Page 3

THREE

CHARLOTTE

I barely have the athleticism to wrestle my tits into a sports bra, yet my brother can drive a million-dollar car at 375 kilometers per hour like it’s second nature. Genetics truly baffle me. On the monitor, Theo’s car gains speed heading into a hairpin turn that will push him into a sharp kink in the track. My breath catches in my throat as his brake pressure spikes on the telemeter indicating the exceptional amount of pressure he’s unloading onto his front left tire as he goes into the turn. As his car straightens out and he speeds toward the Ithaca car a few seconds ahead of him, I clap and release the tension riding in my shoulders.

“Great job,” David says, complimenting my brother through the radio. “Hit DRS on the straight after turn eleven.”

I adjust the chunky noise-canceling headphones I’m wearing as I turn to another screen. Each shows a different angle or portion of the track, which is one of the benefits of watching the race from here rather than the grandstands. When I was younger, I used to prefer watching the races from there. My dad retired from F1 before I was born, but he’d take me to the Melbourne Grand Prix every year. We’d sit with the fans like regular attendees, despite his status as a former world champion, and munch on popcorn and candy as we cheered and whistled for the cars barreling down the track. Without him, it feels strange, so I tend to watch in the garage now.

“Good race so far, yeah?”

I glance in the direction of the deep voice, then tip my head back, because the man strolling toward me is built like a fucking national monument. He has to be nearly two meters tall. Seriously. There’s no way his three-piece charcoal suit isn’t custom made. His broad shoulders would easily burst the seams of any department store ready-to-wear piece. Good lord, he must’ve been a massive baby. I shudder at the thought of his poor mother giving birth— focus, Charlotte!

“Uh, yeah, I reckon the team will have a podium win,” I reply, giving him a friendly smile as I rack my memory for the bloke’s name. Theo introduced me to every person on the team the day we arrived, like I was a show pony, and I thought I’d done well remembering, but I come up blank. It’s surprising, really. I should remember someone this tall.

He sticks out his hand in introduction. “Mitchell Abramson.”

“Lucas’s mom-ager,” I blurt out, pumping his hand energetically.

“ Mom-ager ?”

Heat creeps up my neck, but I give him a tentative smile. “Dad-ager works, but mom-ager rolls off the tongue a little better.” Head tilted, I shrug. “Obviously, he’s not your kid, but you’ve been with him since he was twelve, right? When he won the US Karting Championship, you saw his talent and potential. So you acted as his guardian so he could travel the world and compete, yada, yada, yada?”

He studies me for a moment, his lips downturned. “How do you know all of this?”

“It’s on his Wikipedia page,” I say, angling in conspiratorially. “ And as his number one superfan, I stalk it every day, looking for new information. Did you know that Lucas prefers the red Gatorade to the dark blue one—which is blasphemy—and that he’s allergic to feather pillows?” With a slow blink, I shake my head. “Not a very badass allergy for someone who rocks a leather jacket, but I’m not one to judge.”

That’s a lie, I totally am .

Mitchell’s brows shoot into his hairline. “You—wait, what?”

“I’m taking the piss out on you, Mitchell,” I say with a grin, straightening. “I know all of that because he told me. Duh.”

Though I imagine some of that can be found online. Lucas is the only American driver on the Formula 1 grid, which makes him a unicorn of sorts. Most Americans focus on motorsports like NASCAR and IndyCar, since in order to gain experience and make a name for oneself in F1, a driver has to spend a significant amount of time in Europe, competing in karting events and single-seat series. Luckily for Lucas, Mitchell saw his talent early on, and here we are.

“You’re Theo’s sister,” Mitchell says, snapping his fingers and pointing.

“Charlotte,” I correct him, though I keep the usual vitriol out of my tone, considering I did just call him Lucas’s mom-ager. I swear if I had a penny for every time someone referred to me as “Theo’s little sister” or “the other Walker,” well, I wouldn’t be rich, but I could definitely put down a deposit on a Chanel Classic Flap Bag. I’ve been living in the shadow of Theo’s success my whole life. I don’t begrudge his career or achievements, but it’s hard to follow in his footsteps knowing I’ll sprain an ankle even trying. My family has never made me feel as though I can’t measure up. But with a brother as outgoing as mine? A man whose name and talent are known around the world? How could I compete ?

Mitchell nods. “Right. Charlotte. Lucas mentioned that you’ll be following your brother around for the season.”

The irritation I’ve been holding back almost spikes at those words. Nose crinkled, I say, “Following him around sounds lame. I much prefer to say I’m taking advantage of him so I can eat, drink, and shop my way through the world.”

He snorts at my deadpan delivery.

I’m not embarrassed about needing time to pull myself together, but I don’t owe him, or anyone, an explanation. And although Theo is helping expense my travels, it’s because he insists on it. I’m not kidding. He wouldn’t talk to me for three days when I tried booking a hotel room with my own credit card. My brother’s the only person in the world who can out-stubborn me.

Mitchell nods, the corners of his lips quirking up. “If I hadn’t been tipped off by the blue eyes and smile, your charm definitely would’ve done it. The Walkers don’t exactly fly under the radar.”

I raise my brows and fight off a grin. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you don’t fly under the radar either. You’re built like Mount Everest.”

When he tosses his head back, his booming laugh is loud enough to be heard over the noise in the garage. “Because I’m tall?”

“Um, yeah. I’d probably need an oxygen mask to climb you.”

He makes a strangled sound, his brows shooting up again. Only then does my inadvertent insinuation hit me.

“Not that I’m interested in climbing you,” I say, feigning nonchalance, despite the way my stomach twists. “No offense, but you’re too old for me, and it’d be a little on-the-nose ironic for me to have daddy issues. What I mean is that it’d take me a while to get up there if I did.”

For a moment, Mitchell just stares, but eventually, he shakes his head and chuckles. “I knew your dad back when he raced for McAllister.”

A bolt of excitement works its way through me. “Really?”

“Yep. Worked for his driving partner’s manager back then,” he reveals with a small grin. “He was a great guy. Always had a smile for everyone.”

“Yeah,” I say with a beam of my own. Formula 1 is etched into the fabric of my family history. For my dad, it was a focal point. For Theo, it has been a borderline obsession. For me, it’s always remained in the periphery. But I’d be lying if I said part of the reason I was so open to spending the season with AlphaVite was to experience the magic of the sport for myself.

As our conversation peters out, we both focus on the screen, catching the moment when Harry Thompson, an Everest Racing driver, overtakes Lucas during a tight turn.

I wish I could say the rest of the race is nail-biting. Instead, Blake Hollis, my brother’s best friend and former teammate, maintains the lead. Theo struggles to overtake the car ahead of him, and Lucas and Harry duke it out for second place, with Harry securing the spot in the second to last lap.

Pride swells in my chest as my brother hops out of his car, smiling at fans behind the crowd barrier, then thanks his team for a job well done. Although he won’t outwardly show it, he’s not happy with his performance. Unless he’s on the podium with a trophy in his hand, he doesn’t think he’s done well enough. I’m only competitive about board games, so I can’t imagine the pressure that comes with the potential to win millions rather than Monopoly money.

Theo congratulates the other drivers and signs a few hats before waving me over. “The only perk of you not wearing blue is that you’re easy to spot.”

I grumble under my breath as I give him a quick hug. He’s sweaty, and if I dislike my own sweat—hence the reason I despise working out—then I sure as hell don’t want his on me. “You did great out there.”

His brows crease as a hint of disappointment filters through his features. “Hardly, but thanks.”

“Fifth place still earns points,” I remind him. “And it’s only the first race. You’ve got a lot of time to work your way onto the podium.”

“I guess,” he mutters. “But I should’ve been more aggressive.”

“Grr,” I tease.

That earns a grin from him, and this time, the smile reaches his eyes. “Weirdo. I’m going to call Jos really quick before I’m hounded for interviews. You good?”

I flash him a thumbs-up. “You don’t need to hover, Theo. I’m fine on my own.”

“Old habits die hard,” he says with a chuckle. “Catch ya later.”

As he heads off to call his girlfriend, I zero in on the man I’ve been covertly glancing at for the past fifteen minutes. It’d be hard not to notice Lucas. He’s not broody like Blake or loud and outgoing like my brother, but he commands a room all the same. Standing by his car, which is parked in its respective place, he’s focused on a reporter holding an ESPN microphone. Not wanting to interrupt, I stand off to the side, watching as he answers post-race questions in a smooth, calm, and steady tenor.

The pit area is a sea of organized chaos, full of people celebrating victories with high fives and cheers or chatting about improvements for the next race, so I don’t expect Lucas to notice me. But as if he can sense me, his head jerks in my direction, and his eyes pin me to the spot. He nods to the reporter in a way that simultaneously says “we’re done here” and “thank you so much” before strolling toward me.

Hello, handsome .

“Hey, Roo,” he says, unzipping the top of his racing suit. Even though it only exposes the shirt he’s wearing underneath, it feels like he’s performing a strip show just for me. “How’s Theo doing?”

Only Lucas would be more worried about how Theo’s handling of placing fifth than celebrating his own win.

“How are you doing? Fifteen points in the bag to kick off the season is a hell of a way to start, Adler.”

His face, already flushed from the race, turns a deeper shade of red. “Just doing my job.”

“Modest as ever.” I sigh. “I swear, if I had even a fourth of the talent you do, I’d be so fucking annoying about it you’d want to gag me. Not in… well, you know, that way.” I wave a hand, going for flippant. “Or maybe you would. I don’t know what you’re into.”

Did I just insinuate he may be into BDSM?

He arches his brows and coughs out a laugh. “You have talent, Char.”

I shrug. “I’d hardly call the ability to recite every line in The Devil Wears Prada a talent, but to each their own.”

“That helmet you helped design for Theo is sick as hell,” he argues. “There’s no way I could ever do something as artistic as that.”

“Thanks.” Now I’m the one whose cheeks heat. I’ve been helping design Theo’s helmets for years. They’re nothing ground-breaking, but it’s a fun, creative outlet. This year his helmet fades from a black night sky in the front to a cloudy light blue sky in the back, with the Australian flag running through the middle. In the gold design swirled along each side are a few hidden J s and my dad’s number.

“Do you need to get back to interviews?” I ask, nodding over his shoulder. “There’s a blond reporter shooting daggers at me like I bought the last brioche bun at the bakery.”

He cranes his neck, peering over his shoulder, and when the woman spots him glancing her way, then turning right back toward me, her glare goes from menacing to murderous. I give her a smile anyway because I’m friendly and petty like that.

“That’s Miranda,” Lucas huffs. “Ella refers to her as Satin Satan.”

I lift a brow and bite back a smirk. The satin part is obvious enough since she’s wearing a satin shirt that’s so tight across her chest, I’m shocked she hasn’t popped a button. But the Satan part? Color me intrigued. “How’d she earn that nickname?”

Lucas runs a hand through his hair. Without his signature silver rings adorning them, his fingers look oddly naked. “She insinuated that Ella’s success stems from her relationship with Blake and not her work. Something about getting the exclusive scoop during pillow talk.”

I let out a scoff as a thread of irritation works its way through me on Ella’s behalf. “Why the hell would Ella and Blake talk about G-force in bed when they could be focusing on the G-spot?”

Head thrown back, Lucas laughs, and I swear the sound could win him a Grammy. It’s deep and inviting and rattles me straight to my bones. It comes to an end far too quickly, though, when a media person from the team—Alex, maybe? Alfredo? Anthony?—calls out to him, warning him that it’s time for the press conference.

“Are you going to watch?” Lucas asks with what might be hope in his eyes. Before I can answer, he adds, “I’m sure you have better things to do, and Theo won’t even be there, so no pressure.”

Listening to drivers answer questions about differential throttle and torque would never be on my list of favorite pastimes, but there’s no way in hell I’m turning down the opportunity to unabashedly admire Lucas for thirty minutes straight. “I’ll be there.”