CHAPTER 10
Dev
I’ve been counting down the days until Willow’s arrival.
Technically, she wasn’t supposed to join me until next week in Canada, but I had Chava book her a flight out to San Diego first. She and I need to get started on fixing my image as soon as possible. We don’t have much time, and after last weekend, I need some kind of win.
If my sixth-place finish in Monaco wasn’t enough to prove that she’s my good-luck charm, then the utter bloodbath at the Spanish Grand Prix certainly is. There’s no other way of describing it, considering I got my shit rocked from multiple sides five seconds into lap one and had to retire from the race because the damage to my car was too severe to carry on.
Three other drivers got caught up in the mayhem as well. The fucking FIA called the whole thing a ‘racing incident’, even though Lorenzo Castellucci’s obvious recklessness caused the crash. He should have been slapped with penalties and fines and firm warnings, because that guy is going to get someone killed one day.
‘Are you sure you’re not concussed?’ Chava’s voice comes over the speakers in my car. Or really, my mom’s car that I stole for the day. ‘You hate picking people up from the airport. And I’m your assistant. Isn’t this in my job description?’
‘I’m fine. Enjoy the day off with your family, dipshit,’ I tell him as I merge into the lane for the on-ramp to the arrivals terminal. ‘And if you make tres leches today, you better save me some.’
Before he became my assistant, Chava was in culinary school. He dropped out after realizing he only liked cooking for fun and not for a career, and came to work for me instead. It was only meant to be a temporary position, something to save him from his parents’ disappointment, but four years later and the guy’s still with me. The restaurant world’s loss is certainly my gain.
Chava sighs. ‘You know Mark is going to kill you if you—’
I’m saved from having to acknowledge the threat to my life and my diet when Chava’s mom shouts, ‘?Salvador, ven acá!’ in the background.
‘Sounds like Mama wants you,’ I say, grinning to myself. ‘And bring me cake! I deserve it after almost being murdered by Castellucci.’
Chava hangs up after grumbling something highly offensive in Spanish that brightens my day with its filthy creativity. I wasn’t kidding about deserving a treat after last weekend, and I have no doubt he’ll be at my parents’ house later bearing a plastic container full of cake and a blessing from his mother. I’m going to need both if I plan to survive the rest of the season.
Every time I get into the car, I take a risk. There’s always a chance that I won’t walk away unscathed. Advances in safety technology have saved my life countless times, but drivers like Lorenzo put that tech to the test every time those five red lights go out.
I’m lucky that he usually qualifies higher than I do. He’s almost always near the Mascort and Specter Energy cars at the front, but his last flying lap in Q3 of qualifying on Saturday was cut short by a red flag. It left him down in tenth while I squeaked into twelfth, putting us a little too close for comfort for the race start. I should have predicted he’d try to muscle his way to the front. During his attempt, he clipped another car, causing them both to spin and take out everyone in their vicinity – me included.
Why D’Ambrosi keeps him around is a mystery, considering all he does is ruin their championship chances over and over again. The Scuderia is a legendary team. Its name is synonymous with F1 and elite racing and is supported by a fanbase that runs generations deep. Despite his terrorism on track, Lorenzo is their poster boy. He’s the Italian stallion, the pride of the paddock, son of a former four-time world champion. He’s amazing when he’s not crashing, I’ll give him that, but he’s careless – still too young and cocky to have developed any kind of fear.
At twenty-five, I’m still relatively young, even by racing standards, but the twenty-one-year-old makes me feel like an old man shaking his fist and shouting at the clouds when I complain about him.
The blare of a horn distracts me from thoughts of Castellucci as I pull up in front of the airport terminal. It doesn’t matter that I literally drive for a living; driving in the real world is a fucking nightmare. At least on track I only have to worry about nineteen other idiots, not thousands.
I park at the kerb and put the flashers on, then turn up the volume of my playlist to drown out the sounds swirling around me as I settle in to wait. According to the flight tracker, Willow’s plane landed twenty minutes ago, so she should be walking out at any second, if she hasn’t already.
I scan the crowd milling around as the title track of a late-nineties Bollywood movie plays. The man singing waxes poetic about a woman’s smile and something happening to his heart at the sight of it. It’s sappy as hell and nothing I’ll ever admit listening to on a regular basis, but damn if it doesn’t throw me back into memories of lying on the living room floor, playing with toy cars while Mom watched her movies and spoke loudly into the phone to family back in India.
I’ll also never admit that the Hindi lyrics make more sense when Willow breezes through the doors, a surprised smile lighting up her face when she spots me stepping out of the car.
Like in the lyrics of the song, there’s definitely something happening to me too – it’s just a little less chaste.
‘Hi,’ she breathlessly greets me as I join her on the sidewalk. She’s dwarfed by a suitcase on each side. Her curls are a little windswept, and her pale-green sundress flutters as she swipes her palms across her hips. ‘Sorry, I – I wasn’t expecting you. Chava said he’d be here.’
I grab the handles of her suitcases to keep from wrapping my hands around her waist. Every time I see her, my reaction gets stronger, which does not bode well for my promise to keep things strictly professional.
‘Chava had errands to run.’ I drag the bags to the back of the black SUV. ‘You get me as your chauffeur today. Go ahead and get in.’
She clutches her purse to her stomach as she heads to the passenger side, giving me a chance to get my shit together before I’m in an enclosed space with her. When I told Chava that I could handle picking Willow up from the airport – all right, when I insisted I’d do it – I was focused on getting a head start on my social media resuscitation. I didn’t think her smile would send my heart into overdrive, or that I’d be fighting with my dick all because of the way her little dress skims her thighs.
And yet here I am, adjusting myself in my jeans after hefting her bags into the trunk, nerves and guilt eating at my stomach. God, I could really use that tres leches right now. Or a punch to the gut.
Once the suitcases are tucked away, I join her in the car. Heat surges to my face when notes of the embarrassing love song float between us, leaving me to desperately grab at the volume knob and turn it all the way down. I’m not sure which is worse though – Udit Narayan’s crooning or the tense silence that’s replaced it.
‘Good to go?’ I ask, choosing to ignore the lingering awkwardness.
Willow nods as she clicks her seat belt into place. ‘Thanks for picking me up. You really didn’t have to.’
‘It’s no problem.’ I turn off the hazard lights, tap the navigation back on, and shift the car into drive. Checking my mirrors, I ease the oversized SUV into the flow of cars attempting to leave. ‘Gave me something to do other than brood about how shitty my weekend was.’
‘Yeah, I watched the race. That was a tough break.’
I snort. ‘That’s one way of putting it. But I’m glad you’re back. I’ve decided you’re my good-luck charm.’
When she groans, I finally glance over and survey her quickly. ‘Don’t put that on me! That’s so much pressure.’
‘Too late. So you better live up to the hype,’ I rib her. ‘I’m planning to make it onto the podium next Sunday.’
‘Okay, that’s a reach.’ She snickers as the voice coming from the GPS tells me to make a left at the busy intersection ahead. ‘If I’m your good-luck charm, what will you do when I’m gone?’
Focused on merging into the left-turn lane and driving defensively so that one of these dumbasses doesn’t crash into me – I’ve had enough of that lately – I ask, ‘Who says I’ll ever let you go?’ The words snap off my tongue before I consider all the ways they could be taken.
Willow scoffs, thankfully interpreting my question as a joke, her laugh ricocheting through the car. ‘What, are you going to make me your hostage?’
I pitch my voice low and sinister, playing along, even though for once I’m not sure whether I was kidding. ‘Tell your family to pay a ransom of one million dollars, and I’ll consider letting you leave.’
She’s grinning when I dare to look over, her dimples deep and her eyes nearly closed. ‘That’s not going to help your image. Keeping a poor, innocent girl captive? Not a good look.’
I hit the gas and make the left just as the stop light above us turns yellow. ‘I don’t think you’re that innocent.’
Instantly, the air shifts. Fuck, I should have kept my thoughts to myself. Mom calls my inability to do so a curse, and right now, I’m inclined to believe her.
Willow draws in a breath. ‘Okay, I . . . I think we need to address the elephant in the room.’
‘I told you to never bring up the size of my nose,’ I whine, going for distraction so we can avoid the conversation she’s intent on having. I can’t do this right now. Or ever. I’m just going to get myself into more trouble. ‘You know I’m self-conscious, Willow.’
That shocks a snort of air out of her, and I grin in victory, even though she’s quick to quiet herself.
‘Dev, I’m serious,’ she says, though her grin and the laughter in her tone say otherwise. ‘And I thought you knew better than to buy into Eurocentric beauty standards. Shame on you.’
That comment has me laughing before I can think better of it, still so surprised when she banters with me. She was like this when we were kids, keeping up with Oakley and me like it was natural. But the older she got, the more it faded. Like a shell was closing around her instead of opening up. She got . . . quiet. Reserved. Like her lightness had been stripped away. By the time I left to race in Europe full time at eighteen, she and I barely spoke any more.
And it went on that way for years. It wasn’t until after the Jeremy fiasco that I made a concerted effort to reach out, to make sure the glowing girl I’d grown up with hadn’t let that light be fully extinguished. It started as a favour to Oakley, checking in on her and reporting back. But eventually, it developed into a need to know more for my own sake.
It was casual, though. We didn’t have deep conversations or exchange more than a few texts every couple of weeks. But she was opening up again, even if it was only an inch at a time.
It was why I was so surprised when she confessed that she’d had a crush on me. It was bold. Not something the closed-off Willow would have done, with the aid of alcohol or not. It was a glimpse of the old Willow. The fearless girl I’d known for so long. The one who could give as good as she got.
The one who has me feeling things I shouldn’t.
‘Okay,’ I force out. ‘Let’s talk about it.’
We finally get caught at a red light, so I take the opportunity to look at her full-on. If this is what she wants, then I’ll let her guide the conversation. I’m not about to talk myself into a hole that I can’t dig myself out of. I’m already on the edge of one anyway.
She scrapes her teeth across her bottom lip and watches the traffic through the windshield. ‘What happened over Oakley’s birthday weekend last year . . .’ she says, fingers twisting in her lap. ‘I don’t – I don’t regret it, okay? I won’t sit here and try to tell you I was lying about my feelings or that I hated what happened. But I think we both know it was a mistake.’
Keeping my mouth shut, I nod. She’s right. It was a mistake. And it was a mistake to let the whole thing slide, as she requested I do that night, even though I didn’t want to. I still don’t want to, but it’s not my call to make.
‘It feels like it’s hanging over our heads,’ she goes on, the words rushed. Her attention is still trained out the window as a flush touches the tops of her cheekbones. ‘I just want to move on and be friends – no weirdness, no flirting. We can do that, right? Put everything in the past and keep this cool?’
If it’s what she wants, I’ll do my best to make it happen, no matter how difficult it’ll be. ‘We can,’ I answer, easing down on the accelerator when the light turns green. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel uncomfortable.’
‘You haven’t,’ she blurts, finally turning to me. She has one leg tucked up under her, and her sundress is inching higher.
It’s taking every ounce of willpower I have to rip my gaze away from her warm brown skin and keep it on the road.
‘We’re good, I swear,’ she continues. ‘And I’m glad to be working together.’
I cling to the chance to change the subject before I yank the car over to the shoulder and push my hands under her skirt. ‘That’s why I dragged you out here with me for the week. I wanted to get started on this as soon as possible.’
Back on familiar ground, she brightens. ‘Then let’s do it. I’ve been thinking about how to frame your return to the world of social media. You need a fresh start. Slate brushed clean, the past washed away, you know?’ She glances out the window at the passing palm trees before looking back at me. ‘You feel like surfing today?’
I shoot her an amused look. ‘Is that actually a question?’ I will never pass up an opportunity to be in the water. My love of surfing is second only to racing.
‘Okay, good, because I have an idea,’ she pushes on, clearly ready to convince me even if I wasn’t on board. ‘For our first post, I want to get some pictures of you coming out of the water. Think The Birth of Venus. But, like, Dev Reborn. A brand-new you.’
‘You saying you want me naked, Willow?’ I tease as I turn into our parents’ neighbourhood. ‘All you had to do was ask.’
‘Dev.’ She slumps back in her seat. ‘What did I just say?’
I groan. The innuendos are like second nature, especially with her. ‘No flirting. Yeah, got it. But come on, you set yourself up for that one.’
‘Okay, true,’ she concedes. ‘But that’s it, all right?’
Is this censorship she’s pushing for my benefit or for hers? To know she doesn’t regret what happened between us is the kind of information I don’t need, because it’s certainly not helping me get past the lingering tightness in my chest and the voice in my head telling me to say fuck it and flirt to my heart’s content.
I finally pull into our families’ shared driveway and throw the SUV into park behind my father’s mid-life crisis mobile – a Mascort 241 sports car. The same one I nearly got sued by Argonaut over when I posted a picture of me posing with it on my socials. I sure do love my team and their fragile ego.
‘Let me grab my stuff,’ I tell her as we both get out of the car. ‘I’ll meet you back here in twenty, and I’ll take you to my favourite spot.’
Without another word, I haul her bags out of the back and roll them up to her front door. I’m turning toward my house when her hand lands on my arm, dragging my attention back down.
‘We’re going to fix this,’ she softly reassures. ‘I promise.’
Does she mean the tension between us or my fucked-up public perception? Unsure, all I can do is nod. For once in my life, words fail me.
That’s one more thing I can credit Willow with. Not only is she my good-luck charm, but she’s the only person I know who can leave me speechless.