So why the actual fuck was she still running?
“You’re good at running,Dubois.” My voice was lower than I intended, rougher, grittier. “But we both know what happens when you stop.”
Her pupils dilated. If I leaned in just a little more, I could taste her again. We were alone. No press, no eyes, no ears. It would be so easy. She smirked, and it was something between a challenge and utter mischief. Fuck, she was dangerous to my health.
I really needed to?—
“There you two are.” Marco’s voice crashed through the moment like a goddamn wrecking ball. I clenched my jaw, my fingers curling at my sides. He glanced between us, crossing his arms over his chest. The breeze carried the smell of his cologne, overpowering her feminine scent and making me want to throttle him. “Looking cozy. Again.”
Aurélierolled her eyes, her posture stiffening. “It’s called a conversation, Marco. You should try it sometime.”
He snorted. “Right. Conversation. Just don’t forget we’ve got obligations. The media’s waiting, and they’re itching for their next story.”
Auréliemuttered something under her breath and turned to leave. I wanted to stop her, or say something, but I didn’t. I just gaped at her heart-shaped ass, because apparently my too-male brain was incapable of anything else.
Marco turned back to me. “You okay, mate?”
“Fine.”
“Right. Well, focus on the car, not on her.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “You’re not just fighting for points, Fraser. You’re fighting to control the narrative at this point.”
It would be a hell of a lot easier if I didn’t think about her all the goddamn time.
“You fucking sound like Tessa, mate. It’s annoying.”
“All that PR training has paid off, don’t you think?”
“Piss off.”
“Seriously, Fraser. Right now, someone else is writing yourstory for you.”
I glanced at him, his words sinking in. It wasn’t just about racing anymore. Every move I made—on and off the track—was scrutinized, dissected, and repackaged for public consumption.
But maybe it was time to let myself picture something else in my life. And maybe, for the first time in too long, Iwantedthe story to be about more than just the racing.
The garage wasits own ecosystem as I zipped up my race suit and pulled my helmet on. The humming of power tools and clipped instructions from engineers was as familiar as the back of my hand.
Home.
This was my home.
And my head was finally fucking clear.
Marco leaned against the pit wall, his helmet tucked under his arm, exuding the easy confidence of someone who’d been here many times before. His eyes caught mine, and his smirk deepened, that trademark mix of camaraderie and competition shining through.
“You ready for this, mate?” he called over the buzz of the garage.
“Always,” I replied, pulling on my gloves with a sharp tug. The action steadier than I felt.
“Good,” Marco said as he pulled on his helmet. “Because I’m not holding back.”
“You never do,” I shot back, climbing into the cockpit of my own car.
Sliding into the cockpit felt like slipping on armor. The seat cradled me, the harness and HANS device strapping me in so tightly it was as if the car and I were one. My gloved hands gripped the wheel, the tactile grooves grounding me in the present. The controlsin front of me blinked to life, an array of lights and numbers that I could read like a second language.
Marco’s car rolled out first, disappearing down the pit lane. I followed seconds later. The crowd’s roar was distant, muted by the sound of the engine.
“Radio check,” my engineer’s voice chirped in mycomms.
