Page 37

Thomas

Three weeks later, March

Bahrain

This could very well be my last season as a McMorris F1 driver. In fact, I’m betting on it.

Stella sits next to me in the sports car on our way to the Sakhir circuit for the first race of the season. She’s scrolling through her phone and rapidly replying to emails, keeping her empire afloat from afar. Honestly, she was right when she said she was more impressive than me, because I would probably lose my mind if I had to do all the things she does on a daily basis. I’ll take driving around a track any day.

“You almost done?” I ask her as I turn onto a cordoned-off side street that leads to the car park. “We’re nearly there.”

“Just a couple more,” she murmurs, eyes still glued to her phone. “Then I promise I’ll be a good WAG for you.”

I snicker, but I have no doubt I’ll have all her focus when it’s time. We’ve been inseparable since our second wedding, and she didn’t hesitate when I asked if she wanted to come along to Bahrain. I warned her that I’d barely have any free time between preseason testing and the first race weekend, that the dates we’d started to go on every few days would have to stop for a while, but she wasn’t deterred.

“I only married you so I could get more passport stamps,” she teased before pressing a kiss to my jaw. “Ends of the earth, remember?”

It may not have officially been part of our vows, but it’s become our promise to each other. Whenever we can, we’ll put in the effort to be in the same place. Certainly makes this whole dating thing easier—which, I have to say, is going well so far. Who knew getting married first would lead to having the world’s greatest girlfriend?

As I turn into the car park and pull into my designated spot, the beginning of an adrenaline rush starts to seep into my veins. In a few hours, after more team meetings and last-minute adjustments to the car, I’ll be on the grid watching the lights go out. To say I’ve missed this is an understatement, and to think I ever considered giving it up…it’s nearly unbelievable now. I’m determined to fight harder than ever. I’m going to prove I belong in this elite level of motorsport—and prove my worth to any team that might want me in the future.

While preseason testing last week was promising for McMorris, Specter Energy and Mascort are still topping the timetables, with D’Ambrosi not far behind. I slotted myself into a respectable P5 in qualifying yesterday, though with the talent ahead of me—including both of the returned champions, Zaid and Axel, and our newest championship winner, Reid—I don’t stand much of a chance of finishing higher than that, especially if Dev defends hard in P4.

I won’t waste my energy being disappointed by the result. More than anything, I’m pleased to see Zaid and Axel back and competing just as fiercely as they did before the crash. That seems to be the only thing that’s the same about them both, though. Some of Axel’s rough edges have softened during his time away, which I will never complain about. The guy needed to take his off-track aggression down a few notches.

Zaid, on the other hand, seems to have hardened. Not that he was ever light and bright and constantly smiling—like Dev, for example—but he always had a compelling warmth that drew people to him. I won’t say it’s completely gone, just…faded. There’s a wall up that I don’t remember ever seeing from my idol. But with Dev as his teammate, I don’t know how much longer that wall will be allowed to last.

“You’re not going to believe this.”

Stella’s voice draws me out of my thoughts. She lifts her phone, leaving me staring at Edith’s name in the From line of a forwarded email sent to me and Stella. Reading on, I spot that it originated from A.P. Maxwell International—and it’s something that certainly should not have been distributed to anyone outside of the organization.

The subject line makes me freeze.

[CONFIDENTIAL] PRESS RELEASE: A.P. Maxwell International to Continue Partnership with McMorris F1 Team.

My eyes go wide, then snap to Stella. “You’re kidding.”

“Keep reading,” she urges.

Stunned, I return my attention to the screen, forcing myself to focus on the next line.

Pulled some strings , Edith wrote. The partnership is contingent upon you staying at the team, but the money will go wherever you go. Andrew won’t fuck with this again. Expect an apology from him soon.

I reread the note again to make sure I’m not hallucinating. “Holy shit,” I breathe out. “What strings do you think she pulled?”

Stella shakes her head. “I don’t want to ask and I don’t want to know.”

That’s the best way to go about it, because it undoubtedly involved some sort of blackmail. My eldest sister is, as Stella would say, not to be trifled with. But never in my wildest dreams did I think Edith would do something like this for me. Then again, maybe she had a few nudges along the way.

I eye my wife. “Did you have something to do with this?”

She flips her hair over her shoulder, haughty and confident, my favorite version of her. “I will neither confirm nor deny.” She pauses, hand dropping to her lap again. “Okay, I’m denying, because I deserve zero credit for this. But it may have come up in conversation when I talked to Edith last week about how pissed she was at your dad’s choice to make Andrew CEO—”

“Wait, wait, wait. You talked to Edith ?” I cut in. “Willingly?”

“We’re both savvy businesswomen, Thomas, keep up.” She winks to take the edge off. “But yeah, we’ve chatted. She’s blunt, for sure, but she’s pretty great once you get to know her.”

I want to ask more, but motion from outside the windows distracts me, a reminder that we need to head into the paddock. My mind whirls in pure disbelief from both developments as I slip out of the car and move around to Stella’s side to open her door.

In no world did I think my wife and sister would team up to make this happen for me, or that they’d even be able to make a difference. I’m sure the interview with Lorenzo that came out a few days ago helped their cause, since he essentially cleared me of all wrongdoing and revealed to the world it was Arlo who filmed and posted the video of my tirade. My teammate has been conspicuously absent from several team meetings since, and part of me won’t be surprised if he’s swapped out for another driver by summer break at the latest. And knowing that McMorris will get to keep the sponsorship money as long as they keep me…Well, it’s obvious who their priority is, isn’t it?

Stella slides her hand into mine when she’s out of the car, lacing our fingers together and giving them a squeeze. “You’ll be able to stay at McMorris if you want,” she says quietly as we start toward the paddock entrance, ignoring the camera flashes as we go. “Keep performing as well as you have been and they won’t even consider anyone else for your seat.”

I dazedly wave to the people shouting my name from behind the barriers and nearly drop my pass as I tap it against the turnstile sensors. I thought I’d be happier about this news, maybe even overjoyed to know I have a guaranteed seat next year, and yet…I don’t know how I feel. I really don’t. And it’s all because my goals have changed.

I want more than just a safe seat at an upper-midfield team. I want more than a podium or two all season, if I’m lucky. I want more than what McMorris can give me.

I don’t realize I haven’t spoken until Stella lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles, dragging me back into the moment.

“Yeah, I could stay,” I say, but even the open answer doesn’t feel quite right.

As we move through the crowds and past the team hospitality motorhomes, Stella asks, “Do you want to?”

There it is, laid bare. Do I want to stay at McMorris? Could I continue to push down my wants and dreams for that seat? This spark in my chest now reminds me of how badly I wanted a place here back when I was karting. Simply being in F1 was the dream, yes, but it was always more than that. It is for everyone before our expectations are tempered by age and experience.

But why temper them now when I could strive for more?

“I want to be a championship contender,” I say loud enough for only us to hear. This time, the words feel right. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get that at McMorris.”

Stella nods in understanding. “Where would you want to go instead?”

We’re about to walk past the Specter Energy motorhome, the navy and neon yellow sign glinting under the floodlights like a beacon. There’s a tug in my chest, like something seeding itself there. It’s a big reach, but…

“I have a few ideas.”

As predicted, I finish where I started.

It’s not bad by any means and it’s a great start to the season. It’s even more satisfying because Arlo finished P11, barely a second behind the driver in front of him, and scored no points. I know I should want better for the team, but honestly, it serves him right.

Stella’s waiting for me in the garage, a green headset around her neck and a wide smile on her face. Her arms drape across my shoulders when I approach, her amusement turning sly, but there’s no missing the pride in her brown eyes.

“God, you’re good,” she says as I wrap my arms around her waist. “You almost had Dev at the start. Forced him to think quick to cut you off. It was very sexy of you.”

If only I could have held him off, but alas. This season’s Mascort is once again a feat of engineering that only Specter Energy can contend with. It won’t stop me from trying again next time, though.

“Still a loser,” I remind her, but I’m grinning back. How could I ever feel like anything less than a prizewinner when I have her? “Have you decided if you’re coming to Jeddah for the next race?”

The last time I asked a few days ago, she said she would double-check her calendar and let me know. Even though we did away with most of her rules, we still keep numbers one and two in place—no secrets, and no one’s career is more important than the other’s. I’d never ask her to stay away for longer than she could reasonably manage, and I’ll always make an effort to be by her side when she needs me to stand there and look pretty.

Stella heaves a sigh, as if she can’t believe I’d ask that. “What did I say about passport stamps, Thomas?”

“That they’re the only reason you married me,” I dutifully reply.

“That’s right.” I get a pat on the chest, quickly followed by one of her intoxicating laughs. “And that’s a stamp I’m missing, so I’m coming with you. Hope you didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily.”

There’s not a moment that could pass where I wouldn’t want her with me. We may have decided to take this at our own pace, to not jump into anything too fast or too soon, but whatever this is—whether you want to call it dating or marriage or simply just a committed relationship—it’s amazing.

“I’d never be so presumptuous,” I say, and even to my own ears it sounds intolerably posh.

Still, it earns me another laugh. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.” She pauses. “Well, until you go to Australia, then I’m dipping. That flight’s just too long.”

“Whatever happened to the ends of the earth?” I tease.

Stella leans in, brushing her lips across mine and stealing my breath. “I’m drawing a new map.”

I’d watch her draw one as long as it still led me to her. She could rewrite history too if she promised to still let it pair us together.

“And I’ll be waiting for you,” she goes on. “At home.”

Home. Our house in London where her trophies now sit next to mine. Where the kitchen is full of appliances, both old and new, in her favorite shade of café au lait. Where I hope to always return to the scent of sweet citrus lingering in the air.

“Will you also be waiting with dessert?” I tease, closing the distance for another featherlight kiss.

She’s the one breathless this time. “For you, Prince Charming…I’ll make all the spotted dick you could ever want.”