Page 18

Thomas

It may be nearly December, but the weather in Abu Dhabi didn’t get the message.

I’m dripping sweat as I push through my last flying lap in qualifying, gritting my teeth and praying it’s enough to put me in front of my teammate on the starting grid tomorrow. I wouldn’t normally be so pressed to outqualify Arlo or to prove I’m the superior driver in our pairing, but our reserve driver’s words from the last race linger in my head.

I still don’t know what Finley meant with his cryptic congratulations. Isn’t my seat safe for the rest of my contract? Isn’t there enough money behind me to keep me around even if my performance is lacking? Not that it is, considering I’ve at least placed on the podium this season, unlike Arlo.

Thankfully, my final lap time is enough to slot me into P5, behind Dev, Reid, one of the Specter Energy drivers, and Dev’s Mascort teammate Otto Kivinen. It’ll be a tough fight to move up tomorrow, but I’m ready.

I push the thought away as I guide the car to parc fermé. After hauling myself out, I make my way over to an awaiting FIA official to be weighed, slapping hands with Dev and congratulating him on yet another pole position as I go. Reid is out of reach before I can commend him as well.

I head toward the McMorris garage as they leave to do top-three interviews. Thankfully there’s no Finley waiting for me this time, just a swarm of mechanics and engineers and—

Stella.

My wife lingers at the back of the slowly thinning crowd, like she’s trying to stay carefully out of the way, but there’s no missing her. She stands out as if there’s a spotlight beaming down on her, and I blink a few times to make sure I’m not imagining things. But when she lifts a hand to wave at me, grinning widely, I know she’s more than just a dream.

My helmet, HANS device, and balaclava are off and gone before I realize what I’m doing. Apologies to the poor soul I likely shoved them at, but I’m too shocked to care much.

My feet automatically carry me over, stopping right before I run into her. The watchful eyes around us have me grabbing her hand and pressing it to my chest, just over my thudding heart. Though, really, I think I’ve done it because I want her to feel my genuine reaction to her presence.

“You’re here,” I say, rather unnecessarily, but they’re the only words I can form.

I’m just…I’m happy to see her. Happier than I thought I would be, especially with all the chaos we’ve brought into each other’s lives. I still haven’t spoken with my parents, allowing my assistant and my friends to act as my go-betweens, using the excuse that I need to focus on the end of the season. It’s a lie, and we all know it, but I’m not ready to face them. I figured I needed more time with Stella, for us to get to know each other, before I could confidently confront them.

And now she’s here.

Somehow, Stella’s grin brightens. Her nearly black irises reflect my own mooning smile. “I am.”

“I didn’t think you were coming.” I’m struck with a wave of guilt when I remember why she wasn’t planning to be here. “Aren’t you supposed to be with your family for the holiday?”

“I had more than enough time with them,” she casually dismisses, though there’s a tiny waver in her expression before she’s back to beaming. “And I’d rather be here watching you stick it on the third row.” With her free hand, she gives my shoulder a congratulatory punch. It’s not a very spousal move, but hopefully anyone watching will put it down to that just being her personality instead of questioning our relationship. “You had me on the edge of my seat. I almost thought you weren’t going to make it out of Q2. Kivinen should have gotten a penalty for impeding you like that.”

He should have, since I was forced to swerve around his slower car and missed the apex of the next corner. Thankfully, I recovered without too much drama or time lost. “Sheer luck I made it, honestly,” I answer.

But I’m hung up on the fact that she’s gone from knowing nothing about F1 to being this well versed in a mere two weeks. And not just that, but she’s done it during such a tumultuous time, when she definitely had more important things to focus on. God, it’s impressive, and she’s done it all for me. For us.

My breath catches when Stella leans in closer. “Don’t do that,” she whispers.

If there are any cameras around, I hope they’re snapping away, because I’m sure I look like a man fully obsessed with his wife. “Do what?”

“Write off your talent. That wasn’t luck. That was skill.”

I didn’t think I was writing anything off, but her reminder is refreshing. She’s right. I’ve worked hard for it to be this way.

I’m about to tell her exactly that—and then possibly tell her how much I’d like to pull her into a private corner—when a hand clamps down on my shoulder and shakes me excitedly.

“Nice fucking job, mate!” Arlo shouts over the noise of the garage.

I have to hand it to the kid, I don’t think I’ve ever had a teammate cheer for my success this much. Maybe it’s because neither of us has been in the running for titles or glory. Might as well cheer each other on in that case. Someone’s got to get points for the team.

I thank him and ask where he’s starting tomorrow, but my question is ignored because Arlo’s full attention is on Stella.

He grins up at her, all bright white teeth and excessive charm. He’s shown me the web pages dedicated to him, and there’s no denying he’s a fan favorite among the younger demographic. I can’t blame them, because he looks like he should be the lead singer of a boy band. If anyone’s the knockoff Harry Styles here, it’s him.

“This the wife?” Arlo asks me, even though he’s staring at Stella. “I get why you married her so fast. You’d be a fool to risk someone else swooping in before you could lock that down.”

That shocks a loud laugh out of Stella, whose hand presses harder against my chest, as if she’s silently asking, Can you believe this kid?

Unfortunately, I can absolutely believe him, because this is classic Arlo Wood. Cheeky fucker extraordinaire.

“Bless your heart,” Stella says, that American drawl coming out strong. It’s so saccharine that it’s borderline condescending. “Bet the girls are lining up around the block to have a go at you.”

I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from smirking at the way her eyes flick over him. I’d call Arlo out on his comment if I thought Stella wanted me to, but she’s got this handled. Watching her draw herself up a little taller has me tempted to step completely aside to let her have a go at him.

I don’t, though, because he’s interrupted a moment with her that I didn’t want interrupted, especially since it will have to end soon.

“Don’t you need to be getting to the media pen, Arlo?” I cut in, heading off whatever he was about to say.

For a moment, I swear he’s going to ignore me and carry on flirting with Stella, but he must see the insistence in my eyes and puts his hands up instead.

“I’m gone,” he announces, unzipped race suit fluttering around his hips as he steps back. “Let the grown-ups have their romantic moment. You better join me soon, though.”

He winks at Stella before sauntering off, my half-hearted glare on his back. Again, she laughs, drawing my attention, and my annoyance floods away at the sparkle in her eyes.

I want to stick around and talk to her, especially about her upcoming move to London on Monday, but I really do need to head over for the same media circus I sent Arlo off to. “I’m sorry, I have to go do interviews and then I have the team debrief. But I’ll be back as soon as I—”

She cuts me off with a shake of her head. “Go do what you need to and don’t worry about me. I’m the one who surprised you at your job. If you did the same to me, I wouldn’t hesitate to ignore you.”

She’s teasing about that last part, but I know she’s serious about the rest of it. She wants and expects me to focus on what I’m here to do. I appreciate that push.

“We can talk later,” I offer, but she’s already scrunching her nose at the idea.

“I’m jet-lagged as hell, so I’m going to bed. Come find me whenever you have time tomorrow. Maeve knows where I’ll be.”

Speaking of my assistant, she and I need to have a chat about keeping secrets, since clearly she was the one who organized Stella coming here. Then again, it wasn’t exactly an unwelcome surprise.

“See you tomorrow, Prince Charming,” Stella murmurs, closing the distance between us to press a warm, lingering kiss to my cheek. “And tell Arlo he better watch his damn mouth the next time he talks to me or else McMorris is going to need to find a new number two driver.”

Turns out I don’t have to wait long to see Stella the next day, considering we’re hotel room neighbors.

“I don’t know how Maeve pulled this off,” I say when Stella opens her door, “but I think she deserves a raise for it.”

She snickers and steps back to let me into the room, where I spot breakfast for two set up on a table by the floor-to-ceiling windows, certainly Maeve’s doing once again.

“She may not be your biggest fan, but she seems fond of us together,” Stella comments. “Does she know all of this is fake?”

I shake my head and move to the table, pulling out Stella’s chair. She’s not yet dressed for the day, considering she’s wearing what looks like a camel-colored cashmere tracksuit, but she makes it look sexy. How does this woman manage to make trackies look good?

Once she’s settled, I go to sit across from her. “I told Maeve our lie,” I answer. “Not sure she believes it, though. And I had to amend it a bit from what you told your parents. She knows I wasn’t in Vegas when Ron and my brother were, so we couldn’t have met then.”

Stella’s expression falls like a brick, which makes my stomach dip along with it.

“Shit,” she whispers, fingers lifting to her lips. “I messed that up, didn’t I?”

I swear the tips of her ears and the bridge of her nose have gone red, the only places where I can see her blush. She’s upset with herself, mortified even, to a degree that I don’t quite understand. It’s not wonderful to have several versions of our lie out there, sure, but it doesn’t warrant this reaction.

I offer her an easy shake of my head and a gentle smile. “Nothing we can’t handle,” I reassure.

But Stella just stares at me, expression unchanged, like she’s waiting for something else. If she’s expecting me to burst out in a fit of anger, she’s sorely mistaken. The longer I stare, though…I really do think she’s waiting for me to blow up.

I don’t know what else to do except push on. Try to make her feel a little better about what’s a minor mistake. “As luck would have it, I was actually in DC for a few days not long after that trip,” I say, picking up my fork and knife. “So our timeline of knowing each other doesn’t have to change much.”

It’s another beat before Stella nods, dropping her hand from her mouth and clearing her throat. “Interesting to think our paths could have crossed before the wedding,” she says. There’s a slight tremor in her voice, but she’s fighting to get it level. “What were you there for?”

I look away to let her finish composing herself and slice into my omelet. “I support this initiative that Zaid Yousef runs to get more girls and marginalized kids worldwide into STEM and motorsport. He was hosting an event there and I was the special guest.” I take a bite and chew for a moment before tacking on, “There’s actually a gala to raise money for the charity coming up in London soon, if you’d like to go as my date.”

Stella snorts. “I think being your wife automatically qualifies me to be your date, no?”

“I’d never want to presume. But…you’ll go with me?”

“Of course I will. I live for a gala.” She pauses to spear a strawberry on her fork as I grin, pleased that she’s willing to join me. “Or any excuse to wear a gown, honestly. If I wasn’t a baker, I’d want to be in fashion.”

I perk up at that. “You’ll get along great with my second-youngest sister, then. She has her own line.”

“Shut up.” Stella leans forward, engrossed. “How have you not told me this sooner?”

“We haven’t exactly had much time to discuss our families and their careers. Been a little too busy figuring out each other’s first.”

She thoughtfully chews her strawberry. “True. But I guess that’s going to be important soon. When do you want me to meet your family?”

It takes effort not to grimace at her question, considering I’ve been putting off talking to them for weeks. “Let’s give you a few days to settle in first, then I’ll release the demons on you.”

An unease settles over Stella’s features, prompting me to blurt, “That’s a joke, I swear. They’re not that bad.” Well, most of the time.

Her dark eyes remain guarded. “What if your family doesn’t like me?”

The question isn’t self-conscious. It’s more like she’s trying to steel herself for the inevitability of it. Of course, there’s the minor chance that one of my siblings or either of my parents might irrationally dislike her, but I really doubt it. Dad loves anyone with business acumen. Mum will appreciate Stella’s culinary creativity. Edith will be cold and aloof, just like always, and Andrew won’t care one way or another since the only people he pays attention to are his wife and Ron. As for Geneva and Calais…well, I should probably warn Stella to brace herself for how obsessed they’ll be with her, but where’s the fun in that?

“I can promise you right now,” I say, “they’re going to love you.”

Stella’s eyes flick over me, likely taking in my pale skin and ridiculously posh bearing. I know I come from a certain echelon that has been notoriously unkind to people who look like her, and I don’t blame her for worrying. “You sure about that?”

“Absolutely certain,” I confirm, but I won’t go into any more detail. “Now eat up. It’s race day.”

I’m waiting for the lights to go out.

This is the last time I’ll be on the starting grid this season—the last time I’ll sit in this particular car. It’s served me well, all things considered, even though I wish it could have landed me a little higher in the Drivers’ Championship. If I can gain a place and cross the line in P4 today, I’ll finish sixth in the standings, just ahead of Lorenzo Castellucci. My haters will have more ammunition, unfortunately, since I’ll have outranked their favorite, but it’s an accomplishment I’m damn proud of. And who knows, maybe next year McMorris will produce a car that will let me challenge Zaid Yousef and Axel Bergmüller—once they return—plus all the other drivers who finished in front of me.

A man can dream, can’t he?

I’m hot off the line when the five lights go dark, my reaction time so good that I immediately have to cut to the inside to avoid tagging the Specter Energy car’s rear wheels. He’s smart enough to head me off into the first turn, though, forcing me to fall back and scrap with Otto Kivinen.

Otto takes the outside line, nearly squeezing me off-track as he moves inward, but I keep on, gritting my teeth as I slot in behind him. Thankfully, it’s only a brief annoyance. The slipstream I pick up in the straight makes it all worth it, the reduced drag allowing me to gain speed and close him off in the next corner.

And what do you know—I’m in fourth.

From there, it’s not a particularly interesting race. As the laps go by, there’s enough of a gap between the drivers in front of and behind me that not much can happen. Even my pit stops—both perfectly timed and executed—don’t get me more than a fresh set of rubber. It’s not mind-numbingly boring like some races can be, but I certainly don’t have to use as much brainpower as a circuit like Monaco requires or push particularly hard.

Yet there’s no place else I’d rather be.

Maybe I was wrong to tell Stella I wasn’t living the dream. No, I’m not winning. And no, I don’t have a championship title in sight. I probably never will. The truth is, most drivers will never win a championship, let alone win a grand prix. I’m lucky that I’ve at least done the latter a few times.

But even without dozens of wins or a title under my belt, I don’t want to give up this life. I don’t want to lay it all down and walk away. I want to be here, under these lights, in front of these crowds, and on these circuits for as long as I can. They’ll have to drag me away kicking and screaming, because I’m not leaving willingly.

On lap forty-five, my engineer updates me on driver positions. At the front, Reid and Dev have been battling, and there have been plenty of switch-ups behind too, including Arlo making his way up from P10 to P7. It’s a great improvement, but unfortunately, the second D’Ambrosi driver—a rookie who’s been trying his best to keep up with the expectations set by the man he replaced—is ahead of him by more than five seconds.

With Reid now in first and his teammate in sixth, McMorris’s chances of beating D’Ambrosi in the Constructors’ Championship are out the window. It’s a shame, but sometimes that’s just how seasons go. It’s amazing we even came that close. Next season, though…we’re coming for that third-place spot at the very least.

When the checkered flag waves, I take care to thank the entire team over the radio, including all the people back at the factory. And then, cheeky as it is, I say, “And, Stella, if you’re listening, thank you for taking a gamble on me. You’ve brought me more luck than I could have ever hoped for.”

Even if she’s not tuned in to our team radio, there’s no way the broadcasters will resist airing it, and undoubtedly the public will eat it up too. It’s a little nod to our Vegas wedding and a heartfelt shout-out to my wife—how could anyone resist that? It might not endear me to everyone, but maybe it’ll take the edge off some of the general hate. And I really do want Stella to know how much I appreciate her giving our faux marriage a chance.

I also tack on my congratulations to Reid on winning his first Drivers’ Championship. It’s mind-blowing that he’s pulled it off, and I’m still certain something has gone on behind the scenes to make it happen. But a win is a win, and it’s exciting to see someone other than Zaid or Axel walk away with the trophy for the first time in years.

In parc fermé, I climb out of the car and go through the usual end-of-race procedures before heading back to the McMorris garage. I’m greeted with hugs and handshakes and high fives, relief palpable now that the season is over. We’re all ready for a break—from this world, from one another, and from the stress of keeping an elite team running. Of course, not everyone will get extended time off, or even have their holiday begin now. I’m almost certain the engineers never rest, and Arlo, for instance, will have to stay a few more days for all the mandatory postseason testing.

Me, though? I’m out of here the second my race debrief and all my media duties are over. Perks of being the senior driver on the team.

But truthfully, the work never stops. I’ll still be in the gym nearly every day, spending plenty of time in my home race simulator, and I’ll be back at our Silverstone headquarters before I know it. And as much as I’m desperate for a break, I’m not particularly mad about the prospect of going back to work in a few weeks.

To my delight, Stella is once again waiting for me at the back of the garage, a green headset draped around her neck. From the way she’s beaming, I know she heard my radio message.

Her arms are around my waist a moment later, our chests pressed together. Her heels are a smidge shorter tonight, though no less dangerous than usual, forcing her to tilt her head back a little farther. The long line of her neck has me tempted to press my lips to the very top of the column. I don’t resist the urge.

Her giggle vibrates against my lips, and I don’t even care if no one’s watching. This is just for me.

“You are so fucking good ,” Stella gushes as I pull back, her hands cupping my jaw. “I take back everything I ever said about you being a loser.”

I grin down at her. “I mean, technically, I am a loser. I didn’t come close to winning the championship.”

“If that was losing, then I’d watch you do it anytime. That was a damn good drive.”

Her joy is infectious, flooding my body. I thought I was happy before, but hearing her praise…I don’t have a name for the emotion rushing through my bloodstream. Whatever it is, I like it more than I should.

“Thank you,” I say, pressing my cheek farther into one of her palms. “Glad to have survived the season. Glad we all did.”

Some of us may not have come out of it unscathed, mentally or physically, but we’re still alive. In a season like this one, that’s all we could have asked for.

I clear my throat to dislodge the heaviness threatening to settle there. “Anyway,” I say. “I have a few more things to wrap up, but I’ll see you in the morning for our flight out. You ready to go home?”

There’s a flicker in her eyes at the word home , and I fear I’ve said the wrong thing. I don’t know how else to phrase it, though. Ready to go back to my place? No, too full of innuendo. Ready to be married but completely platonic housemates? Christ, that’s worse.

But then the flicker passes, a smile blooms across her face, and—fuck. Fuck. I’m not sure if living together is a good idea anymore.

Because keeping my hands off my wife is going to be next to impossible.