On lap forty-five, my engineer updates me on driver positions. At the front, Reid and Dev have been battling, and therehave been plenty of switch-ups behind too, including Arlo making his way up from P10 to P7. It’s a great improvement, but unfortunately, the second D’Ambrosi driver—a rookie who’s been trying his best to keep up with the expectations set by the man he replaced—is ahead of him by more than five seconds.
With Reid now in first and his teammate in sixth, McMorris’s chances of beating D’Ambrosi in the Constructors’ Championship are out the window. It’s a shame, but sometimes that’s just how seasons go. It’s amazing we even came that close. Next season, though…we’re coming for that third-place spot at the very least.
When the checkered flag waves, I take care to thank the entire team over the radio, including all the people back at the factory. And then, cheeky as it is, I say, “And, Stella, if you’re listening, thank you for taking a gamble on me. You’ve brought me more luck than I could have ever hoped for.”
Even if she’s not tuned in to our team radio, there’s no way the broadcasters will resist airing it, and undoubtedly the public will eat it up too. It’s a little nod to our Vegas wedding and a heartfelt shout-out to my wife—how could anyone resist that? It might not endear me to everyone, but maybe it’ll take the edge off some of the general hate. And I really do want Stella to know how much I appreciate her giving our faux marriage a chance.
I also tack on my congratulations to Reid on winning his first Drivers’ Championship. It’s mind-blowing that he’s pulled it off, and I’m still certainsomethinghas gone on behind the scenes to make it happen. But a win is a win, and it’s exciting to see someone other than Zaid or Axel walk away with the trophy for the first time in years.
In parc fermé, I climb out of the car and go through the usual end-of-race procedures before heading back to theMcMorris garage. I’m greeted with hugs and handshakes and high fives, relief palpable now that the season is over. We’re all ready for a break—from this world, from one another, and from the stress of keeping an elite team running. Of course, not everyone will get extended time off, or even have their holiday begin now. I’m almost certain the engineers never rest, and Arlo, for instance, will have to stay a few more days for all the mandatory postseason testing.
Me, though? I’m out of here the second my race debrief and all my media duties are over. Perks of being the senior driver on the team.
But truthfully, the work never stops. I’ll still be in the gym nearly every day, spending plenty of time in my home race simulator, and I’ll be back at our Silverstone headquarters before I know it. And as much as I’m desperate for a break, I’m not particularly mad about the prospect of going back to work in a few weeks.
To my delight, Stella is once again waiting for me at the back of the garage, a green headset draped around her neck. From the way she’s beaming, I know she heard my radio message.
Her arms are around my waist a moment later, our chests pressed together. Her heels are a smidge shorter tonight, though no less dangerous than usual, forcing her to tilt her head back a little farther. The long line of her neck has me tempted to press my lips to the very top of the column. I don’t resist the urge.
Her giggle vibrates against my lips, and I don’t even care if no one’s watching. This is just for me.
“You are so fuckinggood,” Stella gushes as I pull back, her hands cupping my jaw. “I take back everything I ever said about you being a loser.”
I grin down at her. “I mean, technically, Iama loser. I didn’t come close to winning the championship.”
“If that was losing, then I’d watch you do it anytime. That was a damn good drive.”
Her joy is infectious, flooding my body. I thought I was happy before, but hearing her praise…I don’t have a name for the emotion rushing through my bloodstream. Whatever it is, I like it more than I should.
“Thank you,” I say, pressing my cheek farther into one of her palms. “Glad to have survived the season. Glad wealldid.”
Some of us may not have come out of it unscathed, mentally or physically, but we’re still alive. In a season like this one, that’s all we could have asked for.
I clear my throat to dislodge the heaviness threatening to settle there. “Anyway,” I say. “I have a few more things to wrap up, but I’ll see you in the morning for our flight out. You ready to go home?”
There’s a flicker in her eyes at the wordhome, and I fear I’ve said the wrong thing. I don’t know how else to phrase it, though.Ready to go back to my place?No, too full of innuendo.Ready to be married but completely platonic housemates?Christ, that’s worse.
But then the flicker passes, a smile blooms across her face, and—fuck.Fuck.I’m not sure if living together is a good idea anymore.
Because keeping my hands off my wife is going to be next to impossible.
Chapter 17
Stella
London is wet. Dreary. Hideously cold. Just plain nasty. And I’m thrilled to be here.
This is far from my first visit, but my face was still glued to the window as the plane descended, admiring the gray-green scenery. Even in the back seat of the sedan Thomas hustled me into, I was paying more attention to the (less-than-thrilling) views of the congested M4 than anything he was saying.
But now that we’re easing our way into Kensington, the reality of our situation starts pressing down on me.
“Is my stuff already here?” I ask Thomas.
The look he gives me says he’s already talked about this, but he graciously repeats himself. “Yes, everything your assistant sent over arrived yesterday. The staff hasn’t unpacked anything, but if you want them to, just tell me and I’ll pass along the message.”
I’m curious as to what kind of staff he has. Maids, chefs, maybe even a full-on butler? He seems the type to ring a little bell and call for a man named Alfred.
I don’t get a chance to ask, because the sedan comes to a smooth stop in front of a row of attached houses. Each one has a slightly different exterior, but they’re all architecturally stunning—and expensive. I’m betting every house on this street costs at least a cool £10 million. Even the tiny front gardens and winter-barren landscaping can’t hide the wealth that lives here.
