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She was standing on the other side of the room. He made a move to get up, but she had already walked over to him.

“What is it, an energy drink?”

“Not exactly. You might not like it. It’s kind of sweet.”

He handed it to her.

She took a sip. “Mmmmmm.” Her eyes ballooned. “Is this a GoGo squeeZ?”

“Uh, yeah.”

She sat down beside him and took another sip. “I love GoGo squeeZ.”

As she sat down, that shirt hiked up a bit.

Is she wearing underwear?

Stupid question. Of course she’s wearing underwear.

Then again, she did have those flame-retardant pants on, and those are kind of like underwear so maybe—no, she wouldn’t take them off if she wasn’t wearing underwear.

He stared at the hem of that shirt.

She wouldn’t leave herself exposed like that.

He tried to calculate how many inches it was from that hem before he would reach her—

He rocked back and forth and suddenly realized she’d jostled his shoulder. He looked over.

“Didn’t you hear me? I asked you what flavor this is?”

“Um, I’m not sure.”

She gave him the bottle and he tilted his head down so she wouldn’t see him staring at her lips.

They were on this straw. That I’m sucking now.

“So?” she asked.

He lifted his head. “Huh?”

“What flavor is it?”

“Oh. Um. Zippin’ Zingin’ Pear.”

He handed it back to her, watching her lips suck on that straw. He quickly slung the sleeves of his racing suit over his lap and placed his hands there.

“I’ve never had it before,” she said. “It’s good. My favorite is Max Mango.”

“Yeah, Max Mango’s good. My favorite is Apple Strawberry Rhubarb.”

She frowned. “Rhubarb?”

“What’s wrong with rhubarb?”

“Nothing, I suppose. But there’s no way it can be better than Max Mango.”

“Well, it is. Max Mango is good, but Apple Strawberry Rhubarb is better.”

She shook her head. “It can’t be.”

“Yes, it can.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Was it written somewhere in your contract that you have to disagree with me on everything?”

She laughed. “No. It’s just rhubarb doesn’t sound like it would taste good.”

“So, you’ve never actually tasted it.”

“No.”

“Well, then how do you know?”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Next race, I’ll bring you one, and you can see for yourself.”

She smiled. “Okay.”

There was a moment of silence.

He turned to her as she turned to him.

“I—” he started to say.

“I—” she said at the same time.

There was another silent pause.

Rocco needed to say what he was going to say. And he needed to say it before she said anything.

“I never objected to a woman driving Formula 1,” he said before glancing over at her. “I know I made it sound like I did. I didn’t even really object to you driving Formula 1.”

She made a face.

He chuckled. “Okay, well, maybe I did. But that was only because of our spat on social media.” He swallowed. “You hit a nerve when you talked about men moving up from F3 to F1 while women were being overlooked. You were right, of course. But I took it as an attack against me.”

Her brow wrinkled. “Why? I wasn’t even thinking of you when I tweeted that.”

That’s exactly what Dario kept telling me.

He sighed. “I guess I’m overly sensitive because of the way I made it to F1. I had an advantage over other drivers. There were good F2 drivers—every bit as good as me. So, sometimes it feels like what got me to F1 wasn’t solely based on merit—as a driver, I mean.”

She frowned. “But you’ve won three world championships.”

“It still bothers me, and when you posted that tweet, I took it as an attack, and so I attacked back.”

“Were you always following my tweets?”

“No. Someone else brought it to my attention.”

Carolyn Wickham. But he wasn’t about to tell her that.

“I never would have said the things I did, Nico, otherwise. Not that I’m making excuses, I’m not. But … I’m sorry.”

He heard her sigh.

“I’m just as much to blame as you are,” she said. “I felt like I was being attacked too. So, like you, I attacked back. I’m sorry too. Some of the things I said … even Charles, who’s always been my biggest cheerleader, has scolded me for some of the things I tweeted.”

“Charles, he’s your friend who came to the first race in Vegas and this one in Barcelona?”

Nico nodded.

Rocco grinned. “He told me I should tell Casey to consider changing the color of our car and racing suits. Let’s see, uh, he suggested yellow, orange, pink, peach, and lilac.

He said those are positive colors, which are bound to yield positive results.

He said he’d read it somewhere but couldn’t remember where. ”

Nico laughed. “That sounds like Charles.”

“Seems like a good friend.”

“He is. Like Dario.”

“He mentioned someone else—Templeton? He said you wished he could have come too.”

He watched a warm smile like a match light up her face, her cheeks bathed in a warm glow.

She loves him.

Rocco cleared his throat. “Is that your—boyfriend?”

She burst out laughing. It took her nearly a minute to stop.

She grinned. “Templeton’s a rat.”

He blinked. “A rat?”

She nodded. “He’s my pet.”

He wrinkled his brow. “You have a pet rat?”

“I do.”

“I never knew anyone who had a pet rat.”

“Well, now you do.”

He nodded. “Now I do.”

Rocco peered at her. What kind of girl has a rat for a pet? An interesting one, that’s for sure.

“Did you grow up in Vegas?” he asked. “Is that where your family’s from?”

She stiffened, and he could kick himself for having asked.

I guess family is a sore subject with her.

She was quiet. He had only her profile to look at because she wouldn’t look at him. Staring at her throat, he could see her swallow before she spoke.

“Um, yeah, some of them.” She handed his bottle back to him. “There’s not much left. Sorry.”

“That’s okay.”

She sighed, leaning her head against the wall, shutting her eyes. “I’m tired.”

He did likewise. “Me too.”

Rocco woke with a start. He blinked, wondering where he was. And then he remembered. It was chilly. He stood up and slipped his arms back in his racing suit, zipping it up. He looked over at Nico. Her head was leaning against the wall. Her eyes were shut.

“Nico,” he whispered.

Nothing.

She must be cold , he thought, looking at her bare legs. He crossed the room and picked up her racing suit. As he did, something fell out.

Two things, he realized as he bent down to pick them up.

One was a photo of a woman. She could be Nico’s mother. The same dark eyes and hair. The same bold bone structure. The other was a piece of paper—on it, a pencil drawing of what looked like an older man.

Rocco searched and found an inner pocket that had been stitched on the inside of her suit.

She must have sewn this in.

He folded the paper and tucked it along with the photo inside the pocket. Then he placed the suit over her legs, doing his best to tuck it around her without waking her. After that, he sat down beside her and shut his eyes.

The next thing Rocco knew, someone was shaking his shoulder. He blinked. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust and for him to realize where he was. He looked up. It was Frank from maintenance.

“You guys get locked in here?” he asked.

Nodding, Rocco held his finger to his lips.

“I’ll leave the door ajar,” Frank whispered.

Thanks , Rocco mouthed.

He looked down at Nico. He had his arm draped around her, and she was curled up into the crook of his arm, breathing softly with her head pressed against his chest.

When had this happened? How had it happened? She wasn’t in his arms when he drifted off. She wasn’t even leaning into him.

He almost tucked the hair that had fallen in front of her face behind her ear, but then thought, Better not; that might wake her .

Of course, he’d have to wake her … eventually.

He knew that. And he would.

He would wake her.

But.

In a minute.

Just a minute more.