Chapter Nineteen
Luca
My gut told me I should have canceled breakfast with my parents this morning, but after the excited text from my mother stating that she couldn’t wait to see me, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
The moment I saw my parents dragging an exhausted, slightly bewildered Georgia out of the elevator and towards the restaurant, every muscle in my body told me to run, make up an excuse that I had to be at the track early, because I knew this entire exchange would consist of my father gushing over Georgia, the daughter he wished he had.
And I was right. Breakfast was crucifying.
As soon as my father made that pointed comment, I knew I couldn’t sit through any more of this charade. Watching him gush over Georgia made me feel sick to my stomach. He fawned over Henri every race weekend; I didn’t also need to watch him do the same with the other Dubois twin.
“Well, breakfast has been great, but I think we best be leaving. Don’t want to be late.” I tapped my Rolex, hoping Georgia would catch the hint.
Please agree to leave, my eyes begged her.
“Luca, it’s only eight thirty. You have another thirty minutes before—” my dad began to argue.
Georgia squinted, giving me a quick once-over.
“Oh, no, this is my fault.” She tugged at her jacket sleeve before realizing too late that she wasn’t wearing a watch.
“I told Luca I wanted to get in a tad earlier this morning, I like to meditate before it gets busy in the garage, but thank you for breakfast. We’ll see you at the dinner later. ”
I shot her a grateful look, surprised that she hadn’t put up a fight.
I was sure that if Georgia had her way, she would have spent the morning grilling my father about his racing strategies, secrets he would have happily spilled to her.
Henri had mentioned that his sister had a signed poster of my dad hanging in her apartment.
We quickly said our polite goodbyes before heading to the front of the hotel where my car was waiting for us.
“Thanks for agreeing to leave early. Didn’t mean to take my dad’s biggest fan away from him,” I attempted to joke as we climbed into the car.
“It’s no problem.” Georgia flashed me a genuinely sweet, small smile, which I couldn’t help but return.
A blush flooded her face as she quickly glanced away, chewing on her bottom lip as she stared off into the distance, a casual smile on her face.
She looked as if she was a million miles way, dreaming of something else, and I desperately wished I could slip into that head of hers.
“What’s got you smiling like a little schoolgirl this morning?” I teased.
Georgia quickly replaced her smile with a frown, shaking her head. “None of your business, Rossi.”
Truthfully that only made me more curious, but I put up a hand in defeat. She’d let me escape my parents early, least I could do was give her this tiny win.
“Fine, fine, keep your secrets.”
Georgia’s smile lingered a moment longer, her lips still etched into a soft curve, before she reached into the Valkyrie bag at her feet, pulling out her phone. “Nora instructed me to ask a few more questions if you’re up for it.”
Nodding in agreement, I motioned for her to go first.
“Here’s a good one. When did you know you wanted to be a Formula 1 driver?”
Even though my eyes were glued to the road in front of me, out of the corners of my eyes, I could feel Georgia staring at me.
Something about that question caught me off guard.
As F1 drivers we all had this speech perfectly prepared, had all answered it countless times each year.
But as time had gone on, my answer felt more and more crafted, and less and less genuine.
Suddenly, that feeling I’d felt back at the Hermes offices overtook me again.
It felt like an invisible weight had settled on my chest, squeezing tighter with each shallow breath I took.
Why was this question so difficult to answer?
I don’t know if Georgia sensed my hesitation, but I appreciated her answering first.
“When I was five, our father took us to the Monaco Grand Prix. I remember it like it was yesterday. The cars were shiny and beautiful, the weather was incredibly sunny, and my father held me for most of the race, pointing out the different cars as he explained the racetrack. I knew in that moment that I wanted to be a race car driver, wanted to make him proud. Racing each weekend, it became more than just a hobby. It was a way for our family to spend meaningful time together. My parents sacrificed everything to get Henri and I into race cars, and now, each week, we get to pay them back in the best way possible.”
There was a comfortable silence in the air as I pictured the image of sweet little five-year-old Georgia learning about the cars as they raced at one of the most famous tracks in the world.
She wanted to make her dad proud. My heart tugged at the thought. How could Georgia not make her parents proud? She was unstoppable this season. “A real champion,” as my father liked to gush.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want,” she offered quickly.
I shrugged. “I guess, since my dad was one, it was expected I’d become one, too.”
Her pursed lips told me she didn’t quite know how to respond—or didn’t believe me, which was fair. Racers dreamed of competing in Formula 1. Until recently, racing the fastest cars in the world had been all that I’d wanted to do, but now? Now it felt more like a nightmare I was trapped in.
“If your dad wasn’t a professional driver,” she asked finally, “what did little Luca want to be when he grew up?” A good question, one that I had been too afraid to ask myself recently.
Had I always wanted to be a driver?
“I don’t know,” I said softly, thinking back to my childhood. “I really love to cook.”
“An Italian that loves to cook, could you be more of a cliché?” Georgia teased, poking me gently in the side. “Well then, Chef Luca, here’s a question that Nora keeps sending to me. Let’s see if you’d pass the test: What’s your favorite pasta?”
“I like maccheroni. It’s a simple, classic Italian pasta. Easy to make, no matter the sauce.”
“As in… mac and cheese?” Georgia’s loud snort startled me. “Are you telling me that Luca Rossi loves mac and cheese?”
“No,” I replied with mock offense. “I am telling you that Luca Rossi loves the classic Italian pasta maccheroni, which is an excellent way to eat a meat-based sauce.” It was difficult to keep a straight face when Georgia was grinning at me with that radiant smile.
Her laugh was something special; when she laughed, it was as if every part of her joined in.
Her shoulders shook and her eyes sparkled as effortless laughter filled any open space.
It was contagious being around Georgia when she laughed, and impossible not to smile back.
It made me want to do it more.
“I don’t know, Luca. All I can picture is you shoveling copious amounts of mac and cheese into your face like a five-year-old.”
“I wouldn’t be caught dead making mac and cheese.” I shook my head in disgust. “Next question?”
She scrolled through her phone. “Ugh, so sneaky of Nora. She wrote, ‘Luca, what’s something Georgia could do better in this week’s press conference?’”
I cleared my throat, maybe a little too eagerly. “Well…”
Georgia scoffed. “Oh, do tell. Please bestow your wisdom upon me, Luca, King of Journalists, First of his Name.”
“Mock me all you want, Dubois,” I teased. “I watched some of the conferences from the last few races, and I noticed something.” My voice trailed off at the look of apprehension on Georgia’s face. The press conference in Miami had been brutal, and we needed to get things back on track.
“Yes?”
“I think for this week you should really focus on your body language. I hate to say it, but you kind of look like prey to these journalists.”
“Ahh, so you want me to tell my anxiety to quit it?” Georgia said with a hard edge, crossing her arms tightly across her chest.
I cracked a smile, shaking my head. “No, amore, not at all, but I want you to at least try and think about your body language if you can. I just want you to look confident in front of these journalists. You’re a successful F1 driver and it’s an honor to be in that room with you.
I want you to sit with your back straight, smile wide as you face them down.
Even if you don’t feel it on the inside, I think it’ll help.
I like to liken it to a black bear. If you look scary, it’s probably going to leave you alone. ”
“You know a brown bear will chase you if you look intimidating,” she deadpanned.
Such a know-it-all.
It was impossible to stop a smile from slipping onto my face. “I want you to show them that you’re not to be underestimated. You’re a predator on the track. Let that translate to press conferences, too.”
Georgia didn’t answer right away. Her lips were pursed, her eyes focused on the road ahead. “I’ll give it a shot.”
Better response than I was expecting. “That’s the spirit.”
A moment of silence passed. “So, Luca,” she said suddenly, finally turning her gaze back to me. “I just wanted to thank you… for Miami.” Her voice was soft and low, almost a bit unsure of itself.
“You don’t have to thank me, amore.”
Georgia took a sip from her water bottle. “No, I do. I don’t know how you noticed that about me. Truth is, I don’t think I’ve actually noticed that about myself…” Her voice trailed off.
In the moment, I hadn’t realized why I knew Georgia wasn’t feeling better.
It wasn’t until later, when I saw her doing the dance with Lily after a decent press interaction, that I realized why.
I’d always thought it was so cute, and I found myself each race looking towards her car first to see her doing the dance.
Before I could respond, she sat up straighter, pointing to the gates ahead. “We’re here,” she half-whispered.
The entrance to the drivers’ parking lot was already teeming with a bustling crowd of guests. Pulling up to the gate, I flashed my Hermes pass as all feelings of relaxation vanished.
“And so it begins…” I wasn’t sure if Georgia caught my almost silent whisper, but she nodded, and I wondered if she was also too scared to leave the safety of my car.
The moment we stepped out and into the Monza spectacle, this relationship was solidified.
More than Miami. More than Barcelona. Here, we were officially a couple.
“The fans love you, Luca,” Georgia said finally. “You’re going to do incredible this weekend.” Her confidence shouldn’t have surprised me. Georgia never showed weakness.
Putting on the biggest smile I could muster, I took a deep breath and stepped out of the car to the sound of deafening cheers, screaming and applause.
The crowd had grown around the barricades, craning their necks to get a glimpse of us.
Georgia swung open the passenger side door and gracefully stepped out onto the sidewalk, her dark blonde hair swaying in the wind as she waved at the fans.
“Ready to walk down?”
She nodded. Her eyes focused on the growing crowd as I took her hand in mine.
Our fingers intertwined effortlessly, and for a few split seconds, everything felt right with the world.
The walk to the paddock entrance looked like a movie premiere, with fans clamoring over barricades to get selfies and our signatures.
“Georgia! Can you sign my hat?” A small, outstretched hand held out a blue Valkyrie cap. Georgia crouched, took a selfie, and added her signature to the hat.
“You know, I love to paint, too,” the little girl whispered shyly.
“Oh, yeah?”
The girl nodded enthusiastically, her pigtails bouncing with each nod. “I told my mum that if I can’t be a racer like you, then I wanna be the person who paints the cars!”
Georgia chuckled warmly, adjusting the oversized racing cap back onto the girl’s head.
Once we reached the end of the cobblestone walkway, I leaned closer, whispering, “So, turns out the fans sort of like this artist side of you, huh?”
Georgia let out a soft scoff, but she begrudgingly nodded.
“You’re a woman of many talents, amore. Don’t hide that.”
Georgia just shook her head, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her, curling into an undeniable grin.
“I know we’ve got a lot to do today, but thanks for giving me some time to chat with the Valkyrie fans.
One of my favorite things about being a driver is interacting with the young female fans.
Watching their eyes glow up when I speak to them reminds me why Valkyrie’s mission is so special.
As women in motorsports, we can be more than grid girls—we’re drivers, engineers, and team principals. I want little girls to know that.”
“They do, Georgia,” I insisted. “Every day you get in that car, you prove to the world that women can race with just as much determination and speed as anyone else.”