Page 14

Chapter 14

By My Side

Noah

T wo weeks later.

I know something’s off the second she answers the phone.

I can see her through the screen—messy bun, brows pinched, trying to smile for me. But she’s not really present. Her laugh is missing.

“Tough day at school? You look like you wrestled a copier... and a kid. And lost.”

She sighs. “It’s been a long day, and it’s only noon. I confiscated four phones, someone rigged the Bunsen burners to spark during morning announcements, and I had to stop a kid from drawing abs on himself with a Sharpie—because it’s free dress day.”

“So... standard Tuesday?” I try to tease, but I can already see it—now’s not the right time.

She laughs. Tries. But the small breath she lets out after tells me she’s wound too tight.

It’s only been four days since I left her curled in my bed at the Sugar Mills Lofts. Kissed her neck. Whispered she was mine. Then boarded a flight back to HQ. We’re still in the lull before the season starts—briefings, sim work, long hours spent testing upgrades before the chaos of race weeks kicks in.

A few FaceTime calls between her classes, some late-night messages from my hotel room, voice notes that usually end with her laughing at something dumb I said.

But today? I wish I could be there. Just to lift her back up in person.

Thankfully, I had the foresight.

“Let me guess,” I say, glancing at the clock. “You skipped lunch again.”

She squints at me. “How do you know these things?”

“Because I love you. And because you’re a creature of habit. Also—your face says ‘hangry’ like it’s your native language.”

That gets me a real exhale. Almost a laugh.

“Well,” I grin, “I sent you something. Should be arriving at school any minute.”

She pauses. “You what?”

“Lunch. You said you forgot yours this morning. Figured you may want something warm and comforting.”

“Noah Verelli, you did not.” And right on cue, I hear the announcement over our call, “Calling Miss Kennedy to the front desk.”

June actually claps. That surprised, gleeful laugh—loud and real—makes it sound like I just performed a magic trick.

“I figured if I can’t be in your time zone, at least I can be on your plate.”

She disappears for a minute. I picture her storming the hall with that purposeful teacher stride, coat probably half-on, muttering under her breath like she’s fighting the urge to be touched by my gesture.

When she’s back, she’s breathless. "You sent me grilled cheese and tomato soup? What a great care package, Noah!"

"Consider it an edible hug from your boyfriend." I brag.

"Ooo.. an apple pie too! You're the best boyfriend in the world!"

"Well, I know you need your comfort carb of choice when it’s freezing out."

She’s quiet for a second too long, and I catch the glistening in her eyes before she blinks it away.

"You’re ridiculous and sweet. And kind of dangerous. If you keep doing things like this, I might actually start crying—because I miss you way too much."

"I live to serve—and to ruin you for all other delivery men."

Another pause. Then I see it—that soft, shaky exhale. The kind that says she’s trying to reset her entire nervous system in the next twelve minutes before a hallway full of hormonal teenagers tries to eat each other with plastic forks.

"Thank you," she whispers. "I really needed this today. You seriously just made my whole week in a twenty-minute lunch window."

My chest tightens. I wish I could do more. Reach through the phone and hold her.

"I’ve got you, Songbird. Even from here. Now, you’ve got ten minutes left of your lunch break, so go eat while it’s still hot. I’ll call it a night over here too—best way to end my day is hearing your voice. And that laugh."

“Good night, Noah. I can’t wait till I see you for real this weekend!”

When I see June in person again a few days later, it's the Martin Luther King Jr. Day weekend. June flew out to be with me—used her only long weekend for the month just to show up at a private F1 test facility at HQ. It's closed garage, no press, no distractions.

My weekend schedule’s packed with supercars, real pressure, and now… her. And having her within arm’s reach makes even the longest day feel easier. I just hope it doesn’t start to bore her.

She shows up in dark jeans, a fleece-lined jacket, hair braided back, and a small suitcase. And still—she takes my breath. And quite literally so, with a kiss that has me forgetting every spec sheet I studied this morning.

She doesn’t wear makeup. Doesn’t try to blend in. She’s just... June. Quiet. Sharp. Unapologetically curious, watching every move in the track garage. Eyes shining with that look she gets when she’s soaking everything in.

Dante clocks her at once. Gives me a single brow raise, then turns back to briefing the executive team—this time updating them on FIA’s announcement confirming the new season calendar: Singapore Grand Prix’s set to open the season, and it’s a night race. No doubt the exec team’s already shifting gears, mentally rerouting logistics and strategy.

A few hours later, I’m climbing out of the cockpit after a ten-lap performance run—tires still hot, helmet tucked under one arm, sweat drying fast in the drafty garage. The throttle felt off mid-lap. I can still feel it in my calves, that hesitation on the back straight where it should’ve pulled clean.

I walk over to the crew and start rattling off my mental notes. “Throttle lag kicked in halfway through the back straight,” I tell them, tugging off my gloves. “Felt like it hesitated on reapplication—just enough to throw the rhythm off.”

Zach’s already hunched over the data station, muttering to himself while two more junior engineers flank him, all of them poring over the diagnostics, elbows close, eyes narrowed.

There’s a low hum of technical jargon in the air—numbers, readings, a few curse words tossed under breath like punctuation. The stress is real, and the scramble to pinpoint what’s throwing the balance off grows by the second.

June, who’s been hovering in the background for most of the afternoon while I’ve been lapping, watches for a moment, then moves in with quiet purpose. She leans forward slightly, eyes scanning the telemetry, then glances at the monitor and frowns. "That delay might not be software. It might be physical."

Zach turns to her. "Excuse me?"

I stiffen. My jaw tightens before I can stop it. There’s something about the way he says it—like she doesn’t have the right to speak up. Like she’s stepping into a conversation she doesn’t belong in.

And I want to grab him by the collar and say, "That woman grew up elbow-deep in custom builds in her dad’s shop. She’s logged more hands-on hours with tricky systems than most rookies in here. Shut up and listen."

But June doesn’t flinch. "Check the throttle return spring. If it’s binding even slightly, it’ll cause drag on reapplication. It might be mechanical."

There’s a pause. One of the lead mechanics, Raf, steps in. Peers over the assembly, then crouches down and runs a quick check—fingers brushing the hot housing, eyes narrowing with focus. He flicks the connection gently, watches the response on the monitor, and nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “It’s got a catch. Didn’t feel it until just now. She’s right.”

June blushes, a little cautious at Raf’s acknowledgement but not uncertain. “I’m no expert on hybrid systems like these,” she says, her voice steady, “but I grew up working in my dad’s custom auto shop. I’ve seen custom builds where throttle lag came from shifted spring tension—not obvious until you dig in deep. It reminded me of that. So I thought it was worth a check, just in case.”

No one laughs. No one brushes her off. Raf gives her a nod of real respect.

Zach mutters, “Noted,” and starts unbolting the housing.

June glances up, catching my eye across the garage. Just a flick of her gaze, but it hits me straight in the chest. I give her a small nod—steady, proud. She presses her lips together, then smiles. Not big. But enough. Like she’s saying, I saw you watching. And thanks for believing in me.

Later, after debriefing my second set of performance runs with the race engineers, I notice the team starting to swarm around the MGU-K diagnostics for my car.

A red flag flashes on the screen, and the tension is sharp in the garage.

Something’s wrong, so I stay within earshot, close enough to track the conversation and offer input if they ask. This part belongs to the engineers. I stay quiet and let them do what they do best.

One of the systems engineers mutters, "Voltage spikes again. We’ve already replaced the inverter twice—but I’m starting to think it’s not the inverter. The voltage profile suggests a deeper fault—maybe harness degradation or an oscillation frequency mismatch."

Zach also hovers nearby, eyes fixed on the telemetry, trying to make sense of it.

Raf rubs his temple. “We don’t have time for another teardown—not if we’re short on spares and new test components might not get here before this window closes. And the telemetry data stream’s too noisy. These spikes aren’t correlating cleanly with load distribution.”

June steps forward, calm and precise. “Mind if I take a look?”

She slides on gloves, crouches low beside the ERS bay near the MGU-K wiring harness, and peels back the insulation with steady fingers. The telemetry monitors pulse blue across the wall, the low whir of servers filling the space around her. The acrid scent of hot electrics clings faintly in the air. Her brow furrows.

“This connection seems improperly insulated. It’s vibrating under stress—causing signal interference. That might be why your voltage readings are inconsistent.”

Raf steps in beside her but doesn’t touch anything right away. Zach shifts beside him, eyes flicking to the new data overlay while Raf pulls up the diagnostic stream, studying the telemetry June flagged.

A minute passes. He cross-checks the voltage logs, then taps into the signal timing overlay. His expression shifts.

“She’s right,” he mutters finally. “Telemetry confirms the spike pattern lines up with vibration intervals. It’s that connection. Good catch, Ms. Kennedy.”

I can’t stop watching her. The way she crouches, focused and unfazed, sleeves pushed up and jaw tight—it does something to me. And when she tugs off her gloves with one quick flick and turns to smile at Raf, I swear my pulse spikes like we just hit DRS.

But she doesn’t gloat. Just says, “I would suggest reinsulating the joint with non-conductive Kevlar tape—durable under heat, good at damping vibration—and recalibrate the ERS recovery curve by point-two. That should stabilize output under dynamic load.”

From behind the engineers, Dante’s voice suddenly rings out—startling enough that a few heads turn. “Document the fix and escalate to systems compliance.”

He takes a slow step forward and glances over at me—just a flick of his eyes, unreadable to anyone else, but I catch it. The kind of look that says he’s surprised. Impressed. And maybe even a little bit stunned she pulled it off like that, in front of his entire team.

I don’t miss the way the others nod. The way they actually look at June now—not as my girlfriend, but as someone who belongs here. Who just schooled them all in the middle of a live test run.

It hits me hard. That fierce rush of pride crashing into something deeper. She's not just impressive—she’s the kind of woman who walks into a high-stakes F1 garage and earns respect without grandstanding.

Just her brain, her calm, and her sleeves rolled up. I want to walk over, tuck her under my arm, and kiss her like a man who knows what he's got. But this is her moment.

Raf gives her a look that’s half admiration, half awe. “Hell of a call.”

June beams, cheeks flushed. “Honestly? That felt amazing. I actually helped.”

I take a step toward her, drawn in like always, but she’s still in the middle of recalibrating with Raf—confident, in her element. So I stay just outside the circle, not wanting to crowd her. Then, she glances up and finds me anyway. Her smile deepens and she waves me over.

“Coming from Raf,” I murmur once I finally reach her side, “the highest-paid F1 mechanic in the industry... that’s saying something.”

It’s a tease, but the pride in my voice gives me away.

I wrap an arm around her shoulders and pull her into my side. She leans in without hesitation—radiant and completely herself—and I swear, no win, no podium, has ever hit me like this..

By the end of the day, she’s drinking coffee with the staff, cracking jokes with Raf, and leaning on the counter beside the whiteboard—listening to compound chatter and asking questions but not writing anything down. Just soaking it all in, like she’s finding her rhythm without needing to prove herself.

One of the engineers claps me on the shoulder.

“She’s sharp. And not bored out of her mind like most of the girlfriends. You hit the jackpot, man—she actually loves this stuff. Half of us can’t even talk shop with our own drivers without getting a blank stare. But her? She might know more than most of them.”

I huff a quiet laugh, pride simmering just beneath the surface. Already, I’m hatching the next Verelli plan—because she’s not just sharp. She’s rare. And maybe, if she’s open to it, there’s a way to bring her into this world of Formula One even more. Not just as a guest. But as part of something real. Something ours.

That night, we walk back to the hotel. Her hand is in mine. The air’s cool, crisp, and light. Like anything could happen.

“Today was… beyond good,” I say, and it rumbles out of me before I can soften it. I glance down at her—walking beside me, hand in mine, in this tucked-away corner of Italy that somehow feels like ours. It’s surreal. It’s a little disorienting. But it’s also the kind of quiet euphoria that settles deep in your chest and refuses to leave.

She nods, then suddenly spins in front of me—arms slightly out like she’s too excited to hold it in. She’s half-skipping, eyes wide, full of light. “Can you believe it, Noah? Me? In a garage full of F1 engineers, and I actually helped. I said something useful!”

She laughs, a little breathless. “My dad’s gonna lose his mind when he hears about this. He’s going to be like, ‘You said what to an F1 engineer?!’”

I laugh, watching the way she beams up at me.

"You mean like this?” I drop into my best Mack impression: dry tone, amused drawl. “You said what to an F1 engineer? Bet you had half the garage holding their breath.”

June cackles, nearly tripping over her own feet. “Stop! That’s disturbingly accurate.”

She sighs. “I think that’s going in the highlight reel of my life.”

“You were incredible.” I put my hand on her head like she’s a little child.

She laughs and pats her own shoulder with exaggerated flair. “Good job, June. Way to impress Noah’s colleagues like a total pro.”

I pull her straight into my arms. “You more than impressed my colleagues... and my boss... and me.”

She giggles, her face against my chest, and I kiss the top of her head.

“Seriously, how did I get a girlfriend who’s beautiful, sexy, and apparently F1-ready?”

She lets out a sexy, throaty laugh, then pulls back just enough to look up at me—her eyes dancing. “F1-ready, huh?” She leans in and kisses me, soft and quick. “Hardly. Your team is incredible. I was just lucky enough to catch something familiar.”

“You don’t have to know everything,” I say, bumping her shoulder with mine. “But do you think you’d want to learn more? I'm asking because you look so happy now.”

I hold my breath. Time to implement the next Verelli plan—plant the idea, let it breathe, and see if she bites. Not pushy. Just a nudge. A what-if. Because if she wants this, really wants it... I’ll move mountains.

She glances up at me, surprised. Then she nods. “Maybe. If someone’s patient enough to explain it to me.”

“Lucky for you, I know a guy.”

We keep walking in easy silence, the kind that feels less like a pause and more like a breath before something good.

After a while, I add, “I might’ve mentioned something to Dante.”

She gives me a sideways glance. “Mentioned what?”

“That if you ever wanted to spend more time around the garage... maybe shadow Raf or just poke around, if he’d be open to it.”

She slows a little. “You really said that?”

“I didn’t promise anything,” I say. “Just floated it.”

Her smile grows. “And what did he say?”

I laugh. “He said something weird. ‘These Cedar Falls ladies are sure impressive.’”

She barks a laugh. “Hmm...I didn’t think he’d been in Cedar Falls often and long enough to make that kind of comment.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Maybe he’s just really impressed by you.”

“Nah, twenty bucks says there’s probably something else going on." She winks. "But it’s cute you think that.”

I chuckle, tugging her closer. “So, you’re not freaked out?”

She tilts her head toward me, curiosity flickering. “You mean... about me shadowing Raf?”

I nod. “Yeah. That. Dante seemed pretty open to the idea.”

June takes a breath that turns into a slow smile. “I mean... it felt really good to actually help today. And if Raf’s willing to teach, the chance to learn from someone like him? That would be unreal. But—my students need me. That part of my life matters too. So it’s not that simple.”

I glance over at her, something tugging deep in my chest. “I think it would be a pretty wonderful plan—if you ended up by my side for real, doing something you love.”

She lets out a soft laugh, brushing her arm against mine. “It’s a nice idea. I don’t know what it all looks like yet… and you, Noah Verelli, love to plan ten steps ahead. So, let’s not count our carbon fiber chickens before they hatch, okay?”

She pauses, then adds softly, “But it’s a really nice dream—if I could be with you in that capacity.”

And I swear, nothing’s ever felt more right than that.

June casts another look my way, mischief already teasing the corners of her mouth. “Hey, how about a piggyback to the hotel, Mr. F1 Sexy Back?”

I laugh, then crouch with zero hesitation. “Climb on, Kennedy. I’m yours.”

She climbs on, arms looping around my neck as I hook my hands under her thighs.

She chuckles into my ear as I hoist her higher.

“For the record,” I murmur as I start walking, “you’ll be getting more than a piggyback for the next two days.”

She lets out a breathy snicker, then playfully nips at my ear. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Both,” I growl. “I plan on spoiling you, kissing you breathless, and making sure you remember exactly how good it feels to be mine—in every damn way.”

She shifts slightly, thighs tightening around my hips, then grinds—slow, deliberate—against my back. I swear I feel her heat through the denim. My pulse spikes. Instantly.

“You’re playing dirty,” I mutter.

Her laugh is wicked and inviting, and all I can think about is how fast I can get her out of those jeans—and into my sheets.