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FOURTEEN

CHARLOTTE

As a person with a flair for the dramatic, I’m used to exaggeration. Monaco being the height of luxury? No embellishment whatsoever. The harbor is filled with enormous superyachts with sleek designs that boast of wealth, and the streets are lined with designer boutiques, each with elegant window displays showcasing the latest haute couture from brands like Chanel, Dior, and Louis Vuitton. And the Monte Carlo Casino? None of the James Bond movies did it justice. Every detail, from the impeccably groomed gardens and fountains to the interior architecture featuring intricate frescoes and gold-leaf detailing, screams “I’m part of the 1 percent.”

Add in the film stars, directors, musicians, and athletes who swarm the principality for the grand prix like bees to honey, and it’s no wonder this place is considered the billionaires’ playground. Ironically, the race all the celebrities show up for is the one with the least amount of action. But considering Monaco is one of the most expensive countries to visit in the world, it makes sense that the rich and famous would rather watch the race here than in, say, Spielberg. The Austrian Grand Prix is beautiful, with the picturesque mountain background, but it’s two hours outside of Vienna, so it’s not nearly as convenient as many others.

Josie, Ella, and I watch as celebrities meander around the pit lane, taking photos and chatting with reporters like it’s a red-carpet event. I nearly melt on the spot when I spy Joe Jonas chatting with Anya Taylor-Joy in front of the Ithaca garage, but I manage to keep my cool. Okay, not really, but Ella’s absolute fucking panic over the man far supersedes mine. Apparently, she created mock wedding invitations to the ceremony where she’d say I do to him—had them printed out at FedEx and everything—when she was thirteen. And when Josie sees Rose Leslie and Kit Harington from Game of Thrones ? She goes apocalyptic. She’s only stopped from asking for an autograph—which is a big no-no at Monaco—when Theo’s manager corrals us into the pit garage. According to him, he’s on “fangirl duty,” a.k.a. making sure we don’t do anything that would embarrass Blake or Theo. Rude .

But we oblige and find a grouping of chairs to settle into on AlphaVite’s rooftop, then watch from afar as the rich and famous mingle amongst themselves.

I rummage through my purse and grin when I find the bingo cards I made yesterday and the pens I swiped from the hotel. I pass copies to Josie and Ella before I get to work crossing off the box that reads Joe Jonas wearing a half-buttoned linen shirt .

“You made a Formula 1 bingo?” Josie asks, mildly impressed.

I swallow down a sigh. “Yeah, it’s a mixture of celebrity sightings and race predictions.”

“Oh.” Ella straightens beside me. “I saw Emily Ratajkowski wearing a triangle bikini as a top earlier.” She marks an X on her board.

Giddiness rushes through me at her excitement. I spent a lot of time working on this over the past few days, so I’m glad it’s being properly appreciated.

“You should have put Blake complaining about his tires as the free space.” Josie giggles. “What did he say last year during the race? That he drives faster?—”

“On the freeway during rush hour,” Ella finishes for her, a smile teasing her lips. “He can be such a dick.”

“But a lovable dick,” Josie says.

Ella breaks into a saucy smirk. “I do love his dick.”

I narrow my eyes at Josie. “Think very hard before making any comments about your boyfriend’s dick. I don’t want to be scarred for the rest of my life.”

“Thanks to being scarred for life by my own mother, I try to avoid talking about genitalia in general.”

Laughter bubbles out of me. Much to Josie’s embarrassment, her mum is London’s leading sex therapist. When Mrs. Bancroft spoke at a conference called “Sex in Suburbia” in Melbourne last year, she and Josie’s dad went to dinner with my mum and her boyfriend, Richard. Mrs. Bancroft gifted my mom gummies formulated to enhance sexual arousal and stimulation, and Josie still hasn’t forgiven her for it.

After people watching for an hour or so, the three of us wander up to AlphaVite’s rooftop so we can view the race from there. This race is by far the least exciting. It’s a street circuit, which means the track winds through the actual streets of Monte Carlo. That attribute leaves very little room for overtaking, so it’s more like a procession of cars than a competition. The winners have already been decided based on qualifying times. Theo’s starting the race in P5, and Lucas is starting in P7. He initially placed P4 but then received a three-grid penalty after impeding a Catalyst driver during Q1.

As the five gantry lights go out, the roar of the engines echoes through the narrow street, mimicking the way my heart pounds against my sternum. I’m always consumed by a mix of exhilaration and fear as I watch a race. The cars take off and speed uphill toward the Massenet hairpin turn, the slowest and most challenging corner on the circuit. Lucas and Paolo Gallo, a Catalyst driver, battle for position, which is risky, given such a tight turn. Gallo tries to assert his position, but Lucas maintains his line and doesn’t yield. In the next second, Gallo runs out of space on the inside and makes contact with Lucas. Their wheels tangle and their cars violently collide with a sickening crunch.

Horror and panic engulf me as debris scatters across the track, causing Lucas to lose control. When his car spins, then slams into the barrier, I clutch my chest and gasp, though the sound is lost in the collective surprise of the crowd.

The stewards immediately red flag the race, bringing everything to a halt while emergency crews rush to clear the wreckage and ensure the drivers’ safety. Cameras zoom in on the damage, broadcasting the image on the jumbo screen. It’s immediately clear that Lucas’s car took the brunt of it. Three of his tires are trashed and no longer connected to his car, and the damages to the front suspension and left side make it impossible for him to continue the race.

I shoot to my feet, gripping the railing so tightly my knuckles turn white. My vision tunnels, and I focus solely on the wreckage, praying, begging, for Lucas to move, to emerge from the twisted remains unscathed. The seconds drag on, each one an eternity, as fear claws at my chest. Tears well in my eyes, blurring my view.

Come on, get out. Please get out.

I’ve seen my fair share of crashes over the years, but it never gets easier watching someone, whether it be a family member, a friend, or simply another driver, sitting helplessly in a mangled car. Adrenaline surges through my veins, making me lightheaded as I wait with bated breath until, finally, Lucas staggers out of his car, unharmed but visibly angry .

As I slump back in my seat, the only thing I can think is: that certainly wasn’t on my Bingo card .

Even if I didn’t have a penchant for eavesdropping, it’d be impossible to ignore the raised voices coming from the back of the garage. It’s not surprising that the team is upset that the crash not only ended Lucas’s race but marked a significant setback for AlphaVite. They have to spend who knows how much repairing the car while also dealing with the points lost in the championship standings.

While Blake has won seven championships and Theo has won two, Lucas hasn’t won the coveted Drivers’ Championship yet. He’s a phenomenal driver—these guys don’t get paid millions a year for being okay or average—but there’re only so many opportunities to win, and the competition is tough. So far this season, he’s been in a great position to compete for the title, but this upset will dent his chances.

I wait until Lucas is done talking to Mitchell, David, and his performance coach before approaching him. As I do, I survey him, from his shoes to his tousled blond hair. Other than a small scowl, he looks like his usual gorgeous self.

“Are you okay?” I ask. He’s no doubt been asked this fifty times by now, but I can’t help myself.

“Yeah,” he confirms, his tone gruff and his green eyes swimming with frustration.

“You may want to try that again if you want anyone to believe you.”

The strain of his frown lessens, his shoulders lowering a fraction. “Noted.”

“Do you have to stay here, or can you clock out?” I ask, a plan forming in my mind. And by plan, I mean a very ill-thought-out, last-minute idea.

“Clock out?” Lucas repeats .

“Yeah, when you’re done for the day and?—”

“I know what clock out means,” he clarifies. “I’ve just never had anyone use a nine-to-five phrase in reference to my job.”

I transfer my weight from my left foot to my right and cross my arms. “Is that a yes or a no? Because I have a feeling you haven’t taken my advice and done something new in the cities you’ve visited. And since your afternoon just opened up…”

He doesn’t respond right away. Maybe my request is batshit crazy. It’s not a hard and fast rule that drivers have to stay and watch the rest of the race if they’re unable to finish, but I can imagine it’s frowned upon if they leave for shits and giggs. Even so, there’s a chance he wants to dip out early, and I’ve always been a believer in shooting my shot. But maybe he thinks it’s weird that I’m insinuating he should ditch the race to spend time with me. I don’t?—

“Monaco’s the second-smallest country in the world, Roo,” he says. “There’s not much I haven’t done here.”

Perking up, I counter that statement. “Have you ever been to èze?” The medieval hilltop town on the C?te d’Azur is thirty minutes outside of Monaco. “Everyone says it’s the prettiest village, and I’ve been dying to go.”

“For dinner, yeah, but there’s not much to do there.”

“That’s kind of the point,” I tell him. “You’re the one who said you never explore without an agenda. Now’s your chance.”

Lucas smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry about me, Roo. You should stay and watch the race.”

“We’re already thirty minutes into the red flag, with no update,” I remind him. “And no offense, but Monaco isn’t super exciting, anyway.”

“Unless another driver is stupid enough to box you out for a lead that’s clearly not theirs, and then your car ends up looking like a fucked-up can of vegetables.”

I let out a laugh at his deadpan delivery but quickly slap a hand over my mouth. “Sorry, it’s not funny. Your crash did mess up my entire bingo card, by the way.”

“Your bingo card?”

I take the folded-up game from my purse and hold it out.

As he peruses it, the tension in his jaw softens, and some of the lines next to his eyes disappear. Focus still fixed on the bingo squares, he says, “I’m going to have a shit ton of interviews once the race is over.”

Ah. We’re back to the “can you clock out?” question. “Have Mitchell get you a doctor’s note saying you have a headache and need to see the medical team. No one questions those. It’s what got me out of having to run the mile in phys education every year.”

The corners of his lips turn up. “Okay.”

“Okay?” I repeat.

“Yup,” he confirms. “My car may be wrecked, but that doesn’t mean my day has to be, too.”