Chapter 10
EVANGELINE
Ishow up to dinner ten minutes late. My arrival time is by design.
It ensures I’m not the first person here and typically works well.
Tonight, though, as I approach the doors, I consider turning around.
In hindsight, I should have come with Mia and Shelby.
Instead, I’m alone, and it’s taking everything in me to place one foot in front of the other as I move through the restaurant.
Luca is here.
Not with my friends, but he’s here, nevertheless.
Dinner plans for tonight have changed a few times this week, and the group only nailed down the location a few hours ago. I have to assume Flynn didn’t know that my ex would be here when he texted the update.
My stomach roils, but I keep my head held high, feigning confidence.
As I continue, I desperately search for the restroom.
If I’m going to puke, I’d prefer not to do it on my favorite animal-print mini dress.
This lightweight, butter-soft modal fabric is a bitch to spot-clean.
Scrubbing chunks of my stomach contents out of the fabric is sure to cause pilling.
Hold your nerve, Evan.
Repeating the command in my head, I force myself to keep moving. At least I wore flats. The spike in my adrenaline causes me to shake so viscerally that I don’t think I could handle the challenge of remaining upright in wedges or heels.
I can do this.
I have a right to be here.
I refuse to fade into the background of my own life.
Luca is sitting at a round table ahead. How pathetic is it that just the sight of the back of his head is triggering me?
He’s dining with Prince Marceaux, the reigning world champion. Matty Olsenn from Relic Racing is at the table as well, a two-time world champion from Norway with an ego the size of his team’s motor home. A fourth driver, Dade Cavanaugh, the other veteran from Relic, rounds out their quartet.
It was Dade who locked eyes with me when I walked into the place.
And when he did, he nudged Luca and Matty, then leaned in, whispering and smirking.
With every step forward, my heart rate increases. I doubt they’ll attempt to speak to me. Even if they did, I doubt I’ll hear them over the sound of blood whooshing in my ears.
Hold your nerve. Hold your nerve. Hold your nerve.
Once I’ve cleared their table, I suck in a shaky breath and scan the back of the establishment for my friends.
Despite the bustling restaurant brimming with patrons, my friends aren’t hard to find. A big table filled with famous F1 drivers is hard to miss in any setting.
We typically go for restaurants with private rooms, but with the last-minute change in plans, it looks like a setting like that wasn’t available.
Flynn and Beatrix originally planned to host us at their mom’s house in St. Kilda. They were born and raised here in Melbourne, making this weekend not only the start of the season but Flynn’s home race.
Sadly, Mrs. Turner suffered a stroke last fall. Though she’s made good progress, and lately has had more good days than bad, she wasn’t up for hosting tonight.
I’ll miss seeing her. She has the warmest smile and an eclectic, maximalist wardrobe bursting with color.
As I continue my trek, I make a mental note to ask Bea if she’d be up for a quick visit if our schedules allow.
I don’t want to overwhelm her mom, especially if she’s struggling, but I’d love the chance to visit if it might lift her spirits.
As I reach our table, a few of the guys rise to their feet to greet me.
“Hello, gorgeous.” Saint envelops me in a hug, and when we pull apart, he kisses both my cheeks.
I flush. Saint’s always been a flirt.
His light green eyes twinkle with mischief and mirth. “I saved you a seat,” He pulls out the chair beside his.
Thankfully, Mia is on the other side of the empty spot.
With a glance over my shoulder and a slight grimace, he asks, “You don’t mind if I spend most of the night with my arm around you, do you?”
As he focuses on me again, he hits me with a saucy smirk. Yeah, he knows exactly what he’s doing.
It took Luca more than a year to publicly acknowledge that we were together, but that didn’t stop him from being an immature, jealous prick throughout the entirety of our relationship.
He hated when I so much as made eye contact with any of the other drivers, especially Saint. In a sport involving all kinds of flags, I can’t believe I didn’t recognize all the red-flag behaviors.
Saint Lavoy is the definition of confidence.
He’s debonair, with his British accent and impeccable manners.
The man’s covered in tattoos and fashion-forward, with a penchant for bold jewelry and rings.
And he’s photographed out with different men and women in every city he visits.
On top of being charming and damn near irresistible, he’s got a mysterious air.
He’s one of the resident bad boys on the grid, right alongside his best friend Kenji.
I imagine most hot-blooded humans who follow Formula 1 have had a crush on Saint Lavoy at one point or another.
I tip my head to the side and motion toward Luca’s table. “Are they still watching?”
Saint cocks one brow and taps my chin with his tatted knuckles. “Let them look, gorgeous. I’ve got you.” He winks.
While his behavior is all a front, I can’t help but be grateful for a friend so willing to have my back. My defensive armor softens a touch as I glance around the table.
I blow out another breath, relief trickling in. If I have to share space with Luca, at least I’m in good company with my friends.
“Sit,” Mia demands, patting the cushion of my chair.
Saint pulls out the seat a bit farther and I lower into it.
Only once I’m seated do Lincoln, Flynn, and Stefan settle around the table as well.
“The gang’s all here.” I pick up the full water glass in front of me and take a long swig.
“Not quite,” Ren quips from across the table.
Eyes narrowed, I scan the familiar faces around me and quickly realize my error.
“Do you have an ETA on your brother?” I ask Ren.
Shelby snorts.
Kenji is notorious for being late. Like, really late. All the time. Regardless of the occasion. He almost missed qualis in Montreal last year.
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Ren shakes their head with a lighthearted laugh.
Flynn clinks a knife against his water glass and sits straighter.
“We hate that we can’t have you all out to the house tonight,” he says, nodding at his sister.
“Mum sends her love and demanded that I tell you all to expect a proper barbie next year, no excuses. Dinner’s on me tonight.
Happy to be here with you all and to kick off the new season. Cheers, cobbers.”
Chuckles and groans ring out from around the table.
Flynn prolifically uses Australian slang, and we’ve learned all his favorite terms over the years.
No one argues over his offer to treat us. It’s pretty commonplace. The drivers take turns picking up the tab when we go out, although I doubt they’ll let Mia pay, considering it’s her rookie year.
Sinking back into my seat, I turn to my best friend. “How was your first day, rook?”
She hits me with a scowl that quickly transforms into a sheepish smile. “Pretty great, actually. I made content with the marketing team this morning, then I did a final fitting for my race suit. Then, after lunch, the drivers got together for the official season pictures.”
A light flush colors her cheeks, her voice animated.
“I spent the afternoon in the garage while the team worked on my car, then George and I went over some tweaks they’ve made since the last rounds of testing.”
“I’m so happy for you,” I tell her. “Is your suit for this weekend all purple like your kit?”
Abrams-Rhea has the most colorful, girlie-pop branding on the grid.
Mia isn’t the first female driver in Formula 1, but she’s AR’s first female driver, and they’ve gone all out, creating all sorts of custom looks and livery for the season.
My bestie is gorgeous, with her naturally wavy honey-brown hair, bright blue eyes, and delicate features.
She’s also a pro on the business side of things.
Sponsors love her and her fans adore her.
Though she’s new to the grid, she already has incredible support.
She’s going to do great things for the reputation of women in motorsport.
Like in many pro-level sports, there is a huge gender disparity between how male and female drivers are talked about, considered, and compensated.
Gwen Ford, the first female Formula 1 driver to land a full-time spot on the grid, likes to say it’s not about breaking glass ceilings; it’s about burning out the systems, standards, and expectations rooted in the patriarchy.
“My suit’s purple and pink,” she confirms. “It’s so cute, but really bold and unique. Honestly, I’m a little worried about what Kenji thinks of it.”
I scoff. Knowing him, he loves it.
“Hey, hey, party people.”
Speak of the devil. The last of us has finally arrived.
When strong arms grip my shoulders from behind, I tip my head back and am greeted by Kenji’s dark eyes and signature smolder.
Bending, he kisses my forehead. “Heard you weren’t sure about coming tonight. Glad you didn’t let that asshole stop you from being here.” He straightens and squeezes my shoulders once more. Then he makes his rounds to greet the others.
Warmth floods me, his assurance confirming what all my friends have been telling me.
I’m wanted.
I’m part of the Even Better Eleven and have been since the beginning.
I may have wasted two years of my life with Luca, and I may have even lost a bit of myself along the way, but I still have these people.
“Hold your nerve,” Mia mutters under her breath. My best friend knows me well and can surely sense I’m on the verge of tears because of Kenji’s kindness.
Beside me, she twists around in her seat.
I frown. “Who are you—”