I had nothing to do with that crash, my harsh words hang over every mention of Lorenzo like a storm cloud. What’s worse, though, is that Reid hasn’t spoken to me directly since. It seems the Scuderia D’Ambrosi protocol is to shun me.
But that’s fine. This is the first time since Singapore that the first question asked of me wasn’t something related to Lorenzo or my rant. My wedding and whirlwind romance are the new hot topic.
And if talking about Stella is the key to getting the heat off me, then I’ll brag about my wife in every conversation from now until the day we part.
Chapter 13
Stella
I’ll be honest, if anyone had asked me if I knew the difference between Formula 1 and NASCAR before this week, I would have said no. But I was a straight-A student in school, and I’m hideously competitive on top of that, so I’ve done nothing but study up over the past few days in the moments between meetings and conference calls. I might as well be part of the pit crew at this point.
But no YouTube video or Wikipedia page could have prepared me for actually being at a race.
Vegas isprobablynot the best choice for my first to attend. For starters, the race is on a Saturday night instead of a Sunday—which, apparently, is not the norm—and as Thomas warned me, this is a grand prix on steroids.
I’m seeing that firsthand as we slowly pull into a cordoned-off parking area, having driven no more than a single mile per hour as Thomas fought through traffic to get here. Between the flashing neon lights, the crowds snapping photos, and the general chaos, I’m doubting my decision to make this our first public outing. Maybe I should have come for media day or forthe practice sessions, when things would have been so much calmer, but we decided race day would be the most significant time to debut our relationship.
The new ring on my left hand is just loose enough that I can spin it around my finger, a nervous tic I’ve picked up in the short time since Thomas slid it on.
“I think Cartier suits you a little better than Krispy Kreme,” he joked as we both stared down at the diamond glinting in the light of my hotel room. “But I can get you another doughnut if you’d like.”
“I prefer diamonds,” I answered, unable to tear my eyes away from the ring.
Even now, as I twist it around and around, I’m still thrown by how much more I like it than the one Étienne got for me. The solitaire diamond on this one is just as big as the other, but the band is slim and gold, compared to the thick, gem-studded platinum one of my first ring.It’s bold and flashy, just like you, Étienne declared when he pushed the slightly-too-tight thing on my finger. I almost laughed when Thomas said nearly the exact opposite.
“I hope it’s not too much,” he fretted. “I know you said you didn’t care what I got, but I figured you’d want something classic. Nothing too gaudy. And with a gold band because all the jewelry I’ve seen you wear is gold.”
It’s wild that a man I met just over a week ago knows my taste better than the one I was with for five years—that he’s paid enough attention to notice such a small detail as my jewelry choices.
“Just enough,” I choked out.
We’ve only spoken a few words since we left my room. I’m tempted to crack some half-assed jokes to ease the tension, but nothing is coming to me. I roll my lips between my teeth andwatch as Thomas eases the low-slung McMorris sports car into a parking space, turning the wheel with the heel of his palm like it’s nothing. And I suppose it is to a man who’s about to go race at stomach-dropping speeds.
There are already a few photographers milling around the car, taking pictures of us through the tinted windows. Part of me wants to turn to Thomas and demand he drive me back to the hotel, though thankfully there’s a braver part that has me swiping my tongue over my teeth to make sure there’s no lipstick on them and then hauling myself out of the passenger seat. My grin is brighter than the camera flashes.
Internally, though, I’m a quivering, shaking mess. I’m sure Thomas can feel it, especially when I slide my hand into his.
A look of shock passes over his face at the contact. “Jesus,” he breathes out, “your fingers arefreezing.”
I nearly rip away from him, his words reminding me of Étienne in the worst way possible at the worst moment possible. I’d rather be the one to pull back this time instead of being rejected, especially in front of all these cameras. But before I can, Thomas presses my hand to his chest, keeping his on top of mine to warm it. His gold wedding band shimmers under the lights.
“We’ve got to get you some gloves,” he comments, more to himself than to me. “I should have brought some, I’m sorry. Didn’t realize how chilly it was going to be tonight.”
He stares down at me, checking to make sure I’m okay, but I’m too surprised by his actions to reply. He must not believe I’m fine, because he gives me a reassuring smile next, then closes the small gap between us to speak into my ear.
