Page 1 of Formula Freedom (Race Fever #3)

Reid

T onight, I’m standing in the middle of a private rooftop party in downtown Melbourne, surrounded by glittering city lights, champagne flutes and a crowd that reeks of wealth, ambition and the desperate need to be seen.

I’m Australian—born and raised in Torquay—but Melbourne is my favorite city.

It pulses with a kind of effortless cool that speaks to me.

It’s my second full season on the FI circuit and the third race of the season is just three days away.

The cars are faster in FI and so are the social events.

This is a time for the drivers to mingle with the corporate sponsors and it’s not a part of the job I mind.

I’m a natural extrovert and enjoy talking to people.

Of course, you have to balance that with keeping your focus sharp because truly… winning races is the best PR move anyway.

The city has come alive with Formula racing fever.

Banners for the Melbourne Global Prix drape across every corner and the streets are filled with fans wearing their favorite team gear.

We start practice rounds day after tomorrow and I’m already getting antsy, my nerves humming like a live wire.

It’s a beautiful and terrible sensation all at once, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The sponsor party is in full swing, and I’m scanning for my buddy Carlos Moreno.

He races for Union Jack Motorsports based in London and is about the nicest guy you could ever hope to know.

He’s also quick-witted and funny… the kind of guy everyone considers a brother.

Since I moved up to FI last season, we’ve become pretty tight, and he’s the person I tend to hang with during our downtime.

“Reid Hemsworth. There you are.”

A hand covers my arm—an elegantly manicured one covered in gemstone rings.

I turn slowly to find a woman in a slinky silver cocktail dress with a neckline that plunges almost to her navel.

The material clings to her like it was sprayed on and leaves nothing to the imagination.

Blond hair in waves over one shoulder. Stiletto heels that make her nearly my height.

She’s undeniably gorgeous and I’d have to be dead not to notice that.

I give her a welcoming smile because I assume she’s the guest of some important VIP or an actual VIP herself. “Hello.”

She squeezes my arm and slides closer than necessary. I peg her accent as Scandinavian. “I’ve been looking for you,” she says, lips brushing dangerously close to my cheek. “We didn’t get a chance to finish our conversation in Monza last year.”

I blink, any memory of her escaping me. Yes, she’s stunning in a way that most women couldn’t touch, but for the life of me, I can’t remember her. The Monza Global Prix was months ago.

She can tell I don’t recognize her, and she says, “My father owns Quantrex.”

Shit, right. One of the sponsors of Matterhorn FI, and I have a vague recollection of her being quite handsy when we met in Monza.

“Of course,” I say, offering a polite smile and stepping back just enough to break her hold. “Good to see you again.”

“You look delicious tonight.” Her eyes scan me openly, unapologetically. “Got plans after this? We could go to my suite for a drink.”

Normally, I’d flirt back. I’d have already ordered us both another round to see where the night might go.

I mean, why would I pass up this offer? And why the hell did I pass it up in Monza?

The best I can come up with is an attack of conscience—maybe it’s a conflict of interest. Her father is a sponsor for Matterhorn, and I’m one of two Matterhorn drivers.

Regardless, I’m not going there or anywhere. Not tonight. I’m too close to the race and I won’t let anything deter my focus.

I glance over her shoulder, scanning for a way out—and then spot exactly who I need.

“Gunner!” I call, loud enough over the music that he can hear me from where he’s standing at the bar.

My teammate, Gunner James, looks at me and then his gaze lands on the woman beside me.

His eyes gleam and he makes his way over.

He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and has that easygoing American charisma that makes people instantly like him.

He’s been with Matterhorn FI a few years longer than me.

He’s fast, disciplined, and still rides the line between cocky and humble better than most.

As he approaches, I turn to the woman. “Have you met Gunner James? He’s one of the sharpest drivers on the grid.”

Her eyes shift with interest. “Is that so?”

Gunner arrives just in time. “What’s up?” he asks, grinning like he already knows I’m trying to escape.

I clap him on the shoulder. “Just making introductions. Gunner, this is… sorry, your name is slipping me at the moment.”

“Brita,” she says, her tone flirty and aloof at the same time.

“Brita,” I echo, backing away. “I’ll let you two chat—I need to check in with a friend.”

Gunner throws me a look like You owe me one , but to his credit, he steps into the conversation smoothly.

Hell, maybe he’ll even bang her tonight.

I like the guy a lot, but I can’t say I know him so well as to know if he’ll take advantage of that.

Just because we race for the same team doesn’t mean we’re best friends.

The drivers are scattered among the clusters of guests and I move around, shaking hands and nodding to people as I look for Carlos.

I’m trying to blend in, keep it low-key. My black suit is tailored, my drink untouched. I’ve already done the rounds, shaken hands, answered the same five questions about the car and the season ahead. I’m an old hat at this and I’m relaxed.

Until I spot Lance and every muscle in my body tenses.

Of course he’s here.

Standing near one of the cocktail tables with a smug smile and a drink in hand, Lance looks every bit the corporate brand rep—his blond hair sleeked just right. The logo for ZENZ , the energy drink brand he now works for, shining on the lapel pin he always wears like a badge of self-worth.

He’s talking to one of the merch reps for Titans Racing, white teeth flashing against tanned skin, using that easy charm he’s always relied on to get ahead. He’s my brother and I love him, but often, I don’t like him.

I turn away before he sees me, scanning the room—but not before I see her.

Lara.

She’s standing beside Lance, listening politely to the conversation, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Not like it used to.

Her flaming red hair is pulled up in a sleek twist, a few strands framing her face.

She’s wearing a navy dress that hugs her curves and dips low in the back, elegant and understated.

She’s always had that natural beauty—never tried too hard, never needed to.

But tonight, it’s the way she carries herself that catches me.

Or maybe it’s what’s missing.

She stands with her arms tucked tightly across her stomach, her shoulders slightly hunched, like she’s trying to take up less space than she used to.

Her smoky gray eyes flick around the room but her gaze never lands for long.

She looks… smaller. Not physically, but emotionally.

Like she’s pulling herself inward, dimming her light.

It’s subtle, but I know her better than anyone.

Or I used to.

We were inseparable once, the three of us—Lance, Lara and me.

Grew up together in Torquay, about an hour and a half southwest of Melbourne.

Our dads co-own Hemsworth & Candlish Hardware, and our mums are best friends.

Weekends were barbecues on the beach. Summers meant surfing competitions, bonfires and nights passed out on our trampoline under the stars. We were a team back then.

Family, really.

Lara was the glue—funny, fierce, the kind of girl who could out-surf both of us boys and still beat us at Mario Kart with a mouth full of Sour Straws. I don’t remember when I first started seeing her differently, but there came a day when she suddenly looked older and things changed between us.

But that was a long time ago and now she’s with Lance, engaged to be married next year.

I study Lara, gaze lingering too long. I should leave so they don’t see me, but I can’t seem to take my eyes off her and then her gaze flicks across the room and lands on me.

She freezes.

For a second, it’s just the two of us—no party, no noise.

Just history.

She gives me a small nod, polite. Distant.

I nod back and it fucking kills me that we’ve devolved into this.

Lance asks Lara something, but she ignores him, continuing to stare at me. His gaze follows the direction of her attention, and his expression goes blank as our eyes meet. He says something to the merch rep, grabs Lara’s hand and starts weaving through the crowd my way.

Fucking great.

Lance holds out his hand for me to shake, a move I find overly formal seeing as how we’re brothers but sending a clear message that there’s division between us now.

His opening words are meant to set the tone as he attempts to gain an upper hand that he so desperately needs. “Sorry you didn’t take first last week in Jeddah. A few sloppy mistakes.”

I ignore the dig, mainly because I raced like a fucking phenom last week and am proud of my efforts. My brother hates my success, and I hardly think landing third on the podium equates to failure of any sort.

Instead, I throw back my own barb. “I’m surprised you’re here. Couldn’t resist the free booze, huh?”

Lance’s eyes flash with ire. “I’m here working, actually. ZENZ has me handling all the sponsorship activities this week. Corporate loves a familiar face.”

“That’s one way to worm your way back into the paddock, I suppose,” I murmur.