Page 16

Thomas

There’s a certain peace in sitting on the starting grid.

It’s just me, the rumble of the engine, and the press of my fingers around the steering wheel. No distractions. No thoughts other than making it off the line. The calm before the chaos.

It’s a slow breath in, eyes locked on the five red lights above me, and an exhale as they all go out.

I’m out of my P5 grid box and wheel to wheel with two drivers ahead of me in a blink. It’s an excellent start, proof of my experience, the reliability of a McMorris-designed car, and my confidence in a team I know so well after five seasons together. This is all second nature now.

I’m P3 as we follow the racing line of the first corner. Dev’s leading, with Reid hot on his rear wing, but I’m more concerned with keeping the two cars I passed behind me. There’s a flash of navy and neon yellow in my mirror before I spot the Specter Energy car beside me, trying to edge me out as we barrel down the Las Vegas Strip. Their straight-line speed is lightning fast, which should mean I’m about to concede one of the places I’ve gained. But I brake late into the next turn, giving me the advantage even though I take it wider than I would have liked. I’m quick back on the throttle too, pulling away as he pushes through my dirty air. There’s still not much of a gap between us, but it’s something.

I get a reprieve as the two behind me have their own battle, giving me the chance to pull away and push.

“Nice job,” my race engineer comments over the radio. He’s never effusive with his praise, so this might as well be him screaming from the rooftops. “Arlo lost a few places at the start. He’s down in P11.”

I almost sigh. My teammate started seventh, and the strategy for this race was to have him help defend my higher P5 grid placement. That’s out the window now that we’re running eight places apart. He’ll be lucky if he can make his way up the grid to finish in the top ten—to actually get our team some much-needed points in the Constructors’ Championship.

So this is all on me. Fantastic.

To make up for that deficit, I’m going to have to fight for my life to keep P3. And God, is it a task. Between keeping the Specter Energy driver off my ass after two different safety cars bunch up the pack and then repeatedly trying to catch Reid, I’m driving hard. Possibly harder than I have all season.

It’s not that I was complacent before, but…maybe I was. I know I wasn’t giving my all in the months and weeks before the Singapore crash that took out the three front-runners in the Drivers’ Championship. It was maybe 90 percent of what I was truly capable of, because what was the point of giving more when it wouldn’t have gotten me more? With them and their teammates almost always ahead of me, the best I could usually finish was seventh. The best of the rest.

Zaid Yousef of Mascort and Axel Bergmüller of Specter Energy were the only ones who had any chances of winning the Drivers’ Championship anyway—the title every driver competes for individually. Lorenzo was a dark horse, trading off with Reid for third place. But with them out of the running and their teams dealing with the chaos of getting other drivers in those seats, it’s given the rest of the pack a chance to catch up.

Especially me. I still have no chance of winning the championship, but in the last five races, I’ve made it onto the podium three times. If I can hold on, I’ll make it a fourth. This might never happen again with Zaid and Axel set to return next season.

I ask my engineer where the other D’Ambrosi car is and do the quick maths of figuring out the points their team would earn if these were the places we all finished in. Grimacing against the padding of my helmet, I realize that they’d still be ahead of McMorris in the Constructors’ rankings. I need Arlo to prove why this team signed him and make it up to ninth at the very least.

The laps are grueling, and I’m thankful for the cooler-than-usual night. The bright neon lights of the buildings that stretch up and around us are nothing more than a blur as I pass them. By the time there are only fifteen laps to go, Reid is in my sights. I could take second—if I can get my quickly degrading tires to last.

“What’s the gap to Coleman?” I ask. It comes out as a demand.

Judging from his pause, I already know my engineer is going to dissuade me from trying to catch the D’Ambrosi driver. “Keep the pace,” he instructs. “Our focus is on the cars behind.”

Of course it is. But I’m hungry tonight. I want more than a third-place riser.

Stella flashes through my mind then, her words on a loop. So you’re a loser , she teases again and again. She was joking, playing down the fact that she was impressed, but she wasn’t wrong. Anything other than first is a loss. I know I won’t be taking the top spot tonight, but one step down…that’s something.

I take a breath and push.

In three laps, I’m on him, much to my engineer’s dismay. Reid defends hard, leaving me to nearly clip his rear tires as I try twice to overtake. It’s not the cleanest racing, I’ll admit it, but that want, that desire, can make you do unwise things.

Unfortunately, my tires seem to be on my engineer’s side, and I’m forced to fall back again when the battle proves to be too much. He might as well say I told you so the next time he comes on the radio.

No one can see me sulking behind my helmet at least. It’s tough to want something that’s just within reach but not be able to grasp it. And it’s even tougher when I’m forced to watch Reid challenge Dev a couple of laps later and overtake the race leader.

The move up means more points for D’Ambrosi. It means McMorris’s chances of landing third in the Constructors’ Championship are dwindling.

It means even though I’ll be holding a third-place trophy on the podium, I’m still a loser.

I’m being booed. Loudly. Very loudly.

It’s practically drowning out the announcer introducing me to the podium. I’ve always appreciated the passion of the Scuderia’s devotees, but right now it would be nice if they could tone it down a little. Limited as my knowledge of Italian is, I can certainly make out their shouts of asshole and idiot and—my personal favorite— ugly fucker . I can’t deny the truth of the first two, but the last one? Inherently untrue.

They didn’t like me before tonight, and they like me even less after the moves I pulled on Reid. But at least their darling boy proved he’s a damn good driver.

The saving grace of this onslaught of hate is that there’s only one race left this season. One more opportunity to be publicly abhorred, and then I can escape it all over the winter break.

The boos start to dwindle when Dev steps out and waves to the crowd, the cheers drowning out the hostility. And as Reid finally climbs up onto his first-place riser, there are only screams and chants and shouted declarations of love.

The American national anthem plays for Reid’s win—still such a wild thing to hear—followed by the Italian one for Scuderia D’Ambrosi, and then the champagne sprays. I congratulate both drivers again, and while Reid has been gracious enough to offer me a few half smiles and quick moments of eye contact, he’s careful to keep Dev in the middle of our celebrations.

And speaking of the other American up on the podium, Dev could have won this race, just like he could have won the last three in Austin, Mexico, and Brazil. Instead, the same thing that happened tonight happened then—Reid overtook him at some point and won.

To most, this wouldn’t look suspicious. After all, Reid’s an incredible driver and has been at D’Ambrosi for years, while Dev’s still adjusting to driving a new car and getting to know how Mascort operates. It’s amazing enough that Dev’s achieved a string of second-place finishes after being chosen to sub in for Zaid Yousef with seven races left in the season. It’s not easy to switch to a completely different car after driving for the same terrible team for years. Mistakes can and will be made.

But I know just how good a driver Dev is. He, Reid, Axel, and I were all F1 rookies in the same season, and he beat us all for the title of Rookie of the Year. He consistently scored points at Argonaut, his old team, even though their car was reminiscent of a tractor. He even managed to win a race this season in that hunk of carbon fiber. We shouldn’t expect anything less from him than win after win now that he’s driving a car that’s a hundred times better. He’s capable of it.

This race has cemented something for me, though—Dev and Reid are conspiring. Because after all the points Reid has racked up lately, if he wins the last race of the season next week in Abu Dhabi, he’ll win the Drivers’ Championship by the narrowest margin.

I know better than to voice my suspicions, but the whispers are already there without me adding to them.

After the podium celebrations are over, I make my way back to my driver’s room to decompress for a few minutes before I’m expected at the postrace press conference with Dev and Reid. I greet and thank McMorris team members as I pass through the garage, hugging and slapping the shoulders of the people who have been amazing all season. But I pull up short when Finley Clarke steps into my path, grinning. Not sure what our reserve driver is so happy about—he never cares if I end up on the podium—but he’s gleeful tonight.

He claps a hand on my shoulder, though it’s a bit of a reach for him since he’s barely five foot six and I’m six-one. “Not a bad drive,” he commends. “Maybe it’ll convince the bosses to keep you around.”

I squint at him. The hell is that supposed to mean? My contract isn’t up for another year, which means they’d have to pay me a pretty huge sum of money to get me to leave early. After that, who knows what could happen, but he’s acting like I’m already out of a seat.

“Thanks,” I say slowly, waiting for him to remove his hand before I walk on.

I don’t get far, though. I’m stopped by the impact of someone throwing themselves into my arms, their own going around my neck. Stella’s scent hits me even harder, the sweetness of citrus wrapping itself around me and holding tight.

“For our onlookers,” she murmurs against my ear. “They’re going to eat this up.”

Her lips against my skin and the press of her body have me short-circuiting, thrown back into the memory of our first night together, having thoughts that aren’t remotely appropriate for our current setting. Like how soft her inner thighs are, or how her ass felt grinding in my lap, seeking more friction as she moved with my fingers inside her. Even our kiss earlier, wholesome as it was, sneaks into my mind, because that was still a taste of Stella. And every little sample I get makes me wish I could have more. I just want to know . Maybe then I could get this out of my system and move on.

She pulls back before I can return the embrace. It’s probably for the best. She doesn’t need to feel what she inspires in me.

Even in her signature heels, Stella is practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. She’s shed her leather jacket, leaving her arms and shoulders bare, the thin straps of her black silk dress crisscrossing over them, and—fucking hell, she’s definitely not wearing a bra. It’s made extra obvious with every excited move she makes up and down.

“That was fun ,” she says, eyes bright and smile wide, like she’s just discovered the delicious high of a new drug. “Who would have thought watching cars go fast would be so entertaining?”

I force myself to put a hand to her back to guide her to the rear of the garage, her skin smooth and warm under my palm. “I’m guessing that means you’re a fan now.”

“You could say that,” she teases. “There was something sexy about watching you drive like that.” She pauses, eyes cutting to me. “I mean the plural you . All of you. All the drivers. All y’all, as my people say.”

I huff a laugh at her backtracking. Even with her rules, she can’t help flirting with me. I’m no better since I’m happy to entertain it. I like her banter and the way we play off each other. More than anything, I like how easy it feels.

“I don’t feel particularly sexy after sweating for nearly two hours,” I say as we step out of the garage.

Stella’s eyes are on me again, flicking up and down. My hair’s damp and wrecked from my helmet, plus running my fingers through it a million times afterward, and there’s nothing flattering about the postrace exhaustion on my face.

“You make the look work for you.” She clears her throat, eyes forward again as we cross over to the McMorris motorhome. “Anyway. I…may have done something.”

“Done something?” I ask cautiously, then follow it up with, “Good or bad?”

“Good, I hope,” she says. “I met Reid Coleman’s social media manager, Willow Williams. Turns out she’s a big fan of mine. We had a really great chat, actually. And…I found out from her that Reid has been in contact with his ex-teammate.”

I almost stumble, pulling up short outside the doors to the motorhome. It’s not because of her revelation that Reid and Lorenzo have been talking—that’s not particularly surprising—but that she took the time to find it out in the first place. “Seriously?”

Stella nods, engagement ring glinting under the lights as she sweeps her hair over her shoulder. “Seriously. And not only is she working for a driver, but she’s dating one too. Girl’s living the dream.”

“You do realize you’re married to a driver, correct?”

She drops her voice so as not to be overheard by anyone. “Accidentally and temporarily,” she points out, then returns to a normal volume. “I asked her to see if Reid might talk to you, which will hopefully lead to you speaking with Lorenzo. Maybe then you can clear the air and get an update on how he’s really doing. No promises that’ll happen, but she’s got some sway with Reid.”

Something is working its way through my chest, twisting and squirming, wrapping around my heart. “You did that for me?”

She shrugs like it’s no big deal, but this is massive, especially for someone who hasn’t known me long enough to understand how much this has been hanging over me. “Figured I might as well try.”

“Thank you,” I say. And I really, truly mean it. “I appreciate that.”

I open the door to the hospitality motorhome for her and guide her back to my driver’s room. It’s a small space, but there’s enough room for a love seat, a massage table, and a shelving unit. Stella wastes no time hoisting herself up on the table, hands tucked under her mostly bare thighs as she hooks one ankle behind the other.

“So,” she prompts, breaking our silence and forcing me out of my swimming thoughts. “What happens now?”

There are about a thousand ways I could answer that question, but I go with the most obvious and immediate. “I have to go do more interviews and a race debrief with the team.” I check my watch. It’s far past midnight. “You must be exhausted. If you want to head to bed, we can talk more in the morning before I have to fly out for the next race.”

“And where’s that one?”

“Abu Dhabi.” I grab a towel off the shelf and scrub it over my face. “It’s the last of the season, then I have a few more work commitments before I get about a month break.”

Her lip catches between her teeth before releasing. “Then I think this is going to be where we part for a while.”

I’m surprised by the note of disappointment in her tone and its echo behind my ribs. We haven’t spent much time together over the past week, but I’ve adjusted to our check-ins. It’ll be odd to be on the opposite side of the world from her.

“Right.” I have to clear my throat to keep the word from getting stuck there. “You have your company to get back to.”

“I mostly work remotely,” she explains with a rueful smile, “but I need to go check in on things after being away. And then it’s Thanksgiving on Thursday, so I’m going to be with my family.”

It all makes perfect sense, yet my stomach dips with each addition that will expand our separation. “So you won’t be at that race.”

She shakes her head. “Not unless I hop on a flight first thing the next day.”

I take a second to gauge whether she might be up for that, but quickly shut down that line of thinking. Yes, I want us to parade our fake marriage around, and I want to spend more time with her, though not at the expense of her missing out on being with people she loves. “I won’t ask you to do that. Being seen together tonight should tide the masses over for a bit.”

“What about after that?” she asks, and it’s a relief to know I’m not the only one concerned about how everything is up in the air. “Where will you be?”

“London mostly. You?”

“DC.”

An ocean apart. An eight-hour flight, sure, but it’s not an easy commute. Plus, with the commitments I have in the UK following the end of the season, I wouldn’t get back to the States until mid-December. And we still haven’t figured out whose family we’re going to spend the holidays with, or how we’re going to present a united front to my parents, or when Stella and Figgy will meet…

A million questions and logistical nightmares swirl in my head. And then there’s the little fact that I’m…going to miss her. Which is probably the reason I end up blurting, “Come to London with me.”

Stella leans back at my outburst, brow dipping in the center. “Excuse me?”

“Let’s make it look like we’re a real couple.” My momentum is building, fueled by an anxious energy to make this fake marriage work for us. For her to never be too far away for too long. “Come to London. Move in with me. Be my real pretend wife who’s by my side.”

Stella’s staring at me like I’ve lost every single one of my marbles. But that’s okay. I can make her come around, I know it. I convinced her to stay married to me, so there’s no reason I can’t pull this off too.

“We can consider it a flatshare,” I push on. “I have a bunch of bedrooms. And I’m always back and forth to McMorris HQ at Silverstone, so I’m hardly there anyway. You’d practically have the place to yourself.”

“Thomas,” she says slowly, and I know she’s trying to figure out a way to let me down easy, but I can’t let this opportunity slip away.

“You said you work remotely, right? You can be anywhere in the world. So why not London? If you need to go back to DC at any point, you can absolutely use my family’s jet. I’d make sure it was always available for you.” I take a breath, stopping myself from rambling further. But that still might not be enough. I need more to convince her to stay with me. “Besides, won’t Janelle be living there soon?”

There it is—there’s the spark in her eyes I was waiting for. Clearly I’m not enough of a draw (understandable), but Janelle? She’s my key to everything.

“My whole life is in DC,” she tries to reason, a waver of doubt passing over her face. “I can’t just up and leave.”

She doesn’t fully believe what she’s saying. Yes, her job is there, and I’m sure she has a network of friends in the city she’d miss if she left. But there’s an ex-fiancé there too and what’s certainly a mountain of memories and regrets she wants to move on from.

“You could have a fresh start in London,” I offer gently, not daring to push too hard. “You could make some new connections—business or otherwise. Maybe open another Stella Margaux’s. Or hell, start a brand-new chain of whatever you want. The European market is ripe for it, and it would be so much easier to explore it from that side of the pond. I’ll help you as much as I can.”

Her full bottom lip is back between her teeth, biting down as she thinks, and my eyes drop to her mouth. I might be ashamed of where my mind has gone if I didn’t already know this attraction was achingly mutual. She’s the one who pulled me in for that second kiss, after all.

“Fine,” she finally blurts, surprising herself judging by the way her eyes go wide. “I’ll move to London.”

I’m too busy resisting the urge to kiss her to register her words at first. But then they hit me, sending my heart into overdrive and making me want to kiss her even more . “Are you serious?”

Stella nods. The move’s a little hesitant, sure, but there’s a smile edging onto her lips. “I’m serious.”

I break into a grin of my own, not bothering to hold it back, because this is perfect.

My wife’s moving in. And I’m going to do everything to make her want to call it home.