Fate, Fireworks, and Finish Lines (Season of Love #4)

1. Expectation vs. Reality

Expectation vs. Realit y

Lucy

This is not how I expected to start off my summer. At all. It’s like one of those memes: Expectation vs. Reality.

Expectation? Lounging on a sunbed in Mexico, the sun kissing my skin, a frosty cocktail in hand, and the sound of waves as my only background noise.

Reality? Working a last-minute assignment to fill in for my colleague. Covering a sport I barely know and don’t particularly like. In Italy.

Okay, fine. That last part isn’t so bad.

It’s not Gar y’s fault, and I’m wishing him a speedy recovery—heart attacks aren’t exactly a minor inconvenience.

But after the dumpster fire of a year I’ve had, a vacation was long overdue.

Fast-forward to today, and my “vacation” has turned into early mornings and frantic research into Formula 1 racing.

I glance at the full-length mirror in my hotel room, smoothing down the fabric of my yellow sundress. I love how it contrasts against my dark hair and hugs my waist while skimming over some of my less desirable curves. I’ve paired it with matching wedges and a cute little handbag.

The upside of adding a last-minute trip to the calendar? Having to shop for outfits.

My best friend Daisy, who’s back in Chicago, swears I have more clothes than anyone she knows.

But come on! You can never have enough outfits.

Invited to the Royal Ascot? I’ve got the perfect feathered hat.

A cowboy-themed party? My fringe vest is ready to shine.

This particular yellow sundress? Ideal for embracing Italian summer vibes while looking effortlessly chic.

After making sure I have everything, I exit my hotel room and walk down to the lobby for a quick snack, then catch my ride to the track. My phone rings as I sit down in the taxi, and I sigh when I see my boss’s name on the screen.

“Frank, hey,” I answer, leaning my head against the window and watching the verdant landscape blur past. “What are you doing awake? Isn’t it three a.m. in Chicago?”

A loud yawn comes through the line. “Ugh, don’t remind me. I’ve been working all night to wrap up that article.”

I wince, reminded that I’m not the only one pitching in for Gary. It’s a team effort. In a way, I’m not exactly getting the short end of the stick here. My assignment does come with an all-expenses-paid trip to Europe, and I managed to guilt Frank into giving me an extra week of vacation time.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “How’s Gary feeling?”

“He’s still pretty shaken up, but he should be fine. How are you? Are you at the racetrack yet?”

I inject some excitement into my voice. “On my way.”

“Good, good. Do you have everything you need? Have you logged on to the website to check whether you can add content yet?”

“Yep. I had a look on the plane,” I say, glancing at the iPad peeking out of my bag. “It all works fine, don’t worry.”

“And you did some extra research, I assume?”

I grab my iPad and skim through my notes. “Yes, I read every article I could find. Both on Formula 1 and Elio Spinelli.”

I’m still no expert on the sport—or the guy—but I did what I could with such short notice. Racing has never been an interest of mine. I usually report on hockey. That’s more my jam.

“Great. Remember, his agent’s name is Patrick Walt.”

“I got it, Frank. Don’t worry,” I say in my calmest voice, feeling nowhere near as confident as I sound. But I know my boss is under a lot of pressure right now, and I really am adaptable. I’ll figure this F1 thing out in no time.

“And don’t forget, the aim of this feature is to get to know the driver on a more intimate level, so be sure to get some personal details. Elio Spinelli is an absolute star in the F1 world, and people are dying for a closer look.”

“Yeah, right,” I snort. “The guy’s on the front page of the tabloids every day. He’s not that mysterious.”

And it’s pretty disgusting, if you ask me. Using his good looks and fame to lure in women night after night—okay, I’ve seen videos where the ladies literally throw themselves at him. But still, he should be more professional about his dating life.

“True, but his lack of social media prevents fans from really getting on the inside and seeing his day-to-day. That’s where you come in. This is key, Lucy. We need to know who Elio Spinelli is.”

“Got it,” I chirp, channeling that false confidence again. “Please, stop worrying. It’ll be fine. Anyway, you should get some sleep. I’m almost at the track,” I lie.

He releases a long sigh. “Okay, yeah. I know you’ve got this. Thanks again for stepping in. Let me know if you need anything, and don’t forget to have the content online every day by eight a.m. Central Time.”

“Absolutely. Bye, Frank.”

I hang up and press my head to the window again, admiring the countryside that’s unfurling like a masterpiece outside my window.

Fields of golden sunflowers stretch endlessly, and poppies dot the landscape, vibrant red against the rolling green hills.

They’re scattered haphazardly, as if someone spilled an artist’s palette over the fields.

I crack the window open, inhaling deeply.

The breeze carries hints of rosemary and something citrusy I can’t quite place.

Lemon blossoms, maybe? It’s like the air here is seasoned with joy.

Back in Chicago, beauty feels contained—buildings, parks, carefully manicured spaces.

But here in Italy, it spills everywhere, overwhelming in the best way.

Soothing, even. And as I look out the window, it immediately makes me think of Mom.

She was expansive like that. Colorful, vibrant, unapologetic.

The car slows as we approach the circuit, and the quiet of the countryside is replaced by something electric—a low, throaty rumble that vibrates through the air.

The traffic slows into a bottleneck, and I’m suddenly thankful for my all-access pass, which allows the taxi to drop me right in front of the entrance.

But I don’t understand the pandemonium. The race is in two days.

Why are there so many people here already?

After paying the driver, I proceed to the turnstiles, and as I squeeze through, it’s like stepping into another world.

The paddock is pure chaos, but in a sleek, chic way.

Everything feels bigger here—the towering hospitality suites, the distant roar of engines, and the sheer scale of it all.

It’s both glamorous and gritty, a strange mix of champagne and sweat.

People rush past me, some with headsets clamped tight over their ears, others barking orders into their radios.

I catch flashes of team uniforms—red, blue, green—all moving with a purpose I don’t yet understand.

Fans proudly sport caps of their favorite teams as they meander slowly, as if hoping to spot a familiar face.

Inhaling a deep breath, I follow the instructions Frank sent me on how to navigate the paddock to reach the Rossi Motorsports motorhome.

When I pictured “motorhomes,” this is definitely not what I had in mind.

Think an immaculate street with huge two- to three-story buildings lining one side, each bearing the logo and name of the team.

These buildings act as the teams’ HQ for the race weekends, hosting offices, driver suites, catering, and event spaces.

Apparently, they’re torn down after each weekend and shipped to the next race, although I’m having a hard time imagining it.

Finally, I find what I'm looking for. The Rossi Motorsports building looms higher than the others, its three stories ending with what looks like a rooftop garden or terrace. A stream of people are entering and exiting the building, chatting rapidly, and for the first time, the nerves start to settle in. This is so far from anything I know, and it’s going to be my new normal for the next ten days. A whole new world.

“Excuse me,” I say to a woman hustling past me in Rossi Motorsports apparel. “I’m a bit lost. I’m looking for Elio Spinelli.” When her eyebrows draw together, I add, “the driver.”

“Um, he’s probably in the garage, but this is a restricted area. Fans and groupies are welcome to wait over here,” she says, nodding to the left before marching away, muttering something about me being the fifth woman chasing him today.

I follow after her. “Wait, no. My name is Lucy Williams. I’m a journalist for Pulse Sports, here to shadow Mr. Spinelli.”

Her frown deepens . “Well, the media pen is over there,” she says, pointing behind me. “No journalists are allowed in the garages.”

“I’ve been cleared already,” I say with a firm nod. That’s one thing I’m positive about. I show her my all-access badge, and she throws me a look I can’t quite decipher.

“Okay. Well, the garage is this way. Just continue until you reach the next turnstiles, and use your badge to enter.”

I offer her a smile. “Thank you.”

As I walk the rest of the small street, I begin to wish I’d worn my sneakers. I didn’t think there would be this much walking.

Finally, I reach the garage. And if I thought the paddock was intimidating, this place is next level.

Every person here is wearing team apparel, some are wearing helmets, and most are wearing headsets.

The smell is what hits me first—burnt rubber, oil, and gasoline.

It’s nothing like the flowers and lemons of the countryside, but it’s intoxicating in its own way.

The air hums with expectation, as if it’s holding its breath, waiting for the engines to roar to life.

Mechanics in team colors dart around the garage like ants, carrying tools and tires, their movements sharp and efficient.

Every detail feels deliberate, down to the polished logo on the side of a car that’s now being wheeled into its garage.

I continue forward until I find the Rossi Motorsports garages. Each one bears the team’s name, the driver’s name, and a picture of the driver.

Once I stop in front of Elio Spinelli’s garage, it only takes me a moment to spot him.

I’ve seen enough podium videos of this guy’s champagne showers to ha ve memorized his face by now.

Don’t judge—it was for work. Not that he’s hard on the eyes, with his dark wavy hair, intense chocolate brown eyes, and charming smile, but pretty boys aren’t my type.

The guy he was talking with retreats into the garage, and Elio’s dark eyes lock on me. He takes a couple of steps closer and says, “I can just take it off, if you want. Might be easier.”

My eyebrow arches slowly. “Excuse me?”

A smug smile pulls at his lips, and I hate the dimple it reveals, making him even more attractive. “I can practically see you undressing me with your eyes. Are you wondering if I have a six pack under this?”

I feel a surge of heat burning my cheeks, probably a result of that melodic Italian accent. Why are accents so hot? I snort in response. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, your nostrils flare and your cheeks turn pink when you lie. Useful knowledge for the rest of our relationship.”

I turn to hide my face. “They do not. Stop it.”

“Then why are you turning away from me?” He snickers. “Anyway, it’s going to be a pretty busy day for me. But why don’t you give me your number, and we can meet up afterward?”

I cross my arms. “And why do you think I’d ever be interested in you?”

“We’ve already established that you are, Bella .”

Is this guy for real? And does he really think cheap pick-up lines and an overconfident attitude work on women?

I’ll admit, his good looks and the fact that he ’s well-dressed—not wearing team apparel like everyone else—got my attention.

But the rest of the package has iced me out.

And after having ended a relationship with a player, his cocky display definitely gives me the “ick.”

I shake my head into focus, then stick my hand out sharply. “Lucy Williams. I work for Pulse Sports, here for the ‘In the Life of Elio Spinelli’ feature.”

His chiseled jaw relaxes for a second, and he shakes his head before trailing his eyes down the length of my body, heating every inch of my skin. “No, you can't be.”

“Why?” I cross my arms tight. “Because I’m a woman and don’t belong on a racetrack? You think women have no business reporting on a man’s sport?”

He arches an eyebrow and lets out a small laugh. “No. I actually have women on my team. It's because you're way too hot to be a journalist. You should be on my arm at the party tonight.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Hard pass.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not my type,” I say, biting my lip at the half-lie. Okay, physically, he may be my type. But as hot as the guy is, he’s a walking red flag.

“I’m everyone’s type.”

I burst out a laugh. “Wow, you’re confident.”

“Shouldn’t I be? It’s true, no?”

I sigh. “Can we be professional about this? I’m here for work.”

“And I’m not?” he chuckles, running a hand through his wavy hair.

“Right. So, is your agent around? I think Mr. Walt wanted to go over a few things before I start.”

His dark eyes glint. “ Sì. After you, Bella .”

Rolling my eyes, I walk into the garage. This is going to be a long day.