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ONE

CHARLOTTE

I really hope the person interrupting my dream is cursed to drink the wrong coffee order every morning for the rest of time. Groaning, I ignore the ringing of the hotel room phone and burrow deeper under the covers. Unfortunately, I told the front desk to call until I pick up, so a moment after it stops, it starts up again.

I’m not a morning person. At all. Quite frankly, I’m a grade-A witch until I’ve had two full doses of caffeine. Minimum . When I was a kid, my dad used to wake me up by saying “rise and whine” because there was absolutely nothing sunny about my disposition.

Giving up on my dream—where Jason Momoa is fighting Ryan Gosling for the honor of buying me my first Birkin—I answer the phone with a groggy “’Ello.”

“Good morning, Ms. Walker. This is Khan at the hotel front desk with your wake-up call.”

“Yeah, thanks, got it,” I mumble, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

There’s a slight hesitation before he continues. “Shall I call back in ten minutes? ”

Confused, I arch a brow. “Um, why?”

“To confirm your… alertness,” he says, his tone uncertain. “Your husband requested that we ensure your timely arrival at the track. Your car will be ready in thirty minutes.”

My stomach rolls. Gross . I sigh. “My brother.”

“What?”

“Theodore’s my brother, not my husband.” Any future husband of mine better know not to use hotel staff to corral my arse out of bed. “There’s no need to call back, though. I’m up. Thanks.”

“Okay. Have a lovely day, Ms. Walker.”

“You, too, Khan. I take back my wish about your ruined coffee order.”

Once I’ve returned the phone to its cradle, I let out a string of expletives so colorful it would leave Shakespeare impressed and force myself out of bed. I get started on my morning routine at the speed of a crotchety, arthritic old man. Once my teeth are brushed, my skin is moisturized, and my curls are somewhat tamed, I stalk over to my suitcase. Ignoring the AlphaVite polo my brother gave me—there’s no way I’m putting that polyester monstrosity on my body—I pull out the three potential race day outfits I brought with me. After a moment’s deliberation, I decide on a cream knit midi dress. It’s smart, casual, and perfect for Bahrain’s weather, thanks to the lightweight fabric. I pair it with my beige Nike sneakers—I think the actual color is “light bone,” but I find that anthropologic and weird—and shove my luggage to the other side of the room so it’s not visible in the mirror picture I snap for my social media. Then I head downstairs and out the front doors to the waiting car.

By the time we pull up to the designated area at the track, I’m only running thirty-five minutes late. All things considered, like my jet lag, hatred of mornings, and problems with time management, I’m doing pretty damn good. I push my sunglasses up my nose as I approach the turnstile at the entryway of the paddock. It’s only nine a.m., but the golden glow of the sun is already blindingly bright. A massive banner featuring the F1 logo and its sponsors looms overhead as I dig for my VIP pass. It’s attached to a neon orange lanyard, so it shouldn’t be difficult to find, but my purse is Mary Poppins’ bag come to life. No cute clutches for me. Nope. This sucker is considered a carry-on by select airlines.

Once I’ve finally located my pass, I press it against the scanner, and the light on the turnstile flashes green, allowing me entry into the exclusive F1 paddock. Located behind the pit garage, the paddock is equal parts fancy and functional. F1 teams and employees do most of their work here, but it’s also where sponsors, media, and special guests spend time before and after the events of the race weekend. The layout of the paddock is slightly different at every circuit, but it always resembles a tiny multi-million-dollar village.

I can’t help but smile to myself as I make my way down the main path toward the AlphaVite motorhome and take in the details. The Bahrain Grand Prix is far from the first race I’ve been to. I attended my first grand prix when I was eight months old and have continued annually my entire life. As they always do, the faint aroma of engine oil and the mosaic of team colors lighten my mood. Along my way, I note the reporters setting up their cameras and equipment, the Formula 1 employees leading sponsors toward the hospitality areas equipped with champagne and caviar, and members from each team entering their respective motorhomes for meetings.

The outside of AlphaVite’s motorhome is slate gray with large, tinted windows and their signature lightning-shaped logo stamped front and center over the door. One side of the ground floor houses offices, but the bulk of the space is packed with employees repping AlphaVite’s signature cobalt blue while enjoying breakfast at the cafeteria tables. Drivers’ private rooms are typically on the middle floor, so I make my way up there without slowing. I’ve just cleared the final step when my brother’s booming voice echoes down the hall. I’d give him shit for it if I wasn’t just as loud.

I consider knocking for all of 0.5 seconds before saying fuck it and walking in without announcing myself. Theo’s manspread on the small couch in the room, chatting animatedly into the phone. Based on the goofy grin he’s wearing, it’s his girlfriend. I lucked out in the future sister-in-law department. I always make sure to tell my brother that the best thing that’s happened to him as a Formula 1 driver has nothing to do with the world championships he’s won. It’s 100 percent Josie. She worked for the marketing team at McAllister back when he drove for the team, and at some point last year, they went from friends to adorably-slash-disgustingly-in love.

“Charlotte’s finally here,” he says.

I roll my eyes at the word finally because I know he hasn’t been sitting here twiddling his thumbs.

“Yeah,” he goes on. “Okay—sure. Miss you, too. I’ll call you later, yeah? Mm-hmm. Love you, angel.”

He ends the call, then greets me with a warm “you really should knock, you know.”

“And you really shouldn’t pronounce Worcestershire like it’s a hobbit town from Lord of the Rings ,” I counter with a shrug. “But here we are.”

At my comment, he whips his head in my direction and frowns. “Where’s the shirt I got you?”

“I never wear team merch,” I remind him, hopping up onto the edge of the desk.

I’ve loved fashion since I watched my first episode of Sex and the City . I had no interest in the trysts or rendezvous Miranda, Charlotte, Samantha, or Carrie had with the men of Manhattan. Nope. The only love affairs I cared about included fabrics, the famous Fendi Baguette bag,and all the fabulous stores. As Rachel Zoe once said, “Style is a way to say who you are without having to speak.” So as much as I support my brother’s team, their awkwardly fitting, sort-of-itchy polo shirt isn’t me.

“You ready for the race?” I ask. I have no interest in arguing about clothing today. “How are you feeling?”

“Don’t look so concerned, Lottie.” He chuckles. “Driving for a new team may be a bit intimidating, but my fans are still my fans, no matter what colors I’m sporting.”

“True,” I concede, drawing out the word. It’s weird, encountering starstruck fans. But time and time again, they stop Theo on the street for his signature or a selfie.

He winks at me. “If I was brave enough to change your nappies when you were a kid, I’m sure I can handle this.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m calling bullshit, Theodore. You once called emergency services while you were babysitting because I threw up and you wanted me away from you.”

“That’s only because?—”

“Morning, Roo,” comes a voice from the doorway.

Then a Greek god steps into the room. Lucas Adler. My brother’s best friend and the bloke I’ve been crushing on for… well, for forever. I drink in Lucas’s tall, athletic frame like he’s a fine wine and I’m a world-class sommelier. His tousled, wavy blond hair brushes against his forehead, and his bottle-green eyes speckle with gold, thanks to the light leaking through the window. It takes conscious effort not to lick my lips in appreciation.

A lazy grin etches lines around the eyes of AlphaVite’s other driver as he takes me in.

Lucas started calling me Kangaroo when I was a kid—because I was constantly hopping around like Australia’s national animal—but over the years, the name has shortened itself to Roo.

A betraying sort of flush blooms across my cheekbones as I wave and say, “Hi.”

“Theo said you were on your way over, so I grabbed a coffee and a croissant for you. Figured you could save it for later if your blood sugar’s too high right now.” He holds out an AlphaVite-branded coffee cup and a white pastry bag. “Double espresso with steamed milk and two pumps of sugar-free vanilla syrup, right?”

There’s no use even attempting a coy smile. No, not when I’m this giddy. So I let an idiotic grin take over. “You know my coffee order?”

A slight pink hue spreads across his cheeks. It’s utterly adorable, the way this grown man, with tattoos dusting his body and metal rings gracing his fingers, blushes. I make a mental note to do it more often.

He steps closer and hands me the coffee, the cup still warm even through the protective Styrofoam. “Good memory, I guess.”

I take a sip and groan as the familiar flavor hits me. My ovaries do a choreographed can-can dance in appreciation. “You are seriously the best. If I didn’t already have a list of baby names on my phone, I’d so let you name my first child.”

Or let you father them .

“What about middle name?” Lucas counters with a chuckle.

Bringing the cup to my lips to hide my smile, I nod. “I can work with that.”

I’ve made quite a few not-so-brilliant decisions in my life: Believing my ex when he said not to worry about that one girl. Thinking I could pull off low-rise jeans. Getting bangs. Paying to belong to a fancy gym with the hope that it would miraculously make me want to work out. The list is longer than a drugstore receipt.

But traveling the world with my brother for the Formula 1 season as I figure out what I want to do with my life and what’s next after graduating from university? Not one of those kinds of decisions. Add in the bonus of spending my weekends with Lucas Adler, and hell, this may be the smartest decision I’ve ever made.