Chapter 4
KARINA
Is he a mechanic?
My Romeo is dressed in navy coveralls, and he was standing with the rest of the pit crew with a tool in his hand. Unfortunately, Mercutio pulled me away before I could get a closer look. Even still, my pulse is racing as fast as if I’d leaned down and stolen a kiss.
Mercutio is back at our seats with the drinks now, but he isn’t looking at me as he hands me my plastic cup of lemonade—and thank goodness, because there’s no way I can school the shock and pleasure that’s written all over my face.
I wish I could have a few minutes alone, but my cousin is firmly planted next to me, going on and on about some woman he met earlier today. His tendency toward infatuation sometimes annoys me, but it’s keeping his attention off me at the moment, so yay.
Every pump of my heart seems to throb with the knowledge that Romeo is here. Our eyes met like they were destined to, and once again, it took my breath away. I wonder if he—
“I’ve never felt like this about a woman before,” Mercutio gushes, interrupting my musing. For being such a man’s man, he sure can act like a teenage girl when he wants. “I’m going to do something special for her. What do you think, Karina? A teddy bear and roses? Maybe a pair of diamond earrings?”
“Diamond earrings?” I scoff. “Didn’t you just meet her like ten minutes ago?”
He glances at his cell. “It’s been almost an hour. Time doesn’t matter, though. When you know it’s right, it’s right.”
I don’t let him see my eyes roll. “You’ll scare her off with diamonds this early. Think of something more personal. What’s her name?”
“What?” He gives me a side eye.
“What is her name,” I repeat.
He hesitates and scratches his brow. “Uh…something more personal, you said?”
Oh, brother. He doesn’t even know her name. I just go with it. “Flowers with a personalized card. Write her a poem, maybe.”
Merc grumbles and squints. “Who the hell writes poems? Not this guy. Sei fuori di testa?”
I shift away from him with a pang of hurt. “No, I’m not out of my mind. It’s romantic.”
It’s his turn to scoff and I know what’s coming next. “What would you know about romance? Those books you read aren’t real, you know.”
Jerk. “Excuse me?” I say, sitting up as straight as I can, my chest puffing out.
He shrugs and looks a little ashamed of himself. “Well, you know what I mean.”
I don’t respond. With a sniff, I open my book again and bury my nose in its pages. My cousin is probably right, but that doesn’t make his words sting any less.
What would it be like to have somebody send me flowers with a handwritten note? Or make me a playlist of romantic music, or better yet, send me a fancy little cake with something cute written on the top in pink icing? What woman wouldn’t appreciate a thoughtful poem?
Back in Jane’s day, a poem was a surefire way to make one’s affections known. Men these days are hopeless. I shoot my cousin a glare, but my eye-daggers are wasted. He’s busy picking lint off the front of his shirt. I’m sorely tempted to dump my lemonade over his head.
“So, here’s the deal,” he finally says quietly. “I’m going to need a few more minutes to myself, so I need you to stay out of trouble while I’m gone.”
It’s his standard line for our standard agreement, which basically means he gets to go chase tail and I get some time to myself without him watching my every move. With the understanding, of course, that I won’t do anything that could get us both in severe trouble.
Ignoring him, I flip a page and give another sniff. He sighs, annoyed.
“What, ah, what kind of poem? Like a, ‘roses are red violets are blue’ type thing?”
Good Lord. I flip another page. “Yeah, go with that. Women love that poem. Make sure to add something about her rack to make her feel really special.”
He laughs. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. I’ll work on it.”
Page flip. “Don’t forget to find out her name before you propose.”
Just then, the announcer’s voice comes through the speakers so loud that I almost cover my ears with my hands. Just like that, the cars rev up and the crowd goes wild. The first flag is waved as cars roll out onto the track.
My cousin jabs me lightly in the arm with his elbow.
Every time I have to come to a race, I spend my time reading.
And every damn time, my cousin jabs me in the arm and makes me pay attention to the start of the race.
As if I care. One of these days, I’m going to take my book and smack him clear across the face with it.
But today is not the day. Because unlike just about every other time I’ve been here, I’m actually interested in what’s going on below.
Now that the cars are warming up for their first lap, I can’t keep the multitude of questions I’ve been trying to ignore from going through my mind.
Bellanti. The name has a familiar ring to it.
Maybe I’ve heard it in passing, but I have no direct knowledge of the family.
As if on cue, the car I saw in the Bellanti pit passes in front of us.
“I hope Bellanti crashes and burns in that car today,” Merc scoffs.
“That’s unnecessarily horrid.”
“Is it?” he says.
I lean forward to get a better look. The man in the driver’s seat isn’t wearing a helmet, but I still can’t see very clearly from so far away.
I spy the upper half of a black and blue racing suit with two blue downward slashes across the shoulder.
The car rolls slowly by, the man slipping a helmet over his head as he passes.
I catch sight of his dark hair, and then he’s gone.
I wish I could go back to the pit and see if Romeo is still there. I spy a row of mechanics near the track, watching as their cars go past. Most are in the same coveralls and wearing ball caps, making it hard to tell one from the other.
The yellow and red car passes by next, pulling my attention. It’s our sponsored car. I have to put on a good show for my cousin, so I give a little clap as if I’m excited to see it.
“Here we go, here we go.” Merc begins clapping excitedly, as if his enthusiasm will help his favorite driver win.
When the flag drops, the cars speed out of their places.
The first two laps go by with everybody in a jumbled mess.
But at the start of the fourth lap, the yellow car pulls slightly ahead of the rest. I clap and cheer like I know I should, even though my eyes dart back to the car I’m not supposed to be watching.
I’m literally on the edge of my seat, but anyone watching will suspect I’m nervous over the position of the yellow car, because I’m a good girl like that.
They don’t know my Romeo works for someone else.
The Bellanti car takes the lead and the loudest cheers I’ve heard yet fill the air.
Whoever is inside that car has the attention of the crowd, that’s for sure.
The next few laps go by with him pulling ahead and falling back, in and out of first and second place.
Meanwhile, our yellow car starts to fall behind further as the other cars speed up in a desperate race for the finish line, and my cousin’s shouts get louder and louder.
But I barely hear him. I barely feel the vibrations coming through the stands, barely feel the tremble of the railing in front of me as I grip it. I can only focus on one thing.
The Bellanti car.
The space around me narrows as I track the car, struggling hard to maintain first place. The final lap flag is waved. The engines roar louder, harder. The crowd simultaneously cheers and holds their breath.
The Bellanti car is in first again—it’s going to win!
I jump to my feet without thinking, and that’s when I realize our yellow car has fallen to sixth or seventh place.
Putting my hand to my forehead as if I’m shielding my eyes, I track the cars with my heart in my throat.
Suddenly, the second-place car—a blue one—zooms past the Bellanti car and over the finish line, and my heart falls as the Bellanti car roars past in second place. Still, second place! Wow.
My head is buzzing as the rest of the cars cross the finish line and roll off to their respective corners. I’m a little breathless, my heart pumping with adrenaline. I may not know the second-place winning driver, but I figure at least one of his mechanics is happy with the outcome. Romeo.
Merc grabs my wrist as he stands. “Our car placed! Come on, I’ll take you down to the winner’s circle.”
We head down onto the track and weave our way through crowds of fans and media to the winner’s area.
My stomach drops as we approach the yellow car and the driver turns in our direction.
His expression is positively murderous—nothing to do with us, of course, but surely thanks to his unsatisfactory placement in the race.
He doesn’t say anything as he reaches his hand out to shake with Mercutio and then my cousin pushes me forward so I can give the driver a side-hug.
Merc and I huddle in on either side of the driver for a quick photo, and then a woman with a microphone and several cameramen push us out of the way. I’m happy to let them.
Realizing my cousin has disappeared, a giddiness washes over me.
I’m sure the woman he’s chasing is around here somewhere, which means he’s snuck off to woo her, which means I’m temporarily on my own.
The base of my throat tightens a little as I think about the car I wasn’t supposed to be rooting for.
I spy it up ahead, parked slightly behind the winner.
With this many members of the press here, I’m sure the drivers of each of those cars is swarmed.
It’s unlikely that I’ll see this mysterious Bellanti mechanic…
but I guess it’s probably best if I don’t.
No one seems to notice me as I sink into the crowd with a pang of disappointment that my fantasy is now over.
I suppose I’ll just go to the adjoining restaurant and bar where Mercutio instructed me to meet up with him, find a seat in the corner, and read until he finishes wooing his flavor of the week and comes to get me.
Which could be hours from now, if he even remembers about me at all.
His job as my chaperone is kind of a joke.
I don’t get far when I feel a hand on my arm. Turning around, I expect to see my cousin.
Instead, I get Romeo—dressed in the racing suit of the Bellanti driver. He’s holding his driving helmet in one hand, and my lost purse in the other.
Tiny chills race over my scalp.
Romeo isn’t a mechanic, after all.
He’s a Bellanti.