Page 16

SIXTEEN

LUCAS

The sky darkens overhead, the heavy clouds gathering into an ominous mass. Shit . It’s been raining on and off for the past two days, ending our practice sessions early and pushing back today’s qualifying. According to the forecast, the rain’s supposed to hold out for the rest of the afternoon, but the gray skies say otherwise. I pick up my pace as we head to our destination, hoping to beat the impending storm.

Only a few grand prix tracks offer fans the chance to ride at full throttle in a supercar driven by an F1 driver on the circuit during a race weekend. Canada is one of them. Hot Laps give spectators a unique glimpse into what it feels like out there on the track. It’s also a huge reminder of just how elite the sport is. This experience can cost upward of twenty grand. Yup. One lap with an F1 driver costs the equivalent of a year’s college tuition.

My parents opted to spend the afternoon at the Montréal Insectarium with Madison so she can “meet butterflies” while Jaclyn takes a much-needed break. Wrangling a five-year-old while pregnant with twins isn’t for the weak. Grayson looks like he’s about to drop at any moment. If it weren’t for the promise of a Hot Laps experience and Theo’s stream of ridiculous questions like “can you get a DUI for skiing drunk?” and “can you legally domesticate a pigeon and keep it as your pet?” I’m sure he’d be sleeping behind a pile of tires.

A smack to the back of my head has my tunnel vision fading.

“What the fuck? What was that for?”

Finn rolls his eyes. “You’re not listening to me.”

We’re still on this?

Since the moment my family arrived in Montreal, Finn’s been relentless. And since it took 2.5 million dollars to get my car back to racing standards after it was crushed like a soda can last week, the last thing I want is Finn sitting in it and fucking something up just so he could get a cool photo for his dating profiles.

“You’re not getting into my car,” I tell him. Again. “Even if I wanted to let you—which I don’t—you’re not allowed to.”

That may or may not be true. No one’s ever asked. Requesting to sit in an F1 driver’s car is akin to asking to ride a cowboy’s horse or a biker’s motorcycle. You just don’t do it.

“Your fat arse wouldn’t fit, mate,” Theo adds with a shit-eating grin aimed at Finn. “Your hips are too wide.”

Finn stops dead in his tracks and whirls around, getting in Theo’s face. “Are you body shaming me?”

“He totally is,” Ezra says in a serious tone.

“Your shirt does look a little tight today, man,” Grayson agrees.

“It’s a fitted shirt, asshole. It’s supposed to be snug,” he growls.

“Snug, not suffocating?—”

Finn smashes his fist into Grayson’s stomach, causing him to double over with an oof . Before things can escalate, I step between them. “I’m not body shaming you, Finn. Walker wouldn’t comfortably fit in my seat either. ”

Each cockpit setup includes a custom seat made from a body-model carbon-fiber shell. Even drivers on the same team wouldn’t simply swap cars without bringing their own seat and steering wheel.

Finn has mostly stopped begging by the time we make it to the Hot Laps area five minutes later. I’m not surprised to find Blake is already here, having volunteered to take out one of my brothers—most likely Ezra, since Theo “shot-gunned” Grayson, and Blake can only deal with “one loudmouthed fucker at a time” and Finn would put him over that allotted amount.

I am surprised to find Charlotte standing with him, though.

I figured she was off sightseeing, since she wasn’t at breakfast, but not wanting to invade her privacy, I haven’t checked her location. I’m not a stalker, after all. She looks like an office siren in her kitten heels, pleated skirt, and button-up vest with a lapin neckline.

Damn , she looks gorgeous. She always does.

If it hadn’t been for élisabeth’s interruption, there’s no doubt in my mind I would’ve given in to my overwhelming urge to kiss Charlotte that day in èze. She turned a terrible day into an unexpectedly enjoyable one. A day where I could almost forget about lost points and damaged car parts. Because all I thought about was her.

“What’re you doing here, Lottie?” Theo asks, sidling up next to his sister.

Her smile turns haughty. “I’m here to take a Hot Lap, something you failed to tell me you were doing this morning.”

“I tried,” he defends himself, spinning to face her and holding his hands out. “But you weren’t speaking to me.”

Running a hand through his hair, Blake turns to Theo and sighs. “What’d you do this time?”

“Nothing,” he exclaims with a huff. “I merely pointed out how wearing another team’s color isn’t very nice. ”

The color of her outfit is an uncanny match to Blake’s racing suit, but she simply waves him off. “I missed the part where McAllister had a monopoly on the color red. Anyway, Cooper offered to take me on a Hot Lap, so it all worked out.”

As if on cue, the auburn-haired Scot steps out of the Hot Laps tent with waivers and pens in hand. When Charlotte gives him one of her little waves, my gut twists. I don’t like that one bit. I feel oddly proprietary about them. Another thing I don’t like? How his smile grows at her greeting.

Nope .

“I’ll take you,” I tell her, leaving no room for argument. “Cooper can take Finn.”

“Are you sure?” the Scot asks, wearing an easy smile as he approaches the group. “I don’t mind taking the lass out. I figured you’d want to spend time with your brothers.”

Damn. It’s impossible to dislike Cooper. He’s a genuinely good guy who says shit like lass . It’s really fucking annoying.

“I’m sure,” I confirm, trying and failing to keep my voice neutral. “You can take Finn.”

The corners of Blake’s lips twitch up, but he doesn’t say a word. And for once in his life, Finn goes with the flow instead of making an idiotic remark and putting up a fight. He shrugs at the change of plans and sticks out his hand to introduce himself to McAllister’s new driver. “I’m Finn, Lucas’s favorite brother. You’re the one who hit him in the face with champagne, right? That was epic.”

And there’s the idiotic remark . The irritation I just pushed down comes roaring back.

Cooper blushes, his cheeks matching the color of his hair. “Accidentally.”

“You’re not his favorite brother,” Ezra argues.

Finn slips his sunglasses down his nose so Ezra gets the full effect of his incredulous look. “Well, it certainly isn’t Jesse anymore, so I claimed the spot for myself. ”

The tension in my jaw intensifies so severely I worry my teeth will crack. We’ve managed to steer clear of any topic of conversation that involves Jesse for the past day, but leave it to Finn to bring it up in front of a crowd. At least Jesse isn’t here. Finn would no doubt make the weekend exponentially more awkward. Plus, if he were here, I have no doubt Blake and Theo would join Charlotte in the whole punching him in the dick thing.

“At least you have multiple to choose from,” Charlotte quips, breaking the tension. “My only option is Theo, and he made me a bullet point list of all the ways I’ve betrayed AlphaVite this season by not wearing merch.”

The group erupts into laughter at Charlotte’s revelation. Theo’s drama with a capital D.

“Please note that my lovely sister made a presentation in response titled From Racing to the Runway ,” Theo says. Despite his attempt at annoyance, his expression is filled with affection and pride. “Included photos and shit, too.”

With a shrug, as if it’s no big deal, she turns to Cooper to get a waiver. In a matter of minutes, the forms are all filled out, and we’re led onto the track. Charlotte lets out a squeal of appreciation as we approach a spider-black McLaren. I specifically requested this car because I love the way it drives. Every aspect of it urges me to push it to its limits like I’m striving for a podium position. And there’s no denying the car itself is sexy as hell.

“Okay, you know Ocean’s Eleven ?” Charlotte asks. She barely gives me time to nod before she goes on. “This looks like a car they would use to get away after emptying out the casino’s bank. Not one they were planning on using, but one they had to steal to make a quick escape because their first plan went sideways. Don’t you think?”

“I’ve never thought about it.” I head over to the passenger side and open the door of the sleek supercar so she can slide in .

Charlotte chatters away about how she can “totally imagine George Clooney behind the wheel” as I ensure her helmet’s strapped on snugly and her seat belt is secure. Only then do I shut the door and head to the driver’s side. I tend to my own helmet and seat belt and relax into my seat while I wait for the signal. When it comes, the engine roars to life with a throaty growl and I ease out onto the track. The moment we’re clear, I floor the accelerator. The car surges forward with an incredible burst of speed, pressing us back into our seats. The world outside the windshield becomes a blur of colors and motion, the sound of the engine a deafening roar. Charlotte’s gasp of surprise quickly turns into a laugh of exhilaration as we rocket down the straight. Approaching the first corner, I brake hard. The car responds with precision, as it should, and the tires grip the asphalt with unyielding determination.

“You okay?” I ask, assessing Charlotte out of the corner of my eye. I wish I had a full-frontal view of her expression, but I have no interest in crashing this car.

“ Yes ,” she shouts over the noise, her voice full of rapture.

I accelerate out of a turn, causing the supercar to leap forward like a beast unleashed. Each corner is a dance of speed and control, and I won’t lie and say I’m not testing the car’s agility to show off my skill. But that ends abruptly as a blinding flash of lightning splits the sky, turning night into day for an instant, and a torrent of rain begins to fall.

Fuck .

“Hold on,” I tell her, my voice barely audible over the pounding rain and engine’s roar.

Instructions to pull over crackle through the built-in helmet radio, but I’ve already reduced our speed significantly as I maneuver to a runoff area farther up the track. The McLaren’s tires struggle to maintain their grip, and my visibility drops to almost nothing as the rain comes down in sheets, turning the world into a blurry haze .

I’m no stranger to driving in the rain, and I have no trouble improvising as the racing line, which was previously built up with rubber for better grip, becomes a slippery adversary instead of a reliable guide. But in those instances, Charlotte isn’t my passenger, and the car I’m driving has wheels specifically built for any weather conditions.

Shoulders tense, I guide the car off the track and into a safe area. The engine’s roar fades into a steady purr as we come to a stop. The rain hammers down on the roof, the sound deafening in the sudden stillness. Pulled over and safe, I check in with the team over the radio. Their weather radar indicates the rain should taper off in the next twenty or thirty minutes. While I could safely get us back to the start line, I don’t want to risk it. And sure, I’ll take the extra one-on-one time with Charlotte.

Beside me, I realize, my passenger is clutching the edge of her seat with a white-knuckled grip. Her cheeks, rosy only minutes ago, have drained of color, and her pupils are blown out, her body going into fight-or-flight mode.

“Roo?” I ask, keeping my tone gentle.

She spares me a glance before looking back out the window. “Hmm?”

With a soft touch, I pry her fingers from the leather seats and place them loosely into her lap. My intention isn’t to hold her hand, but when she intertwines her fingers with mine, I roll with it.

“You don’t like thunderstorms,” I observe.

“Hate,” she corrects me. “I don’t know how in the flying fuck people find this relaxing.”

As if demonstrating her point, a jagged bolt illuminates the swirling clouds, casting stark shadows over the track.

“When I was a kid, I was scared of people in costumes,” I reveal, hoping to distract her. “Jesse used to be obsessed with PowerRangers, and for his sixth birthday party, my parents hired someone to come dressed as the red one to take pictures with the kids and teach them some cool moves.”

She finally shifts her body, angling my way slightly rather than rigidly facing forward. “Did you freak out?”

“Lost my ever-loving mind,” I say with a chuckle. “My dad thought having the guy take off his mask so I could see that he was a real person would help, but that made things ten times worse because I thought the PowerRanger was a body snatcher.”

“At least you grew out of it,” she says, a hint of a smile breaking through.

“Sure, I can be in the same room as a mascot, but there’s no way in hell I’ll ever take my kids on a family vacation to Disney World. Fuck that shit.”

Charlotte lets loose a giggle, and the death grip she has on my hand loosens. “Did you know that Theo’s scared of kangaroos? He thinks they look like humans wearing animal costumes.”

Theo may be my best friend, but half of the details I know about him have been forced on me against my will. There’s no need for me to know his plan for the zombie apocalypse—because it’s a when, not an if, according to him—or that it is indeed possible for a man to get a yeast infection. But his kangaroo phobia is news to me.

“He also thinks they’re creepy and manipulative,” she explains, color returning to her cheeks. “And doesn’t understand how it looks like they’re on steroids.”

I shake my head at her description. Yeah, that sounds exactly like Theo. “Did you really make a PowerPoint presentation for him about fashion and Formula 1?”

“Of course I did,” she tells me, her tone holding a hint of exasperation that I would second-guess this. “Wearing team merch is great for the grandstands, but in the paddock, it’s about personal style and making an impression. It’s like Fashion Week. You can show off your outfits and the latest trends. Hell, the paddock is how fans keep up with the drivers’ street style.”

I snort. “I would hardly call Blake’s black T-shirts, jeans, and bedhead ‘street style,’ but point taken.”

“Okay, not every driver, but there are tons of social media accounts dedicated to your outfits.”

“Yeah?” I ask, playing dumb. My publicist has kept me well apprised of the countless fan accounts dedicated to highlighting nearly every piece of clothing in my closet. I’d be creeped out if I wasn’t secretly pleased that people appreciate my style. My stylist knows my tastes and preferences and curates looks to perfection. On top of that, she sorts through all the PR I’m sent and highlights emerging artists along with well-established brands.

“Mm-hmm,” Charlotte says, oblivious to my duplicity. “There’s definitely been a shift in the past few years. The personalities and culture of the paddock have come to the forefront. Even big brand names are getting into it—Chanel had that viral F1 Monaco T-shirt, and A$AP Rocky’s first collection as the creative director of Puma was a collaboration with F1 and sold out immediately.”

“If anyone can blend team support with style, it’s you, Roo,” I tell her, squeezing her hand.

She smiles, and my chest expands. The fear is almost nonexistent now. True to her nature, rather than continue that line of conversation, she changes the subject. “Has it been nice having your family here?”

“Yeah.” I chuckle. “Nonstop chaos, but a lot of fun. I swear each and every time my mom comes to a grand prix, she acts like she’s never seen me race before.”

“She’s proud of you,” she tells me, her expression soft. “It’s sweet.”

“Hmm. ”

“Are you ready to go back to Boston?”

I puff out a breath, considering. I’ve successfully avoided extended amounts of time with Jesse over the past few years. My mom sticks to me like a starfish when I’m there, which helps keep the drama tempered, and I’ve got three other brothers to spend time with. Jesse, thankfully, has respected my need for distance, but now that he and Kylie are done, he thinks things can go back to how they were? That pisses me off.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Charlotte says. She regards our hands, which are still intertwined.

It’s only then that I realize how tight my grip is. I don’t extricate my hand from hers, but I do ease up.

“Short answer: no. Long answer: fuck no.”

Charlotte lets out a throaty laugh that has goose bumps traveling down my arms. “Well, I’ll only be a train ride away in New York if you need backup.”

She’s headed to NYC after the grand prix to do some sightseeing and shopping. Her agenda includes all the Big Apple classics: Times Square, the Statue of Liberty, a Broadway show, visiting Carrie Bradshaw’s apartment, and bagels.

“You’d come to Boston to save me?” I ask, teasing.

“Of course,” she says, though her demeanor is far more serious. “If you wanted me there for support, I’d come in a heartbeat.”

Without second-guessing the thought, I say, “I want you.”

She tilts her head, like she’s waiting for me to add, “for support,” but I leave it at that. I do want her there for support, but I also want her more than I want a first world championship win.

And that… well, that’s more dangerous than driving in the rain.