Chapter 12
BOUNDARIES, PENDING
Reese Maddox shocked them all that weekend with back-to-back wins in Suzuka.
It wasn’t just that she won—it was how she won.
With precision she’d never shown before, discipline that made the pit crew stand taller, and a kind of electric assuredness that rolled off her in waves.
Every lap seemed to focus her, pull new possibilities out of her.
By the final checkered flag, even the skeptics were leaning in, whispering about her potential, wondering if this was the start of something bigger.
Reese handled the attention with that maddening ease of hers, grinning for cameras, slinging an arm around her crew, basking in the high without letting it swallow her.
And every time Sloane caught a glimpse of her with her helmet tucked under one arm, hair damp, eyes bright with triumph, something warm and dangerous twisted in her chest.
Which was precisely the problem.
After their first night in town and the eventful stay in an elevator, Sloane had kept her distance.
She had to. She needed room to get her bearings and figure out how she was supposed to proceed where Reese was concerned.
And she damn well couldn’t do that with Reese—radiant, magnetic, infuriating Reese—anywhere in her proximity.
She’d learned that much from a single kiss.
Reese Maddox scrambled her logic, blurred her lines, and made every carefully drawn boundary feel flimsy and optional.
Sloane needed space, silence, a room without the gravity of Reese’s presence tugging at her.
Because when Reese was near, Sloane forgot the rules.
She forgot reason. She forgot why wanting her was such a spectacularly bad idea.
Worse, Reese didn’t seem upset or confused or tentative after what had happened. She just looked … lit up. Like kissing Sloane had flipped a switch inside her.
Sloane wasn’t sure whether that terrified her or thrilled her. Possibly both.
They crossed paths in the paddock late Sunday morning, the usual storm of personnel, media, and logistics swirling around them. Reese slowed as she approached, her expression brightening like seeing Sloane was the best thing that had happened to her all day. That didn’t help.
“Why don’t we debrief before you leave town tomorrow?” Sloane asked, tone clipped, professional. At least she hoped so. Reese still had meetings with her team principal, with Julie, and the press. A technical breakdown could wait until the world stopped buzzing around them.
“How about tonight? After the Grand Prix?” Reese countered easily. The F1 race would hold everyone’s attention, and Sloane was surprised Reese wouldn’t want to watch with her team, eat, celebrate, then fall into bed for twelve hours.
“Are you sure you’d be up for it then?”
Reese’s smile edged into challenge. “That sounds like a no.”
“Then let’s do it,” Sloane said, hearing her voice dip into something warmer, something familiar. “I’m free if you are.”
“I’ll see you in the hospitality suite.”
“Perfect.” Sloane kept walking, but something made her glance over her shoulder.
Reese was still standing there. Still watching her walk away. Still wearing that look.
“Stop that,” Sloane said, forcing herself not to smile as she continued on.
“You can’t make me,” Reese called back.
A busy afternoon followed, longer than usual. Sloane spent most of it with Cassidy Simms, helping her understand the nuances of driving on different compounds and how tire evolution changed over a race distance. The rookie listened like every word mattered, eyes sharp with hunger.
Sloane had to give it to her. The girl was determined to learn her sport and learn it quickly.
“Cassidy Simms,” Sloane said as she stepped into Veronica’s onsite office.
Veronica looked up from her laptop. “What about her?”
“She impresses me. She finished in the points today.”
“I caught that,” Veronica said, removing her glasses and raking a hand through her always-gorgeous hair. “When she arrived for race one, I wondered if we’d get a gee-golly kid, in over her head. She’s not even close.”
“She’s a tiger in sheep’s clothing. That’s the beauty of it. They don’t see her coming, Ronnie. She inches up the drivers’ standings every weekend. Give her a couple of years, and she might be starting at the front of the F1 grid.”
“Let’s not get crazy.”
“I’m not even close. Don’t underestimate hard work.”
Veronica sat forward, elbows on her desk. “Speaking of, I don’t know what you said to Reese, but she’s been putting in the time since the last race, and now look. Two wins?”
Sloane leaned a hip against the desk. “Say more.”
“Helmut, the assistant team principal over at Ravensport, says she’s been the first one in and the last one out. Living in the simulator, hitting the gym, doing climate conditioning. Putting in real hours. Not show. Not optics. Not smiling for selfies with the fans. Work.”
A tug of pride surprised Sloane, hitting her low and warm.
Reese was trying. Really trying.
And tonight, she’d have to look her in the eye and somehow discuss racing, professionalism, boundaries, while pretending her pulse didn’t trip every time Reese so much as looked at her.
Sloane exhaled slowly.
“Where did you go just now?”
“I was just thinking about Reese and the progress you mentioned. We saw it on the track today.”
“No. Uh-uh.” Veronica sat back in her chair. “That faraway look was anything but work-related. Did you almost bite your lip? I think you almost bit your fucking lip.”
“You’re imagining things,” Sloane said. She tossed in a laugh, but it sounded manufactured and only hurt her cause.
“You’re seeing someone.”
“No. I’m absolutely not.” Sloane headed for the door before she spilled one detail too many.
“Then you’re lusting after someone, and it’s good. It’s soap opera good. I can tell. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had sex?”
Sloane’s hand went still on the doorknob. “I don’t. Are you gonna tell me?”
“Too damn long, Sloane, and if you’re getting some, then I need to hear the sexy stories that will surely give me hope that good old-fashioned lust in a handbasket is waiting to carry me away to Smutville. So, can we do the girl talk thing now?”
Sloane wanted to say yes because this was her friend, but the subject of her R-rated thoughts these days was the very reason she couldn’t.
What would Veronica say if she knew it was one of their drivers?
And not only that, it was the overly hot one.
I mean, how cliché could Sloane be? Not that there wasn’t more to Reese. She’d seen it.
Sloane hesitated, searching for a diplomatic exit. “You know what? I can’t. Not today.”
The brightness in Veronica’s eyes dimmed a fraction, quick, almost invisible, but Sloane caught it. A flicker of something like disappointment slid through the space between them before Veronica straightened, smoothing it over with practiced ease.
“Right,” she said lightly. “Of course. You’re busy. We’re all busy.”
It was meant to sound breezy. It didn’t.
“I just have a lot on my plate,” Sloane tried, but it came out stiff. Defensive, even. Dammit.
Veronica lifted one shoulder, a half-shrug that didn’t match the sharpness suddenly settling into her posture. “No explanation needed, Sloane. I get it. Boundaries and all that.” She reached for her glasses, turning them in her hands instead of putting them on. “Go. Do your … work thing.”
The pause before "work" was small but unmistakable.
Sloane’s chest tightened. She wanted to fix it, bridge the gap she’d just created, but doing that meant opening a door she absolutely could not open. She just wasn’t equipped yet.
“I’ll see you after the race,” she said instead. “Or maybe even in the morning. I might turn in early after I finish my last meeting.” The meeting.
Veronica nodded without looking at her. “Sure. I hope it’s a good one. See you then.”
Sloane slipped out, pulling the door closed behind her. The click sounded too final, too loaded for what should have been an ordinary conversation.
But the air in the hallway felt heavier, confirming what she already suspected: Veronica didn’t buy the brush-off.
And she wasn’t thrilled about being shut out. Ronnie wasn’t one to hold long-term grudges, but it was clear her feelings had been hurt, and Sloane hated that she made her feel unimportant.
Sloane scrubbed a hand down her face and exhaled. Great. Perfect. Add that to the list: a friend she’d just hurt, a driver she couldn’t stay away from, and a night ahead she wasn’t remotely ready for.
And in a few hours, she’d have to walk into that hospitality suite and pretend none of it was unraveling her from the inside out. Piece of cake.
Reese watched the Grand Prix from along the Ravensport garage, toes practically against the yellow pit-lane line.
The air vibrated with engine noise, each car shooting past in a blur that tugged at her and got her blood pumping.
This was the kind of thing Reese lived for, and she was itching to be a part of it all.
But out here, close enough to taste the fuel in the air, she could almost fool herself into thinking she was part of the race.
She relished every twitch of the cars under braking, every surge of acceleration, every breathless gamble through the corners.
Fuck, this was good stuff.
When the midfield battle hit the trickiest turn on the circuit, known as Degner 1, she leaned forward instinctively, reading the body language of the cars like text.
Too close. Too bold. This wasn’t good at all.
Her stomach dropped half a second before one car snapped loose and spiraled across the track.
The other had nowhere to go. She braced, knowing what was coming.
The impact cracked through the air, a metallic roar swallowed instantly by screeching tires and a plume of carbon fiber shrapnel. “No, no, no,” Reese murmured, shoving a hand through her hair as she watched in fear.