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Chapter Thirty-Two

Shantal

D arien and I cross the hall, nodding polite ‘hellos’ every so often, defly avoiding conversation. He puts names to faces for me, but I can’t keep them straight in my mind. It’s only once we sit down at the massive table reserved for our immediate team that my head stops spinning.

‘I know pro sport is a game of connections,’ I say, ‘but I’ve never seen it to this extent.’

As he joins us at the table, Miguel just laughs. ‘Welcome to auto racing.’

Our table consists of all our drivers, trainers and engineers, along with a few empty seats for friends and family, plus-ones. Demir will sit at the head of the table, after he’s concluded his run of the room. He’s currently doing the same as the rest of the team principals – talking up sponsors, not to mention covertly turning an ear to other teams.

‘Working the room is a superpower in this gig,’ adds Louie. He nods to Miguel. ‘This dude’s fiancée is superb at it. Securing funding is the bulk of the job. I’ve heard she’s the best of the best. Done wonders for Revello.’

‘Yeah, where is Miss Diana?’ Darien asks. I can’t seem to look away as the words leave his mouth. He’s … handsome. He cleans up nicely. The navy suit complements his tanned complexion and his brown curls perfectly. I wouldn’t mind if he tore the saree off me right this minute.

‘Working the room,’ Miguel says, an air of pride lacing his voice as he points in the general direction of the opposite end of the banquet hall.

My jaw drops.

‘Di!’ calls Miguel, getting up to meet her. She turns our way with a broad grin, and I am floored . She’s a goddess. She basically floats up to us in a glittering baby blue and gold kaftan cinched at the waist with a matching gold belt, absolutely flawless , lashes perfect, eyeliner wings nothing short of immaculate, lips expertly outlined, curls completely flat-ironed so her hair falls in shining sheets of jet black across her shoulders.

‘Hey, everyone,’ Diana chirps ever-so-casually, like she’s not standing before us all looking totally heavenly.

‘You … you’re …’ Henri is struggling to find the words.

I think I’m fully starstruck. ‘Wow,’ I finally finish for him, gesturing to her dress, to her entire self.

‘Thanks.’ She smiles, nodding at my saree. ‘You are killing it, Shantal.’

I forget what the appropriate reply is, until a ‘thank you’ finally emerges way too late.

‘Revello’s giving you glares, Dar,’ Diana tells Darien with a wink. ‘They can’t stop talking about you, your rumoured return to the sims. They’re shocked you’re doing so well so soon.’

This simple remark melts some of the tension in Darien’s shoulders. ‘Me, too,’ he replies with a voice full of relief.

Seeing him this comfortable for the first time since the accident sends an unexpected warmth spreading through my chest. Unless that’s the way he’s been looking at me. The way I’m trying not to look at him.

Diana is in her element, but mid-conversation with our table of team members, she catches me unaware. She gives me this knowing smile and, abruptly, the smile moves to Darien, threaded with a touch of knowledge. In that moment, fleeting as it is, Diana reads us, including everything I’m attempting to hide. It leaves me helpless when Darien turns his eyes to mine. I look away immediately, but his gaze is still on me; I can feel the heat of it on my neck.

Thankfully, we are given an escape in the form of the Revello team principal, ringleader of this entire event, taking a small stage at the front of the hall and giving the mic a quick double-tap. ‘ Buonasera , everyone.’

‘Cristoforo Montalto,’ mouths Miguel from my right side as Diana creeps back to her Revello table. ‘Powerful guy.’

The tables go silent, attention turning to the principal, Montalto. Out of the corner of my eye, I scope out Darien again. His hand rests on the table, a habit that looks natural but that we all know helps him stabilize his wrist. He runs a finger up the stem of his champagne flute rather unconsciously, and I catch sight of a stick-and-poke tattoo – happy face, dot eyes and a smile – on the side of his hand. My stomach does a little jump. Those hands. What would it feel like to be touched by such strong, beautiful hands?

I bite my lip and try to refocus on Cristoforo Montalto. Damn it.

The team boss extends an arm towards his table, says some things I barely hear amid the chaos of my mind. I want to give him my attention, but I see nothing but Darien, watch as he laughs when Montalto cracks a bad joke, his eyes narrowing happily. He nudges my arm, and then I feel a slight touch, his hand on my bare back for just a moment. Sparks chase their way across my skin, not chilling me but bringing me warmth, like no man ever has before.

I know I’m not the perfect daughter. I’ve had boyfriends and flings before this, one of which lasted longer than two years. I was seventeen, and I thought we’d keep going though uni – dumb, I know. I’ve been introduced to guys at weddings, family friends’ sons with whom I had no chemistry whatsoever. Every touch before this was just a touch. It wasn’t a feeling.

That brush of Darien’s fingers is scarcely enough. I meet his eyes with the hope that they tell him to stay, just for a moment longer.

His own irises glitter with understanding. He sneaks a contented smile before scooting closer to me and looping his arm all the way around, his hand resting on my shoulder.

One little date, one chance for me to leave the pressure and let my heart speak.

I lean against him with a sigh that takes my worries and my responsibilities away in a puff of air. His thumb strokes my skin gently, his thigh brushing against mine.

I want so badly to tell him everything, to tear apart every shackle that holds me back. But I am nothing like Darien. With a smirk, he lied to me the night we met so that he could plant his feet firmly in reality. All I want is to lie to myself so I can continue living this dream.

By the end of the night, we’ve fielded whispers from Team Jolt, who’ve been muttering about Darien’s arm all the while. I’ve managed to excel at my post as handler, steering Darien away from the whispers and towards a formidable ally: the champagne.

Both of us are certainly tipsy by the end of it. As the clock strikes midnight, we leave the banquet hall giggling, hanging on to each other’s arms.

‘And he just looked at you – like, like, the sim ? He’ll use the sim ?’ I mock the journalist who accosted Darien an hour back. ‘He was in despair . You could have been his front page.’

Darien lets out a cackle. ‘The shock on his face, Shantal. That was satisfying .’ He stops and places his hands on his hips in what I assume is a mediocre impression of me. ‘Hit him with the, “Well, can you use the sim? Can you drive any better? Can you?”’

‘Can he?’ I echo incredulously.

‘Nope.’

I shake my head with a laugh. ‘That was a rhetorical question.’

‘I know.’ He grins goofily at me, finally freed from the hordes of guests. ‘I just like finding excuses to keep talking to you.’

Maybe it’s also the champagne lowering my usual defensive fortress, but I can’t help but sneak a smile at that. Excuses to talk to you . The sparkly haze of the drinks slowly lifts as I realize that this is not, in fact, just champagne. This is much more real.

When Darien found me in the courtyard after he returned to the Ring complex, I hadn’t been able to tell him exactly what I felt. It wasn’t that I lacked an answer. I had that answer all along. I was just too scared to admit it.

Now, in the slight chill of the Imola night, as we amble towards the couches on the empty patio outside the hotel, the words slip easily off my tongue. ‘Me, too.’

We find a corner couch and sit side by side. Darien’s smile is soft as he removes his jacket and drapes it across my shoulders, carefully adjusting a falling pleat of my saree so it sits back on my shoulder. I didn’t even realize I was cold till I felt the jacket, cosy as it is. ‘You too, huh?’ he says quietly.

He lets his hand hover near my neck for just a moment, before civilly backing away. And god, do I hate myself for that. I need to be honest with him because I don’t know if I can play keep-away any longer.

For a moment, I fear he can see that stupid look on my face, the stupid look of longing. I look away, but Darien, as if he can read me, gently tips my chin back up so I’m level with him.

His eyes lock onto mine. ‘I’m not as dumb an American as I seem,’ he whispers with a smirk, and I stifle a laugh. ‘I should probably focus more on, like, the Championship, but then I see you, Shantal, and I can’t look away. Because I know we’re both finding excuses, but …’

‘GUYS!’

‘ Oh , my …’ Darien turns around with his hands raised. ‘Dude! Henri!’

‘Whoa.’ Our youngest driver’s eyes are comically wide. ‘Sorry, sorry, this is clearly a moment. Kind of. But anyway, we need you guys in there. Cristo’s absolutely plastered, and he’s about to make a toast to you, Darien.’

Darien’s ensuing groan is nothing short of hysterical. He gives me an apologetic smile, holding out a hand that I take as he helps me up. ‘Time to watch drunk Cristo try to make one of his dad speeches,’ he remarks, although his voice has an adorable sort of guilt to it.

We do, in fact, get to witness a drunk-dad speech from Revello’s team principal, but even with that entire debacle occurring right before our eyes, mine can’t focus on anyone but Darien.