Chapter 8
Francesca
I only made it two blocks before realizing I left my water bottle behind.
It’s nothing special—just an aluminum bottle with a Titans logo on the side—but I like it. I turned around to retrieve it, and as I was pulling back into the grocery store lot, I saw him.
Ronan. Walking across the road, shoulders hunched slightly, hands buried in his jacket pockets. He moved like someone who wasn’t in a hurry and slipped inside a pub without looking up.
I slowed to a stop, heart ticking. He said he was going back to Woking. But the way he moved—tight, coiled, not like the cocky, controlled version of himself I’m used to seeing—makes me think that was a lie.
I didn’t overthink it. I parked my car and followed him.
The door creaks when I push it open, and I’m hit with a wave of warm air. It’s dim inside, only a few scattered locals nursing pints and pretending not to notice the Formula International driver who just walked in off the street.
My eyes scan the room and find Ronan sitting at the end of the bar, half-shadowed, a pint in front of him and his phone face down beside it.
We lock eyes and there’s no smirk or frown, which I’ve seen plenty of today. Just the barest hint of surprise, which then turns to wariness.
I walk over and slide onto the stool next to him without asking. “Forgot my water bottle,” I say, like it explains everything.
Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn’t.
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t tell me to leave either.
The bartender approaches and I order a pint of a local brew to justify being here. When it arrives, I sip and let the silence hang for a moment. “You’re not going to say anything?”
Ronan exhales slowly. “What would you like me to say?”
“That depends. Are we pretending this is a coincidence, or are we both admitting we’re bad at exits?”
He huffs and it’s not quite a laugh. “You followed me.”
“You lied. You ditched us for dinner because you said you had to get back to Woking.” That earns me a glance. His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t argue.
We sip in silence for a stretch, and I note he’s staring at his pint glass, fingers absently tracing the condensation. The usual coldness in his posture is dulled—his edges less defined.
I watch him for a moment longer, then ask, “What’s the deal with you and Lex, anyway?”
His hand pauses. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, there’s obvious tension between you and it’s not the competitive type. I recall you two used to be good mates, but now you’re not.”
The corner of his mouth curls into a sardonic smile as he stares harder at his beer. “Surprised you haven’t heard the story.”
“I spent most of last year buried in FI2,” I say. “Didn’t exactly have time to keep up with grid gossip.”
He lifts his pint, takes a slow sip, then sets it down. He turns toward me on the stool, resting a forearm on the bar, and it’s a move of openness and invitation. “You know the general story of how Posey and Lex got together?”
I nod. “She said she was a journalist, but she’s really a romance author. I remember it blew up for, like, a day? Hot news item, then disappeared.”
He huffs a humorless sound. “Yeah. I’m the one who outed her to the press.”
I blink. “Wait—seriously?”
He nods once and doesn’t look away. Just clear eyes.
“Why?”
“Why indeed?” he murmurs and barks a sarcastic laugh to a very private joke he must have been thinking about.
Then he turns to me and drops a truth bomb.
“I was jealous of Posey. She was taking my friend away and I didn’t like it.
Joke’s on me because it was such a shitty thing to do, outing her the way I did, it cost me my friendship with Lex. ”
That’s real pain I hear. And self-loathing.
“The fact you acknowledge it was a shitty thing to do speaks volumes about your character.” I let that sit between us for a moment. “Maybe it’s not permanent.”
He shakes his head. “It is. We don’t talk. We don’t train together. We barely make eye contact unless there’s a camera in the room.”
“You could spend time together again,” I say gently. “Start there.”
“Yeah, that won’t be happening.” Ronan doesn’t look at me. “I wasn’t nice to Posey either, so I doubt Lex would throw water on me if I were burning.”
Being caught in a car fire after a crash is something we all fear, so that speaks to the depths of the divide between them.
“What’d you do to Posey other than outing her?” I prod.
He pauses, and for the first time tonight, his eyes reflect what looks a lot like regret.
“Let’s just say I wasn’t very nice to her,” he replies firmly, clearly unwilling to share details. “And leave it at that. There’s no coming back from it.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I think there’s always room for forgiveness. At least for people who are truly sorry.”
He goes still, head slowly turning my way. “I don’t do apologies. Word of advice, don’t ever ask for one from me.”
There’s no venom behind his words, no bark meant to push me away. Just a quiet, worn-out warning from someone who’s built entire fortresses around his regrets.
I don’t comment. Instead, I study him. Really study him.
Everything about Ronan Barnes says he wants to be the villain in his own story—razor tongue, short fuse, permanent scowl—but the cracks are showing.
He says he doesn’t apologize, but I’ve never seen someone look sorrier about a wrong they won’t even say out loud.
There’s weight in his silence. In the way his eyes drift back to his glass like he’s trying to bury himself under the next sip.
He paints himself in broad, ugly strokes, but it seems like a defense mechanism more than the truth.
And God help me, I find that kind of sadness beautiful. Not the brokenness itself, but the way he tries so hard to hide it. Like he thinks he has to be bulletproof, or he won’t be able to function.
This is bad for me because I’m not drawn to perfect men. I never have been.
And right now, sitting next to this one—this infuriating, walled-off man who’s maybe the loneliest person I’ve met in years—feelings twist quietly in my chest.
Not sympathy. Something else. Something deeper.
Curiosity. Compassion. And a dangerous spark of want.
Not for the way he looks or moves or how always sounds like he’s challenging, but for what’s underneath all that. The part he clearly thinks no one will ever care enough to look for.
And suddenly, I want to look.
“Okay, I have an idea then,” I say, letting my words hang for a bit. He stares back at me. “You’re down a friend, the whole Lex-and-Posey fallout. I’ll graciously volunteer to be your friend.”
His skepticism is evident. “Aren’t you supposed to be meeting Nash and Lex for dinner right now?”
I wave a hand at him. “I canceled when I saw you walking in here. You looked like a better adventure.” That earns me a half smile—barely there, but real. It softens his face, and for a second, I wonder if I imagined it.
“Don’t need a friend,” he says, lifting his glass, “but I do have manners… next beer’s on me.”
I beam a smile at him, the kind that dares him to call me relentless. “Excellent. Tell me about the call you got right before we did the checkout scene today.”
Ronan blinks, then frowns like I’ve handed him a math problem wrapped in barbed wire. “Are all Italians as nosy as you?”
I lean into the bar slightly, nudging his elbow with mine. “I’m not nosy. I’m a concerned friend.”
He doesn’t respond right away, but I see it—his posture shifts, the slight stiffening in his shoulders. I know he heard me say friend. I also know that word is probably like foreign currency in his world.
“It was your mum you were talking to?” I press, gentler now.
It’s a guess, but his tone got me thinking. I expect denial, especially when that “Go to hell” look flashes across his face.
But to my surprise, he doesn’t throw up a wall. Instead, he blows out a breath and mutters, “Yeah… she’s… needy.”
He says needy like it means more than he lets on, like it’s a placeholder for everything he doesn’t want to say aloud.
A couple of locals laugh over by the dartboard, but I don’t let my attention stray. “I heard you tell her she shouldn’t be drinking.”
He exhales again, a tired, hollow sound that tells me more than his words ever could. “Yeah.”
I wait.
Ronan stares at his glass, then finally speaks. “It’s complicated. Has been for a long time.”
“Your entire life?” I ask.
“Actually, no,” he says, his voice clear but distant. “She started drinking and doing pills—prescription stuff—when I was about eight. Before that… all good memories. Beautiful ones, even.”
I feel a painful tug inside. The way he says beautiful—like it’s a ghost that visits sometimes but never stays. My heart clenches, because I can’t even imagine. My parents are stable to the point of boring. Sure, they might argue over wine but always end the night sitting close on the couch.
“It sounds like you take care of her,” I say.
He nods, slowly. “She lives in a house—estate, really—near Woking. My father bought it for her. They’re still married, technically, but he lives in London with his mistress.”
I whistle softly through my teeth. “Wow. That’s some family drama there.”
“Welcome to the Barnes’ legacy,” he says, and though I hear bitterness, it’s resigned.
I let my eyes roam over him. He’s stiff with tension like he’s waiting for me to judge him.
But that won’t ever happen. “Has she ever tried to get sober?” A nosy question, but he seems to think we Italians don’t know how to mind our own business.
Ronan grimaces as if the words taste bitter. “Unfortunately, rehab never seems to stick.”
I turn slightly toward him. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t be. She doesn’t hit me or set the house on fire. She just calls at the worst times and says things I’ll regret letting myself hear.”
“That’s a lot to carry around,” I say. If I didn’t think he’d freak out… I’d give him a hug.
Ronan shrugs. “You get used to extra weight if you wear it long enough.” His voice is quiet. Not defensive. Just worn. Like someone who’s been too tired for too long and doesn’t expect anyone to notice.
“I think you don’t let anyone help you carry it,” I say.
That gets his attention. He turns his head, scanning me like he’s trying to figure out what I want.
But I’m not angling. I’m just… here.
He looks away first.
We fall into silence again, but it’s different now. Murkier. I take another sip, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch the way his knee shifts slightly closer to mine. I don’t think it’s intentional. Nervous adjustment, most likely.
“You don’t talk like this with most people, do you?” I ask, keeping my tone light but my eyes steady on him.
Ronan doesn’t look at me. He stares into his glass as if it’s the safer option. “I don’t talk like this with anyone.”
I nod, letting the moment stretch, not wanting to spook him back into silence. “So why me?”
His jaw ticks once, a tiny fracture in the control he wears like armor. His hesitation is almost louder than words. When his response finally comes, it’s quiet, but there’s a bitterness threaded through. “No clue.”
I lean in slightly, not letting him wriggle out of this. “No. I think you do.”
His eyes meet mine—like a blade sliding free of its sheath. “Bollocks, do you ever back off?” He’s angry, maybe even righteously so.
I blink, feeling heat coloring my cheeks. “Excuse me?”
“You push hard,” he says, sitting up straighter now, his whole body tightening. “Asking. Analyzing. Like you’re going to crack me open and figure out what makes me tick. It’s intrusive.”
His defensiveness spikes equal parts frustration and hurt because I’m truly only trying to be a friend. My eyes narrow into slits. “It’s called conversation, Barnes. Or are you so emotionally constipated that basic human interaction feels like an interrogation?”
He huffs out a breath, his gaze skittering away like he can’t stand the direct hit. “You don’t know me.”
Everything about this tells me to back off but I refuse to retreat. “I’m trying to,” I say, going all in on the challenge, “but you throw up walls and act like you’re doing me a favor by keeping your distance.”
Bullseye. I’ve struck a nerve. I see it in the way his head snaps back to me, in the full turn of his body, shoulders squared like I’ve stepped right over a line. His eyes are ruthlessly cold, and I catch a flash of something raw. “Maybe I’ve got a good reason.”
I don’t flinch, don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me back down. I answer, steady and quiet, but unyielding. “Perhaps. But maybe that reason is fear. Or guilt. Or pride. I don’t know. Because you won’t let anyone close enough to find out.”
My heart hammers, but I maintain eye contact, refusing to let him disappear behind those walls.
The space between us shrinks—imperceptibly at first. We’re angled toward each other now, breaths slightly uneven. The kind of closeness that says neither of us is backing down.
His eyes burn into mine. “You think you want to know me, Francesca. But trust me, you don’t.”
“Why not?” I ask, quieter now. “Because you’re afraid what I’ll see is ugly? Or worse—breakable?”
I see the tension in his face, his neck. His stare drops to my mouth for a second before flicking back up.
My pulse stutters.
Oh God.
He’s close.
Closer than he was a second ago.
And even though he’s angry—no, because he’s angry—it’s electric. The kind of pull deep in your chest and stomach, then lower, that absolutely refuses to listen to reason.
I should step back.
But I don’t.
Instead, I whisper, “You don’t scare me, Ronan.”
His eyes flash. Not with anger. I’m not sure what it is. He doesn’t even attempt to hide the meaning. I see want and frustration and perhaps a bit of self-loathing.
I’m breathless now, heart pounding, so close enough that the heat radiates off him.
My body screams for him to kiss me. It’s reckless. Idiotic, even. We just filmed a commercial together, we’re racing each other next week, but right now, I don’t care. I refuse to care. Blood roars in my ears. I want his mouth on mine, and I think he wants it too, but then—
He pulls back and his face shutters, all emotion erased completely. It’s like someone hit the brakes on a cliff’s edge and I’m left dangling.
Ronan shakes his head tightly. “I should go,” he says roughly.
I force my expression to stay neutral. “You don’t have to.”
“Yes. I do.” He stands. Finishes what’s left in his pint. Tosses a few notes on the bar without ever looking at me.
Then he walks toward the exit like it’s his only salvation.
I can’t let him leave without saying it. I do so quietly. Just loud enough to reach him. “You don’t have to want me, Barnes. But don’t lie to yourself about whether you do.”
I know he heard me by the tensing of his posture, but it doesn’t stop him from walking out the door.