“We?”
Ofcoursethat’s what he questions. “Yes, your highness,we. This is a group project now. We’re going to clear your name and make sure you keep that sponsorship.”
Thomas scoffs. “That’s a reach, Stella.”
It probably is, but I’m up for the challenge. “I already said I was going to get Reid to talk to you, but we’re going to get you straight to Lorenzo Castellucci. He’s our key to getting your reputation back on track.”
Thomas stays quiet, but it doesn’t matter. The wheels are turning so loudly in my head that it would drown him out anyway.
My gaze darts back out the window. A few minutes ago, I was loving the calm pace of life out here, but now I’m ready to be back in the thick of the city. Back to the chaos I thrive in.
“Can we go home?” I ask, turning back to him. “Do we have to stay out here any longer?”
The wordhomeslips out accidentally. I meantgo back to London, or somewhere other than that manor full of people conspiring against him—against us.
But Thomas doesn’t seem to mind the phrasing. He gives my hand one last squeeze, then lets go in favor of putting both of his back on the wheel. He’s hanging a U-turn a second later, gunning it back toward the house.
“How fast can you pack?” he asks.
“Ten minutes, tops.”
“Perfect.” The soft smile he shoots me has my heart lifting to dangerous heights. “Let’s go home, love.”
Chapter 22
Thomas
It’s wild to think this could be the last year I set foot in the McMorris factory—and wilder still that I can’t talk to anyone about it.
My manager has instructed me to keep quiet and let him do his job. While he’s out hunting for new sponsorship deals and stealthily feeling out whether any teams will have seat openings after next season, I have to be at HQ finishing up my postseason duties and acting like everything’s fine and dandy.
Today, I’m back at Silverstone after a day spent with Stella in London, recovering from the aftermath of the Cotswolds trip. I’ve done my season debrief with the team, filmed social media bits to get us through the winter, and had my last session on the simulator before we retire this season’s car. The next time I’m here, it will be to test our setup for next season, but I have a monthlong break before then.
It’s dark out when I head down to the building’s lobby, passing by classic McMorris F1 cars from bygone years. This has been my home for so long; four of my cars from previousseasons sit in front of the walls of glass, a reminder of each year I’ve spent with them so far. The fifth will join them soon.
To think I may not return…it’s a thought I need to hurry up and come to terms with, or at least stop dwelling on. Truth is, I don’t know for certain that they’ll get rid of me. Maybe I’ve proved myself valuable enough to keep, even without the A.P. Maxwell International sponsorship.
But I’m not getting younger, and fresh talent is knocking at the door every day, as Arlo Wood and Finley Clarke are keen to remind me.
“Tommy boy!”
I exhale and stop at the voice calling after me, turning to find Arlo hustling up. He’s got his cap on backward and is wearing a jacket that won’t keep him warm in the December cold, but he looks every part the hip heartthrob.
“Aren’t you sick of me?” I ask as I button up my coat. “We’ve been together for a whole season and you still want to talk?”
“Just getting my last dose in before you’re gone for the winter.” He grins and rocks back on his heels. “You going to Zaid’s gala?”
The event is in a week, the day after the FIA’s annual prize-giving gala, which neither Arlo nor I have to attend because we weren’t in the top three finishers of the Drivers’ Championship and McMorris didn’t come close to winning the Constructors’ Championship. Zaid came in second, with Axel Bergmüller in third, but after the Singapore crash and their injuries, it’s still up in the air whether either one will be at the prize-giving in Baku. Like Lorenzo, Axel hasn’t been seen publicly since the crash, but he’s at least put out a few press statements saying he’ll be racing again next season.
“I’ll be there,” I answer. “Are you going?”
Arlo nods, but I don’t hear anything he says next, because I’m distracted by my phone buzzing with a text from Stella.
STELLA:What time will you be home tonight?
“Sorry, one sec,” I mumble to Arlo as I start to type.
THOMAS:No later than 10. You okay?
