I swear the tips of her ears and the bridge of her nose have gone red, the only places where I can see her blush. She’s upset with herself, mortified even, to a degree that I don’t quite understand. It’s not wonderful to have several versions of our lie out there, sure, but it doesn’t warrant this reaction.
I offer her an easy shake of my head and a gentle smile. “Nothing we can’t handle,” I reassure.
But Stella just stares at me, expression unchanged, like she’s waiting for something else. If she’s expecting me to burst out in a fit of anger, she’s sorely mistaken. The longer I stare, though…I really do think she’s waiting for me to blow up.
I don’t know what else to do except push on. Try to make her feel a little better about what’s a minor mistake. “As luck would have it, I was actually in DC for a few days not long after that trip,” I say, picking up my fork and knife. “So our timeline of knowing each other doesn’t have to change much.”
It’s another beat before Stella nods, dropping her hand from her mouth and clearing her throat. “Interesting to think our paths could have crossed before the wedding,” she says. There’s a slight tremor in her voice, but she’s fighting to get it level. “What were you there for?”
I look away to let her finish composing herself and slice into my omelet. “I support this initiative that Zaid Yousef runs to get more girls and marginalized kids worldwide into STEM and motorsport. He was hosting an event there and I was the special guest.” I take a bite and chew for a moment before tacking on, “There’s actually a gala to raise money for the charity coming up in London soon, if you’d like to go as my date.”
Stella snorts. “I think being your wife automatically qualifies me to be your date, no?”
“I’d never want to presume. But…you’ll go with me?”
“Of course I will. Ilivefor a gala.” She pauses to spear a strawberry on her fork as I grin, pleased that she’s willing to join me. “Or any excuse to wear a gown, honestly. If I wasn’t a baker, I’d want to be in fashion.”
I perk up at that. “You’ll get along great with my second-youngest sister, then. She has her own line.”
“Shut up.” Stella leans forward, engrossed. “How have you not told me this sooner?”
“We haven’t exactly had much time to discuss our families and their careers. Been a little too busy figuring out each other’s first.”
She thoughtfully chews her strawberry. “True. But I guess that’s going to be important soon. When do you want me to meet your family?”
It takes effort not to grimace at her question, considering I’ve been putting off talking to them for weeks. “Let’s give you a few days to settle in first, then I’ll release the demons on you.”
An unease settles over Stella’s features, prompting me to blurt, “That’s a joke, I swear. They’re not that bad.” Well, most of the time.
Her dark eyes remain guarded. “What if your family doesn’t like me?”
The question isn’t self-conscious. It’s more like she’s trying to steel herself for the inevitability of it. Of course, there’s the minor chance that one of my siblings or either of my parents might irrationally dislike her, but I really doubt it. Dad loves anyone with business acumen. Mum will appreciate Stella’s culinary creativity. Edith will be cold and aloof, just likealways, and Andrew won’t care one way or another since the only people he pays attention to are his wife and Ron. As for Geneva and Calais…well, I should probably warn Stella to brace herself for how obsessed they’ll be with her, but where’s the fun in that?
“I can promise you right now,” I say, “they’re going to love you.”
Stella’s eyes flick over me, likely taking in my pale skin and ridiculously posh bearing. I know I come from a certain echelon that has been notoriously unkind to people who look like her, and I don’t blame her for worrying. “You sure about that?”
“Absolutely certain,” I confirm, but I won’t go into any more detail. “Now eat up. It’s race day.”
I’m waiting for the lights to go out.
This is the last time I’ll be on the starting grid this season—the last time I’ll sit in this particular car. It’s served me well, all things considered, even though I wish it could have landed me a little higher in the Drivers’ Championship. If I can gain a place and cross the line in P4 today, I’ll finish sixth in the standings, just ahead of Lorenzo Castellucci. My haters will have more ammunition, unfortunately, since I’ll have outranked their favorite, but it’s an accomplishment I’m damn proud of. And who knows, maybe next year McMorris will produce a car that will let me challenge Zaid Yousef and Axel Bergmüller—once they return—plus all the other drivers who finished in front of me.
A man can dream, can’t he?
I’m hot off the line when the five lights go dark, my reaction time so good that I immediately have to cut to the inside toavoid tagging the Specter Energy car’s rear wheels. He’s smart enough to head me off into the first turn, though, forcing me to fall back and scrap with Otto Kivinen.
Otto takes the outside line, nearly squeezing me off-track as he moves inward, but I keep on, gritting my teeth as I slot in behind him. Thankfully, it’s only a brief annoyance. The slipstream I pick up in the straight makes it all worth it, the reduced drag allowing me to gain speed and close him off in the next corner.
And what do you know—I’m in fourth.
From there, it’s not a particularly interesting race. As the laps go by, there’s enough of a gap between the drivers in front of and behind me that not much can happen. Even my pit stops—both perfectly timed and executed—don’t get me more than a fresh set of rubber. It’s not mind-numbingly boring like some races can be, but I certainly don’t have to use as much brainpower as a circuit like Monaco requires or push particularly hard.
Yet there’s no place else I’d rather be.
Maybe I was wrong to tell Stella I wasn’t living the dream. No, I’m not winning. And no, I don’t have a championship title in sight. I probably never will. The truth is, most drivers will never win a championship, let alone win a grand prix. I’m lucky that I’ve at least done the latter a few times.
But even without dozens of wins or a title under my belt, I don’t want to give up this life. I don’t want to lay it all down and walk away. I want to be here, under these lights, in front of these crowds, and on these circuits for as long as I can. They’ll have to drag me away kicking and screaming, because I’m not leaving willingly.
