Chapter 13
NOT NAKED MODE
Monza carried its own kind of electricity.
God, it was good to be back. Sloane was unexpectedly invigorated to return to Italy and to a circuit where she’d scored the most significant race win of her career.
So many memories came flooding back as she stared out at the now-empty track.
She could see and hear it all play out in front of her.
The sound of the crowd when she emerged from her car.
Her team hanging over the fence as she passed beneath the checkered flag.
The sheer exhilaration of winning the whole damn thing.
She wasn’t sure she’d ever experience a moment that compared.
All around her now, the air thrummed with the sound of engines even when they weren’t running, as though the circuit itself remembered every lap ever laid down on it. Sloane liked that about Italy, the history, the reverence, the way the locals spoke about racing like it was religion.
But this weekend, she had something else to look forward to.
She hadn’t realized exactly how much the absence would settle under her skin until she stepped into the Formula Next paddock and spotted Reese-fucking-Maddox leaning against the wall outside the conference room—early, of all things.
She was scrolling through something on her phone, one ankle crossed over the other, posture relaxed in a way that said she had nowhere more important to be.
And Sloane felt it, that quiet pull in her chest she’d spent a week pretending wasn’t growing.
But it was. God, Reese was a sight for sore eyes.
She looked up just as Sloane approached, a slow, warm grin curving her perfect lips. “Hey, you.”
It hit harder than it should have. “Morning,” Sloane said, grateful her voice came out steady. “Didn’t expect you yet.”
“Impressed?” Reese grinned, proud of herself, but there was something careful beneath it. “Figured I’d be on time for once.” A beat. “Did you miss me?”
Yes. “What constitutes miss?” Sloane asked with her best quizzical look.
“Imagining me naked.”
And there went all the air from her lungs.
“Seriously?” Sloane said, pausing with the doorknob in her hand.
But her skin prickled, and heat slid down her spine.
She was instantly turned on and all too aware of her inner thighs.
The idea of being naked with Reese was enough to short-circuit her morning.
“I’m kidding.”
“No, you’re not,” Sloane said, dropping her tone.
“No. I’m not,” Reese echoed, the grin fading from her face.
Something flickered across Reese’s expression—pleasure, maybe, or relief—but before Sloane could define it, footsteps and conversation rose from behind them.
Two other drivers rounded the corner, filtering toward the conference room, greeting Reese as if she’d simply been waiting there quietly the whole time rather than tossing Sloane’s morning on its head …
or rather onto its back. There were more voices down the hall, reminding Sloane that it was four minutes until nine o’clock and she had notes to look over before her talk with the drivers.
Sloane swallowed her smile and nodded toward the entrance. “Let’s get inside.”
A few minutes later, Sloane stood at the head of the compact conference room inside the Formula Next suite of mobile offices, kicking off what would be a more informal chat, heavily based on Q and A.
The space was sleek and efficient, comprised of a long table, mounted screens, and the faint hum of air-conditioning battling the late-summer Italian heat.
The rest of the drivers filed in, taking their seats with the low chatter of people who’d spent enough time together to know each other’s rhythms. These women were becoming friends, enemies, and everything in between. Typical of any driver lineup.
Reese settled halfway down the table, posture relaxed but eyes unmistakably focused. And every so often, Sloane felt those eyes drift to her like a quiet pulse of heat.
She inhaled, smoothing her palms down the front of her blazer. She could do work mode, even with Reese Maddox looking at her like that. Work mode, not naked mode.
“All right,” Sloane began, projecting her voice just enough to fill the room. “Let’s talk more about what being a driver looks like beyond the circuit. Most of you signed up to go fast. That’s the simple part. Everything else?” She offered a wry smile. “That’s where the real learning begins.”
A few nods around the room. They’d had a taste of it at the lower levels, but F1 was its own animal.
Cassidy leaned forward, elbows on the surface, eager as ever. “You’re referencing the media?”
“Yes,” Sloane said. “Media, sponsorship obligations, fan engagement, charity appearances. In Formula 1, you’re a public figure whether you intended to be or not.
Your team and their marketing department will help shape your calendar, but you need to understand the identity you’re putting out into the world. ”
She glanced down the table. Reese was listening—the real kind of listening, the kind that said she was fully dialed in. Her focus landed squarely on Sloane, and the attention felt different this time. Purposeful. Present.
Sloane forced herself to continue. “You’ll build a brand whether you plan to or not. The key is making sure it reflects you. People can smell inauthenticity from a mile away, and it’s hard to keep up a persona that’s not who you actually are.”
“That true, Maddox?” Danielle asked. “Is it hard?”
Reese rolled her eyes. Delaney turned around, gaze narrowed. “Not at all necessary,” she told Danielle. “Let’s pretend to be a grown-up for the rest of the day.”
“My mistake,” Danielle said with a proud grin. She turned back to Sloane. “Right. Didn’t mean to detract, but I do have a question. Do we get a say in our branding? Or is that on the team?”
“Both,” Sloane said. “The team will guide you. But what you choose to highlight—your values, your personality, how you show up—has to come from you. Or it won’t stick.
I remember arriving for a session with a reporter, prepared to talk all about my last race, only to find myself at a loss for words when the questions were about me.
The interview came out, and it was horrific.
I came off like a hostile witness. My team marketing manager took me under her wing from that point forward.
” She folded her arms. “Moral of the story. Learn from my mistakes. Pay attention in media training.”
Another question came. Then another. And Sloane fielded each one, crisp and steady. But every few heartbeats, her attention tugged toward Reese again, head bowed as she jotted a note, fingers drumming lightly on the table, eyes lifting every time Sloane shifted.
It was infuriatingly distracting. And exhilarating.
Reese made Sloane feel alive again, and, honestly, she’d forgotten what that was like.
“Remember,” Sloane concluded, “every interaction reflects on your team and on your future. Treat the work outside the cockpit with the same focus and intention you bring to your qualifying laps.”
Marissa grinned. “So basically: don’t be an asshole?”
“That’s the short version,” Sloane said, a smile tugging at her mouth.
“And now, take time to get yourself ready for quali. If that means eating something healthy, do it. If you need extra reaction drills to get your reflexes firing, make sure it happens.” She lifted her shoulders.
“I can’t wait to see who comes out on top. ”
That brought on a few overly confident murmurs, which tracked. You needed an ego to reach this level.
The conference room emptied slowly, chairs scraping back, drivers chatting among themselves as they filed out. Sloane answered a last question from one of the rookies, then gathered her notes with mechanical precision.
Professional. Calm. Steady.
Except none of that matched what was happening inside her chest. Reese hadn’t left with the others. Of course she hadn’t. Her notebook was tucked under her arm. Her long dark hair was pulled back today, exposing that sharp jawline Sloane absolutely wasn’t staring at.
Sloane swallowed. Her hands felt warm. Too warm.
“Good session,” Reese said quietly.
Just that. Simple. Normal.
Except it wasn’t simple or normal because Sloane felt the echo of last week’s panic attack still connecting them like an invisible thread.
She remembered acutely the way Reese had sat with her in the dark, holding her hand, breathing her back into the world.
No one had ever seen her that undone. No one had stayed.
Sloane cleared her throat. “You’re a good group.”
Reese nodded. “But better when you talk to us. Look at my lap times.”
“Is that why you were early?” Sloane asked.
Reese stepped closer, not close enough to crowd, but close enough that the air shifted. “No,” she said softly. “I was excited to see you.”
Sloane’s breath caught at the honesty. No games or performance. Just the truth, spoken like it was the easiest thing in the world.
She looked up. Met Reese’s gaze.
And a door she’d welded shut years ago, clicked open half an inch.
Not enough for anything dangerous. Just enough for light. There was nothing here she had to run from. Nothing here was going to hurt her. With that reminder, she relaxed, and it felt good.
“Sloane,” Reese murmured, “you don’t have to say anything.”
But Sloane already was. Just not with words.
She reached out, intending to brush a nonexistent speck of lint off Reese’s sleeve, something harmless, but her hand lingered an instant too long. Her fingertips grazed warm fabric, then the warm forearm beneath it.
Reese inhaled softly. Sloane met her eyes.
God, what am I doing? What am I starting?
She stepped back half a foot, breaking the moment, fighting for sense. “This is a terrible idea,” she whispered. “You know that, right?”
Reese nodded, eyes steady. “I know.”
“And dangerous.”
“I know that too. Still don’t care.”