Page 19 of Formula Freedom (Race Fever #3)

Reid

L ara and I sit side by side on oversized beach towels, half buried in the warm sand, legs stretched out lazily before us.

We’ve already spent the early part of the morning in the water, chasing wave after wave as the sun climbed steadily overhead.

Now we’re soaking in the late-morning warmth, saltwater drying on our skin, the gentle crash of the surf providing a rhythmic backdrop.

Occasionally, our eyes meet, and we share quiet smiles that don’t need words—each look speaks volumes about how good it is to be here together, finally.

I glance down the stretch of beach, eyes squinted against the glare of the sun reflecting off the ocean, wondering if Carlos is close. He texted earlier, promising to meet us here, but punctuality isn’t exactly his strong suit.

Except on the racetrack. He always gets where he’s going pretty damn fast.

Lara chuckles softly beside me, clearly reading my thoughts. “Think he’ll show?” she teases, nudging me lightly with her elbow.

“Eventually,” I reply with a grin, watching the horizon. “Carlos never misses a chance to visit a beach, even if he can’t tell a surfboard from a skateboard.”

As if on cue, Carlos appears in the distance, strolling toward us from the car park.

His grin is wide, radiant, like he’s just stepped into paradise—which, to be fair, Torquay kind of is.

He’s wearing mirrored sunglasses that flash brightly under the sun, paired with navy board shorts and a floral button-down shirt that he absolutely cannot pull off, yet somehow does anyway.

Even from here, his easy charm radiates, making it impossible not to like him.

Women watch as he struts by, and I can tell that a few people recognize him.

He spots us, lifting his hand in a carefree wave before picking up his pace, clearly excited to join us.

We both rise to greet him, and he pulls Lara into a bear hug that lifts her clean off her feet, then fist-bumps me like we haven’t seen each other in months instead of days.

“Mate,” he says, kicking off his shoes and staring at the water. “This is ridiculous. I may never leave.”

“You say that every time we go anywhere with a coastline,” I mutter.

“But this time I mean it.”

We’ve already surfed this morning—Lara and I—but we’ve got boards lying on the sand, and Carlos eyes them warily.

“I’m not going out there,” he says, eyeballing the ocean dubiously.

“Oh, come on.” Lara grins. “Didn’t you claim you were an expert wakeboarder?”

“I said willing wakeboarder,” he corrects. “There’s a difference. Surfing is just drowning slowly on an expensive piece of fiberglass.”

I nudge him with my elbow. “Thought you were supposed to be brave.”

“I race cars, not sharks.” Carlos eyes the boards skeptically. “Out there? It’s all fins and teeth.”

Lara laughs. “Oh, come on. That shirt will scare them off.”

Carlos puffs up indignantly. “I’ll have you know this is designer.”

“Designed by who?” I deadpan. “A tourist shop in Waikiki?”

“Jealousy,” he says, flicking his collar. “It’s never attractive.”

Lara throws herself onto a towel, still damp from earlier, and I follow. Carlos flops down beside us, leaning back in the sand and soaking in the sun like a lizard, his somber eyes meeting mine. “Did you hear about Bex?”

“What about her?”

Carlos shakes his head with a mix of disbelief and frustration. “Word is she resigned from Titans Racing. Just packed her stuff and walked out.”

My eyebrows shoot straight up. “Wait—what?”

“Alex at Union Jack called me when I was driving here. He saw her packing up her office.”

Lara’s jaw slackens. “Why?”

Carlos looks down, digging his fingers into the sand.

“She’s had a running beef with Laurent. He’s refused to follow any of her strategy calls and supposedly she called for an undercut Sunday.

He ignored her three laps in a row, then blamed his crappy result on her.

Voss stepped in mid-session, took her headset and completely undermined her authority in front of everyone. ”

“Wait… who’s Voss?” Lara asks.

“Hendrik Voss. Titans’ chief racing engineer,” Carlos provides. “He’s over all engineers and would be Bex’s immediate boss.”

“Oh,” she murmurs, now understanding the implications of how he demeaned her.

“I’ve heard Laurent’s been a douche to her,” I say. “It’s what women face in this sport.”

Lara grimaces. “And he’s the other Titans’ driver, right?”

“Yes,” Carlos and I answer at the same time.

“She handled it as best she could,” Carlos adds. “Professional as hell. But when your own chief engineer takes over and treats you like an intern, what choice do you have?”

Lara’s expression softens. “That’s awful. I can’t imagine being a woman in this field is easy.”

Carlos nods. “It’s not and it was a big deal for the Titans to hire her as their chief strategy engineer. Apparently, Voss made it his mission to drive her out. Said she cracked under pressure and Melbourne proved she couldn’t handle the job.”

I bark out a mirthless laugh. “Bullshit. That undercut would’ve worked. He blew it staying out.”

Carlos points a finger at me. “Exactly. But Bex took the fall. Apparently, Luca, their team principal, tried to talk her out of it, but she was done.”

There’s a moment of silence, the only sound the gentle crash of waves.

“I hate that for her,” Lara says.

Carlos sighs. “She deserved better. But from everything I’ve heard about Brienne Norcross, I’m guessing this isn’t over. She’s not going to let a team of arrogant bastards ruin one of the best strategists in the paddock. At least, that’s what everyone’s saying.”

“Christ, we sound like a bunch of gossiping old ladies,” I mutter, stretching my legs out before me.

Lara giggles, and the sound warms something in my chest. We fall into the kind of teasing rhythm that only comes with good friends—Carlos throwing in ridiculous stories about growing up in Mexico with six siblings, two dogs, and a grandmother who taught him to swear in three languages before he was twelve.

“That’s a big family,” Lara says, eyes wide.

“The biggest,” Carlos confirms with a chuckle. “No one could keep secrets. And forget about privacy—you so much as looked sad and five people were in your room asking what was wrong, bringing you snacks or trying to marry you off.”

She grins. “Sounds overwhelming.”

He shrugs. “Sounds like home. But I learned so much from my older siblings. Wouldn’t trade them for the world.”

Lara turns to me, playful but curious. “Remember when you tried to teach me to drive stick on your dad’s old truck and I stalled it seventeen times in a row?”

“Sixteen,” I correct. “I remember because I stopped counting after that.”

Carlos barks a laugh. “Please tell me there’s video.”

“Worse,” Lara says with an eye roll. “There’s a photo of me crying behind the wheel and Reid offering me a melting paddle pop as consolation.”

I nudge Lara’s leg with my own. “Hey, that Popsicle worked. You could always be cured with any type of sweet.”

She nudges me back, a flirty tilt to her lips.

“Oh my god,” Carlos groans. “You two are disgusting. It’s like I’m watching a romantic comedy that doesn’t know it’s a romantic comedy.”

Lara blushes and I smirk. I like that we’re obvious and I like that we don’t have to hide it… not sitting out here on the beach with my buddy.

Carlos gives us a long look, the humor fading slightly from his eyes. “You know,” he says, “I don’t say this lightly… but whatever this is? It works. Lara… I obviously don’t know you as well as Reid, but I know the real deal when I see it.”

Lara looks at me, startled. I stare back at her pointedly, because yeah… damn right, this is the real deal.

Carlos shrugs. “Don’t overthink it. Just… don’t run from it either.”

He stands and brushes sand off his board shorts, nods down the beach. “Can I buy us some beers over there?”

I glance at the tiny hut. “Sure thing, mate.”

“I’ll be back.”

Lara and I watch him walk off and she’s the first to say it. “He just left us so we’ll talk about what he said.”

Chuckling, I reach over and take her hand. “He’s like a wise old romance guru trapped in a twenty-six-year-old body.”

Lara tips her head back and laughs and I’m inspired to lean in and kiss her. She gasps, lets her tongue tangle with mine for a second and then leans away so her eyes can meet mine. “You think he’s right?” she asks.

I nod, not even pretending to hedge. “Yeah. I think he’s been right about a lot of things lately.”

She doesn’t answer but she doesn’t pull away either, so I kiss her again.

The sun hangs low in the sky now, and the surf rolls in slow, steady pulses.

I’ve raced on five continents. I’ve faced down corners at 300 kilometers an hour.

But this—sitting next to Lara, a little sunburned, a little wind-tousled, our fingers laced in the sand—this might be the bravest thing I’ve ever done.

I rest back on my elbows, watching the waves, when I hear footsteps crunching in the sand behind us.

“Excuse me? Sorry to interrupt,” a voice says.

I turn to find three people approaching—two guys and a woman, all in their twenties, wearing sun-faded Torquay Surf Club tees and sandy flip-flops. They’re grinning from ear to ear.

“Are you Reid Hemsworth?” one of the guys asks, already knowing the answer.

I sit up straighter and nod. “Yeah.”

The woman gasps. “Holy shit, we were at the Melbourne race! You were incredible.”

The other guy pulls out his phone. “Would you mind a photo? We won tickets in a contest through a local bar, and we were right near the Matterhorn paddock. Dude, it was epic.”

I smile and stand. “Yeah, of course.”

Lara rises with me, brushing off her shorts, and I can see the amusement dancing in her eyes.

She offers to take the photo, and the three fans eagerly crowd around me, handing over their phones in succession as she snaps away.

The woman insists on a selfie with just the two of us, gushing the entire time about how fast the car looked in Sector3.

“You’re a legend, man,” the first guy says as they head off. “Good luck in Suzuka. We’ll be cheering for you.”

“Thanks,” I say with a nod.

As they disappear down the beach, Lara watches them go, still smiling. Then she looks at me, something slightly awestruck in her expression.

“I mean, I know you’re famous,” she says, voice teasing. “But that was kind of surreal.”

“Comes with the job,” I reply with a smirk, nudging her shoulder.

“Still,” she murmurs, eyes distant now like she’s thinking it through. “It’s different seeing it up close. Like, you’re not just Reid, my neighborhood best friend who used to steal my cereal and make me laugh when I cried. You’re also that.”

Before I can answer, Carlos returns, holding three bottles of beer and a snack box cradled in one arm.

“Success!” he announces. “I bring drinks and something weird I’ve always wanted to try.”

He drops onto the towel beside us, opening the box to reveal an assortment of Aussie snack samples. The centerpiece is unmistakable.

“Vegemite,” he says, holding it up like it’s a trophy. “I’ve heard legends and now it’s time to see if it’s worthy.”

Lara and I exchange a look, twin expressions of dread and humor.

Vegemite isn’t something you just “try”—it’s a rite of passage.

A thick, salty, yeast-based spread made from leftover brewer’s extract, it’s beloved by Australians and feared by nearly everyone else.

Eaten wrong—meaning anything more than a whisper-thin layer—it’s practically a war crime against your taste buds.

“You’re not going to like it,” I warn.

Carlos shrugs. “I’ve eaten fried grasshoppers in Mexico. How bad can this be?”

He takes a small cracker, smears the tiniest bit of the dark spread onto it, and pops it into his mouth.

For a moment, nothing.

Then his face contorts. His eyes water.

“Why would anyone do this to themselves?” he croaks.

Lara bursts out laughing, nearly doubling over. I chuckle and hand him a beer.

“Told you,” I say.

Carlos sips furiously. “I am personally attacked by this experience.”

“Welcome to Australia,” Lara says, grinning. “Next up? Tim Tams. Those, you’ll like.”

Carlos waves a hand dramatically. “I’m going to need emotional support before I try anything else.”