Chapter 16
LARK
The media staging area buzzes with activity, cameras trained on Jack while I hang back in the wings where the PR team told me to wait.
Miami humidity has turned my hair into something that belongs in a before photo for anti-frizz products.
Jack rented a motorcycle here after getting sick of being chauffeured everywhere, and while the wind on the ride over was refreshing, the helmet definitely didn’t do my styling any favors, but at least I’m not on camera.
It’s our last full day in Miami, and the International Motorsport Festival is still in full swing around us.
Press everywhere, their equipment creating a maze of cables and light stands that I’m trying not to trip over.
Fans cluster behind barriers with phones held high, hoping for glimpses of their favorite drivers.
Team personnel rush between obligations with clipboards and headsets.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, feeling the sticky Miami heat press against my skin. My jeans are practically glued to my legs at this point, and I’m already fantasizing about the breeze we’ll get on the ride back to the hotel.
Jack catches my eye mid-answer to some question about his training regimen and throws me a quick wink. The interviewer notices, follows his gaze to me with interest, and Jack smoothly pivots to answering a question about his “incredibly supportive girlfriend” without missing a beat.
I smile on cue, playing my part like I’ve been doing all weekend.
Except it doesn’t feel like playing anymore. That’s the problem.
I’ve been watching him all morning, hell all weekend really, and this is where he belongs.
Completely in his element. He’s confident without being arrogant, handling questions about his comeback with the kind of grace that only comes from years of practice and media training.
This isn’t the party boy from the tabloids or the reckless kid who made headlines for all the wrong reasons.
This is a professional. A fighter. Someone who’s clawed his way to the top of one of the most competitive sports in the world and is now fighting like hell to reclaim what he lost.
The dedication is obvious in every answer he gives, every composed smile, every careful word choice. And it’s attractive. Really attractive.
It’s pretty fucking hot, if I’m being completely honest with myself.
Which I’m trying very hard not to be. Not out loud, anyway. Not even in my own head if I can help it.
But the truth is sitting heavy in my chest: part of me doesn’t want to go home tomorrow.
This trip has been amazing. Exhausting, yes, but also exciting in a way I haven’t felt in years.
Maybe ever. I get it now, why he loves this world so much.
The speed, the constant adrenaline rush.
The way everything moves so fast you don’t have time to overthink or second-guess yourself.
But it’s not really the world, it’s him.
The way he makes everything feel like an adventure, and the way he looks at me like I’m the most interesting person in the room even when we’re surrounded by celebrities and racing legends.
The way I feel when I’m with him—adventurous and vibrant and like someone who doesn’t have to shrink herself down.
“And that’s a wrap!” the interviewer says cheerfully, his voice cutting through my thoughts. “Thank you so much for your time, Jack. Best of luck with the contract negotiations. We’re all rooting for you.”
“Thanks, mate. Really appreciate it,” Jack says, shaking his hand with that million-dollar smile still perfectly in place.
Then he turns to me, and his expression changes immediately, softens in a way that makes my stomach flip.
Like he can finally drop the performance now that the cameras are off. “Ready to get out of here?”
“Sure,” I tell him, trying not to sound as affected as I feel by the way he’s looking at me. “Where to next? Please tell me somewhere with air conditioning.”
“We’re free the rest of the day,” he says, reaching for my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “How about lunch? I’m starving and I know a place that’s not too far.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, and my stomach chooses that exact moment to growl loudly enough that he definitely hears it.
He grins, clearly amused. “Guess you’re hungry too.”
“Traitor,” I mutter at my stomach, and he laughs.
We start walking through the crowd, Jack’s hand still holding mine. A few people stop him for autographs and photos, and he’s gracious about it, signing hats and posing for selfies while I stand off to the side trying not to photobomb anyone.
It’s kind of sweet, actually, watching how patient he is with the fans. A little kid in a Ferrari shirt asks for a high five, and Jack crouches down to the kid’s level, giving him his full attention and making him feel like the most important person in the world for those few seconds.
He’s really good at this part. Better than I expected.
But then more people start to notice him. The crowd grows, pressing closer with that excited energy that borders on aggressive. Suddenly there are at least forty people surrounding us, all calling his name, waving Ferrari merchandise, holding out phones to capture the moment.
“Jack! Jack, over here!”
“Can I get a picture? Please?”
“Is that really Lark Reyes? From Instagram?”
“Jack, sign my hat!”
Security personnel start moving toward us, trying to create some breathing room, but the crowd keeps swelling.
Not just fans anymore, now I can see paparazzi too, pushing through the crowd with a predatory energy.
The energy shifts completely, becomes aggressive and invasive.
Security is trying to push through to us, but they’re caught in the crush of people.
This is different from the controlled events we’ve been attending all weekend. This is chaos. Actual chaos.
Jack looks down at me, and his hand tightens protectively around mine. Then he’s leaning close enough that I can hear him over the noise, his breath warm against my ear. “You trust me?”
“What?” I manage, my voice coming out higher than normal.
“Do you trust me?” he asks again, pulling back just enough to look me in the eye, and there’s something wild there.
“Yes,” I say without thinking, even though I have no idea what he’s planning.
His grin is wicked, the kind that should come with a warning label. “Then run.”
“What?”
But he’s already moving, pulling me through the crowd with him. We dodge around a cluster of surprised fans, weave between two security guards who look completely confused about what’s happening, and then we’re sprinting through the paddock area like we’re in some kind of action movie chase scene.
My sneakers slap against the hot pavement, and I’m laughing. I can’t help it. The absurdity of running away from paparazzi in broad daylight, Jack’s hand tight and sure around mine, the way people are literally diving out of our way with shocked expressions. It’s insane. It’s completely ridiculous.
It’s the most fun I’ve had in years.
“This is crazy!” I shout, stumbling slightly over my own feet, and Jack’s grip on my hand keeps me upright and moving.
“I know!” he shouts back, and he’s grinning like an absolute lunatic, his eyes bright with adrenaline. “Keep up, Reyes!”
We cut through a narrow gap between two team trailers, and I can hear the paparazzi behind us, shouting, cameras still clicking away, but we’re faster. Jack knows exactly where he’s going, leading me through the maze of the paddock.
We burst out into the parking area, and there’s his motorcycle, black and chrome in the Miami sun like it’s been waiting for us.
“Jack!” someone shouts from behind us, way closer than I expected.
“Put it on!” he says urgently, tossing me a helmet.
I jam the helmet on, fumbling with the strap because my hands are shaking from adrenaline and breathless laughter. Jack swings his leg over the bike with ease, and I climb on behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist.
I can feel his heart pounding through his shirt. Or maybe that’s mine. Maybe it’s both of us, hearts racing together.
“Hold tight,” he says over his shoulder, his voice rough with excitement, and then the engine roars to life with that gorgeous, throaty sound.
We peel out of the parking spot with a squeal of tires, and I hold on tighter as he accelerates hard. The wind whips past us, hot and fast, and I can hear him laugh, feel it vibrate through his entire body, and I’m laughing too.
The world blurs into speed and sound and pure sensation. Jack weaves through Miami streets with the kind of speed that should probably terrify me but instead makes me feel completely, utterly alive.
Buildings fly past in streaks of color, palm trees bend in our wake, glimpses of glittering water appear between structures. The sun is hot on my bare arms, the wind pulls at my clothes and hair, and I can feel him shift and move as he leans into turns with perfect control.
I glance back once and see a car trying to follow us. Paparazzi, determined. But Jack spots them in his mirrors. He takes a sudden sharp right down a side street, then a quick left, then another right, weaving through traffic until I lose track of where we are completely.
We’re flying down quieter residential streets now, cutting through neighborhoods with tree-lined sidewalks, until finally he pulls onto a road that runs along the water.
The engine noise drops from a roar to a purr as he slows, then stops at a small overlook.
Just a strip of concrete with a low wall and a view of the bay stretching out blue and glittering under the afternoon sun.
He kills the engine.
My heart is still pounding, adrenaline singing through my veins like electricity, and I start laughing. I can’t help it. The sound bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest, uncontrollable and genuine.