Chapter 5
REAR INSTABILITY: BACKEND FEELS UNPREDICTABLE
The silence in Dario’s place is somehow worse than our discussion.
I sit on the edge of his balcony overlooking the Hudson River, elbows braced against my knees, phone loose in my hand. I haven’t moved in twenty minutes.
Dario left me alone after our conversation, claiming he needed to take a call. Bollocks. He knows exactly what he’s doing by giving me space to drown in my own thoughts.
Christin is in all of them.
I stare out at the water and make the mistake of unlocking my phone again. Her photo is still my backdrop—a candid shot I took one weekend.
My thumb hovers over it before I lock the screen again and scrub a hand over my face. I spent years convincing myself I didn’t need anyone, terrified of letting someone else close enough to hurt me. Then I spotted Christin at a bar and from the first moment, everything was easy.
Being with her felt effortless.
I lean my head back against the chair and close my eyes as I recall our first meeting at the little bar in the Village.
The small bar was nearly empty. Reverberations from the metal ceiling are loud enough to discourage conversation between strangers but not so loud you couldn’t hear yourself think. Exactly why I chose it since I’m in town for sponsor meetings.
I found myself desperate to escape somewhere without people recognizing me every ten seconds.
No cameras. No VIP paddock celebrations. No expectations.
I spot her after I walk in and take a seat at the bar.
She catches my eye not because she isn’t beautiful.
She is. She has dark curls twisted up carelessly with a pen shoved through them.
She casually pushes at her glasses sliding slightly down her nose as she jokes with the bartender about whether chips count as an acceptable dinner.
“They are potatoes,” she insists.
The bartender snorts. “That is a tragic excuse, Christin.”
“So is the fact you won’t accept my logic.”
Her rebuttal makes me snicker before I can stop myself. Her head swivels in my direction. Sharp eyes pin me in place before she demands, “What?”
At that moment, the bartender takes my order for a whisky. Once I have it, I lift my drink slightly. “You’re defending chips as a nutritional choice.”
“They’re curly fries,” she corrects. “Which means they’re elevated.”
I bark out a laugh.
She tilts her head and says, “You’ve got a British accent.”
“Observant, aren’t you?”
She nods definitively. “You’re welcome to keep arguing with me.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
“Yes. I like the sound of your voice insulting my food choices more than his.” She jerks her thumb at the bartender, who just snaps a towel in her direction.
I nearly choke on the sip I just took.
She grins then—quick, amused, and entirely unaffected by me.
No widening eyes. No fumbling for a phone. No, “Aren’t you—” Just enjoyment because I have a British accent. “Do you always engage strangers in bars?” I ask, now completely caught in her snare.
Her brow wings up. “Only attractive ones.”
She reaches into the clutch resting on the counter and pulls out a blue business card with stars embossed on it.
I unobtrusively scan it, concerned I’ve just sat next to some kind of social media influencer.
But what I find is impressive. All the card has on it is her name, title, phone, and email address: Christin Gage, Senior Security and Software Engineer.
Christ. Smart, funny, beautiful. My heart skips a beat as I hold out a hand. “Leo.”
When she takes my hand, I find myself impressed by the confidence in her grip. “Christin. Nice to meet you, Leo.”
She gestures to the stool beside hers. I slide over a few spaces. “So, what do you do, Mr. British Accent?”
I look at her over the rim of my glass. “What do you think I do?”
Her eyes narrow thoughtfully. “You’ve got strong shoulders, but your hands are too clean for manual labor.” Her gaze drops briefly to my wrist. “And you’re wearing a watch that costs more than my first laptop.”
“That’s rather detailed.”
She nods at the card still in my hand. “I work in tech. Observing comes with the territory.”
“And?”
“And…” She leans back dramatically. “You either work in finance or your family owns something ridiculous.”
I laugh again. “Sorry. Not finance.”
“Pity.”
“Why?”
“Then I could hate you based on the sheer number of controls that I had to recode for the HMRC.”
Rolling her card between my fingers, I remark, “So, you develop software?”
She bobs her head back and forth before offering me a small smile. “You could say that.”
“So, now that you know I’m not in finance, what’s your next guess?”
Her eyes meet mine directly. “I’ll let you know after you buy me a drink.”
I should’ve walked away then. Instead, I stayed until closing. We talked about everything except who I actually was. Her work. My travels. The way she loved New York because no one cared who you are as long as you could keep pace.
When I finally admit I work in racing, she nods thoughtfully. “Like NASCAR?”
“Not quite.”
“Okay, Mr. British Accent. Helpful.”
I smile despite myself. “Formula One.”
She stares blankly. I actually laugh. “You genuinely don’t know who I am.”
“No?” Then she squints at me more suspiciously. “Should I?”
That should offend me. Instead, it’s the most relaxed I’ve felt in years. And I find it funny when I return from the loo and see her trying to put away her mobile inconspicuously before asking, “Just out of curiosity, are you related to Mike Hawthorn?”
“You mean the first British world champion?”
“Yes.”
My lips curve upward even as I shake my head. “Sorry, no.”
The next memory hits before I can stop it.
Chinatown.
Cold air curls between buildings while Christin walks beside me holding soup dumplings in one hand and criticizing my inability to navigate crowded sidewalks. “You move like people are supposed to part for you.”
“They usually do.”
“That’s deeply irritating.”
“You still came out with me.”
“That’s because you bought me dumplings.”
I look over at her. “So, you can be bribed with food?”
“By you specifically? Yes.”
God, her smile lit the dim streets and dark corners of my heart. Another memory follows too quickly.
Torrential rain makes the sidewalks slick. We duck into a tiny bookstore to escape the weather. I am shaking off our umbrella while Christin wanders between the aisles perusing the shelves.
I find her down the romance aisle and pretend not to stare.
“What?” She finally asks without looking up.
“You’re interesting.”
That earns me a snort. “That’s either a compliment or the beginning of a murder documentary.”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
She laughs softly then looks at me over the edge of a book that has a wolf on the cover. “You know, most men I’ve encountered are intimidated by a woman spending time in the romance aisle of a bookstore.”
“I’m trying something new.”
“And how’s that going?”
I step closer slowly. “I’m not intimidated.”
The way she looked at me told me I was becoming someone important to her. And I allowed those feelings to grow with this rot still festering deep inside me.
My thoughts circle around to the first time she brought me to her sanctuary.
“My mother’s family has a house upstate,” she says casually over dinner one night. “I go there when the city gets too loud.”
“Are you inviting me?”
Her expression softens slightly. “I want to.”
No games or manipulation. Just open desire.
Driving her car through winding roads lined with trees blazing gold and red, I’m following the GPS since Christin’s asleep in the passenger seat. One of her hands is curled loosely over mine, like even unconscious she can’t not touch me.
When we get close, I wake her gently. She growls, “I was in the middle of a nap. You kept me up far too late last night.”
“I plan on doing it again…whoa.” Just then, the house comes into view. It’s spectacular. “You inherited this?” I ask quietly.
“Yes.” She smiles faintly.
“It looks majestic.”
“Mom used to say the house healed people.”
Dangerous words.
That weekend changed everything, not just because of the amount of sex we had—though, Christ, I can still remember her hands on me. The sounds she made when I kissed her neck. The way she looked at me like she wasn’t afraid of wanting me.
Afterward she stayed tangled against my chest while rain hit the windows outside. She whispered, “You don’t have to impress anyone here.”
I’d gone still immediately, staring at the ceiling because looking at her felt impossible. She followed it up by saying, “It’s safe here, Leo.”
That nearly broke me because Christin had no idea about my past or the arrogance people assume I have as an F1 driver, yet her heart brushed up against every single vulnerability.
The curated version of myself that I built carefully enough to survive scrutiny didn’t appear.
With Christin, I never quite managed to keep that shield in place.
I never had to.
I drag a shaking breath into my lungs and realize too late my vision has blurred with more bloody tears. I try blinking them away but one slips free before I can stop it.
Then another.
I duck my head sharply, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes hard enough to hurt. But my grief keeps coming anyway.
Sitting here on the balcony of Dario’s flat, I finally understand something that should’ve been obvious from the start.
Christin never asked me to become someone else. She just wanted to love me.
With that understanding, I let myself break.