“Foarte bine,” Phaedra sighs into my ear. “Beautiful, beautiful.”
I dive around turn 9, Powell in my mirrors, but with the shape his tyres are in, it’s all over unless I make a mistake. As I twist through the marina section, I’m riding on air. Only a few turns to go and the checkered flag is mine.
Rounding the final corner is both unreal and the most concentrated reality I’ve ever experienced. The black-and-white churning of the flag plucks a cord of emotion that wrenches a tearless sob from me as I streak past, Powell mere yards behind.
I’m shouting deliriously, and through the radio I hear the team whooping as well. The crowd in the grandstands are thrashing like a field of flowers in the wind, and as I spy a wildly flapping Romanian flag—blue, yellow, and red—I’m laughing and crying all at once.
On my cool-down lap, a turn worker leans into the track with another Romanian flag, signaling me to stop and take it. I know it’s frowned upon as a safety hazard, but I can’t resist. I pull over and the young, dark haired man rushes to the car, shouting, “Ce zi glorioasa!”—What a glorious day!—and I feel like a king returning from battle.
I finish the lap, clutching the flag in my gloved fist, and head for the parc fermé area near the podium. Once stopped,I take a moment to pull myself together with a few deep breaths, then remove the steering wheel and wriggle out of the car, climbing up to stand on top, the flag clamped in both hands in triumph.
As I display it over my head a final time, the roar of the crowd surges. I hop down and stride to the fencing to throw myself into the beckoning throng of team members.
Someone takes the flag and I remove my helmet, panting with excitement and exhaustion as I comb a hand through my hair. My grin, after ninety minutes of my face being nearly immobilized in the fitted helmet, seems to split me in half.
Cameras lift and hands wave, questions and congratulations are called out, and through all the commotion…I see her.
The formerly pristine white clothes are a bit wrinkled, her auburn hair is disheveled, and her cheeks are pink with wide-eyed thrill. I touch the anonymous hands being held out as I pass, but the only thing in my sight is Phaedra.
There’s an expectant pause as I stop, and we survey each other.
“Nice driving, Legs.”
I remove my gloves and pull her into my arms, each of us on one side of the fence. “I had help.”
I kiss her twice, three times. Our aim is poor in our enthusiasm, overjoyed to be touching, however inelegant the execution.
“I have to go weigh,” I tell her with regret, nodding toward where the scale is. “But I don’t want to let you go.”
She kisses me again. “Scram. I’ll catch up with you after you’re soaked in champagne.”
Suddenly Klaus is there, in the crush of people.
“Congratulations,” he tells me, pride shining in his dark eyes. “You’ve done Emerald proud. Thank you.” He shakes my hand, smacking my shoulder firmly. “Edward would thank you as well.”
My throat is tight, and the look Phaedra gives me tells me she knows what I’m feeling—that this is the praise I always wished I’d got from my uncle, had he been a good man.
Klaus’s attention shifts to Phaedra. “A winning combination, you two. I’m glad you agreed to serve as race engineer today when I asked.”
She chuckles. “Glad I could help. And did I have a choice? Iambasically wearing the white flag of surrender.” Eyeing me with amusement, she adds, “That was probably this guy’s plan all season.”
“It wasn’t surrender I wanted,” I assure her. “You’re not easily overthrown, Phaedra Morgan. An equal partner, not a conquest.”
“Well, on track a white flag means a slow-moving vehicle ahead,” she teases. “But it still fits—I’ve been slow in admitting I can’t live without you. Admitting it to myself, and to you.”
“I love that you’ve challenged me to battle for my place in your heart.” I take her hands. “Do you really have no clue why I imagined you in white after that first race?”
Her brows draw together and she offers a perplexed smile. Seconds later, her eyes go wide. “Wait, are you talking about—?” She bites her lip. “Do you mean what I think?”
“I do.”
“That’s crazy—it’s so soon… isn’t it?”
“A long engagement is fine, if you’ll have me.” I kiss her again. “Stay fierce and make me earn every moment.” I shake my head with a helpless smile. “I know I’m not doing this properly. There’s no ring.”
She flings her arms around me. “It’s far from being round,” she says, her broken laugh half tears, “but we’re technically standing next to a ring right now.”
“Twenty-one rings a year, draga mea. And you are the jewel in each one.”
