Page 24

Thomas

It’s wild to think this could be the last year I set foot in the McMorris factory—and wilder still that I can’t talk to anyone about it.

My manager has instructed me to keep quiet and let him do his job. While he’s out hunting for new sponsorship deals and stealthily feeling out whether any teams will have seat openings after next season, I have to be at HQ finishing up my postseason duties and acting like everything’s fine and dandy.

Today, I’m back at Silverstone after a day spent with Stella in London, recovering from the aftermath of the Cotswolds trip. I’ve done my season debrief with the team, filmed social media bits to get us through the winter, and had my last session on the simulator before we retire this season’s car. The next time I’m here, it will be to test our setup for next season, but I have a monthlong break before then.

It’s dark out when I head down to the building’s lobby, passing by classic McMorris F1 cars from bygone years. This has been my home for so long; four of my cars from previous seasons sit in front of the walls of glass, a reminder of each year I’ve spent with them so far. The fifth will join them soon.

To think I may not return…it’s a thought I need to hurry up and come to terms with, or at least stop dwelling on. Truth is, I don’t know for certain that they’ll get rid of me. Maybe I’ve proved myself valuable enough to keep, even without the A.P. Maxwell International sponsorship.

But I’m not getting younger, and fresh talent is knocking at the door every day, as Arlo Wood and Finley Clarke are keen to remind me.

“Tommy boy!”

I exhale and stop at the voice calling after me, turning to find Arlo hustling up. He’s got his cap on backward and is wearing a jacket that won’t keep him warm in the December cold, but he looks every part the hip heartthrob.

“Aren’t you sick of me?” I ask as I button up my coat. “We’ve been together for a whole season and you still want to talk?”

“Just getting my last dose in before you’re gone for the winter.” He grins and rocks back on his heels. “You going to Zaid’s gala?”

The event is in a week, the day after the FIA’s annual prize-giving gala, which neither Arlo nor I have to attend because we weren’t in the top three finishers of the Drivers’ Championship and McMorris didn’t come close to winning the Constructors’ Championship. Zaid came in second, with Axel Bergmüller in third, but after the Singapore crash and their injuries, it’s still up in the air whether either one will be at the prize-giving in Baku. Like Lorenzo, Axel hasn’t been seen publicly since the crash, but he’s at least put out a few press statements saying he’ll be racing again next season.

“I’ll be there,” I answer. “Are you going?”

Arlo nods, but I don’t hear anything he says next, because I’m distracted by my phone buzzing with a text from Stella.

STELLA: What time will you be home tonight?

“Sorry, one sec,” I mumble to Arlo as I start to type.

THOMAS: No later than 10. You okay?

STELLA: Perfectly fine. Just don’t be surprised if you walk in and it looks like everything in the kitchen exploded.

THOMAS: Do I need to be worried?

STELLA: Of course not. I’m a professional, baby.

“That your wife?”

I lift my head at Arlo’s question, then wipe away the grin that’s somehow appeared on my face. “How’d you know?”

He smirks. “Because you’ve got fuckin’ hearts in your eyes, mate. Hope a woman makes me look like that one day.”

I snort. “We both know it will be several women, Arlo.”

“We can only hope.” After shooting me a wink, he shoulders his way around me and heads for the automatic doors to the car park. “See you at the party next week, old man.”

I watch him go, his words pinballing through my head as I grip my phone in my pocket. Hearts in my eyes? Seriously? He couldn’t be further from the truth.

I’ll admit that I’m very attracted to Stella, and have been from the first second I spotted her, so maybe that’s what he saw. But it’s not much more than that—physical attraction. There are thousands of women out there I could say the exact same thing about.

Except…I can’t deny that Stella is a cut above the rest. And, well, our trip might have changed things a little. The way she handled herself with Figgy and my family, plus how she was once again so willing to step up and help me, even when a solution seemed so far out of reach, had me looking at her in a completely different light.

Maybe it’s been building since we agreed to stay married. Kind of hard to avoid an emotional connection when you’re forced to get to know someone, especially when that person is fascinating. And hilarious. And intelligent, and kind, and so wickedly sharp, with a smile to match.

It’s hard not to like someone when they’re everything you could ever ask for.

The realization hits me hard, like a blow straight to the gut.

Ah shit.

I think I’m falling for my wife.

It’s nearly ten p.m. when I push through the front door, the scent of vanilla and sugar hitting me like a sweet slap.

“Stella?” I call out, dropping my things before heading to the kitchen where I assume she’s baking. I’ll be disappointed if it’s just a scented candle.

Thankfully, there’s food to be found when I round the corner. As one might expect from Stella Margaux, there are macarons on nearly every surface, but they’re joined by cupcakes, several varieties of cookies, and what I’m guessing are three different types of frosting. It’s a sugar lover’s paradise, and I’m so glad it’s the offseason so I can actually taste all of this and not have to explain it to my dietician tomorrow.

“Wow,” I exhale as Stella turns off a mixer. “It’s like my own personal episode of Bake Off in here.”

She shoots me a grin over her shoulder, an adorable smudge of flour across her cheek. “And I didn’t have a breakdown while making any of it either.”

I believe that based on the glow emanating from her. This is her happy place. She’s surrounded by the sweetest treats, her ideas coming to life in her hands. Somehow, I can’t imagine her doing anything else.

“I’m sorry for the mess,” she says. I appreciate that she doesn’t sound apologetic in the slightest. “Once I have a commercial kitchen, I’ll be out of your hair. Thanks for sending me that estate agent’s number, by the way. I’ve set up a few viewings.”

I pull out one of the stools at the island, sitting down and moving a plate of unassembled macarons out of the way. “I like having you here,” I admit. “It’s been nice having someone to come home to.”

Has it only been a day of that? Yes. But was it a delight yesterday to hear her upstairs on a conference call, a reminder that I’m no longer alone in this ridiculously large house? Also yes.

Stella snickers and returns to the batter bowl, taking it off the mixer stand a moment later. “Sounds like you should have gotten a dog ages ago.”

Smiling, I shake my head and grab a macaron off one of the many plates. I can’t say I know much about them, but these look perfect. And so does Stella—who’s wearing my Union Jack apron, which she swore she was going to hide when she saw me in it this morning. The sight has something glitching in my brain, the rule-abiding part of it shutting down.

I push up from my seat and approach her from behind. She startles when I wrap an arm loosely around her shoulders, my forearm banded across her collarbones, her back pressed to my chest. I hold up the macaron in my other hand. “What flavor is this?” I murmur next to her ear.

“Thomas.” The warning coincides with her tilting her head back in invitation, even if she doesn’t mean it to be. “You’re breaking several rules right now.”

“Can I not give my wife a hug?”

“Fake wife,” she takes care to remind me, but I feel the way her heart rate picks up.

“Fine. Answer my question and I’ll let you go.”

Stella huffs and looks down at the macaron, quickly answering, “Blood orange and vanilla cream. I’m working on our summer menu for next year.”

I nod and let my arm slip from around her, though I swear her shoulder follows my fingertips as they drift away.

“Don’t go far,” she blurts as I take a step back. “I need you to whip some cream for me.”

“Is that a euphemism for something?”

“You wish.” She then points to a bowl with cream in it, a whisk next to it. “I’d put it in the stand mixer, but I don’t have any clean attachments at the moment.” We both glance at the dirty dishes in and next to the sink. “Get that to soft peaks for me.”

“Okay, that is definitely a euphemism.”

Stella laughs and it’s like music. A song I’d put on repeat for the rest of my life.

After shoving the macaron in my mouth, I pick up the whisk and get to work. I don’t know what the hell soft peaks are, but I’m sure she’ll tell me when it happens.

“What do you think of that flavor?” she asks, coming over and leaning a hip against the counter next to me. “Remind you of summertime?”

No, it doesn’t remind me of summer. It reminds me of just a minute ago, with my lips by her ear and inhaling her sweet citrus scent. It reminds me of dark Vegas clubs, of sweaty hugs after a race, of burying my face in her neck while in bed together because I simply couldn’t go another moment without feeling her skin against mine.

I swallow hard. “It’s my new favorite.”

Stella smiles and I swear I feel it deep in my chest. “Then that’s settled. It’s going on the menu.”

She turns away and goes back to whatever she was working on before. But even as I keep whisking, I can’t take my eyes off her. Seeing her in her element is exhilarating. Is this how she felt watching me on-track? If it is, I get her postrace reactions now.

“Hey, Stella?”

She glances over at me again, brow raised, expression so bright.

“Even when you find a new space to bake,” I say, “I still want you to do some of it here.”

Her smile turns teasing. “You just don’t want to miss out on being my taste tester.”

That’s not even remotely it, but I still nod. “You caught me.”

When she laughs again, I let it seep into me, savoring the champagne fizz of it through my veins.

Yeah. It’s not even a question anymore. I’ve gone and fallen for my wife.