Chapter 9 #2
Lex looks away, toward the horizon where the circuit curves out of sight like a ribbon of steel. His voice is quieter now. “Yeah. I know. But Posey—it was harder on her than it was me. He humiliated her. She didn’t deserve that.”
“No,” I agree. “She didn’t. But I also don’t think Ronan knew what to do with himself. He’s got some hard stuff going on. I’m not excusing his actions, but maybe it helps to understand.”
Lex rolls the bottle between his palms, considering. A long pause stretches between us, filled with the rustle of tarps and the faint clink of tools.
“I don’t hate him, you know,” he says at last. “I just stopped trusting him. And I don’t know how to start again.”
“Maybe you don’t have to start all at once,” I say. “Maybe just stop avoiding him.”
He lets out a breath that’s half sigh, half laugh. “You sound like Posey.”
“She wants you to forgive him?” I ask, genuinely surprised.
He nods, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “She’s a lot kinder than I am. And she’s all in love with me and an eternal optimist, so she wants to believe the best.”
I bump his shoulder lightly with mine. “She sounds like a smart woman.”
He offers a small grin and the tension between us eases. The kind that comes from shared wounds and tentative truths. Not everything needs to be solved right away—but maybe a crack opened a little today.
We chat about next week’s race, here on the home turf of Crown Velocity and Titans Racing, although technically it’s an American-owned company now.
In racing, your allegiance can be to two countries.
The country of your nationality—Italy for me—and the country that claims home to your racing team, in this instance, England.
Of course, that would also now be the United States, and I dare to dream briefly of what a first-place podium will be like when they play my national anthem and then the one for my team.
“Okay, my sparkly racers,” Timmy calls out, clapping his hands. “Let’s get started on group shots.”
The crew moves like a hive, snapping into place with practiced efficiency.
A line of overhead lights buzz to full brightness as a photographer waves Lex and Ronan toward a taped mark on the asphalt, just in front of a gleaming Drivex-branded backdrop.
The first shots are casual—arms folded, shoulders squared, the two of them back-to-back in their team suits.
Lex handles it like a pro, whereas Ronan has to be constantly reminded not to scowl.
Then it’s my and Nash’s turn. We pose, pivot, reposition. Serious when requested, playful at other times.
“Beautiful, beautiful,” Timmy sings out. “Now let’s shift the energy, darling! Let’s do some crossover shots. Titans with Crown, one-on-one tension! Give me contrast. Give me competition. Give me grit!”
Lex and Nash are up first, reprising their flatmate comedy act from the commercial.
The photographer directs them to lean against opposite sides of a mock kitchen counter that’s been rolled into the pit lane—complete with fake cereal boxes, a half-empty sports drink, and a comically oversized spatula that Nash immediately grabs and brandishes like a sword.
Lex rolls his eyes. “Really?”
Nash grins. “C’mon, we’re method actors now. Embrace it.”
“Try not to injure yourself with prop food,” Lex mutters, a smile tugging at his mouth.
They pose like they’ve just had a shouting match over who finished the last Drivex bottle, faces in exaggerated scowls, which turn to exaggerated grins as Timmy shouts for “friendly rivalry with a hint of domestic tension!” The crew eats it up, cameras clicking in a flurry as the two of them volley one-liners between flashes.
“Honestly,” Lex says as Nash pretends to chug the prop bottle, “this is more dangerous than any corner at Monaco.”
Nash bumps him with his shoulder. “And yet you still love me.”
“I tolerate you. There’s a difference.”
More laughter. The photographer calls, “Perfect. That’s a wrap on the roommates.”
Then Timmy’s voice cuts across the track. “Now for the big finish! Francesca, darling. Ronan. Center stage. Channel that delicious, combustible energy from the grocery shoot. You know what I want—rivals on the verge of something… inappropriate.”
I roll my eyes, but my stomach tightens anyway. I step toward the mark while Ronan appears from the shadows, tense, expression unreadable. We haven’t said a word to each other all day. He walks as if he’s coiled to strike.
We take our positions in front of a wall splashed with neon Drivex logos and an LED-lit finish line arch overhead. Timmy provides direction. “Reach for the same bottle, center stage. Glance at each other like you’re sizing up the enemy.”
That shouldn’t be too difficult because I’m sure that’s what Ronan considers me.
“You going to behave?” I murmur under my breath as we face forward.
I’m surprised he answers. “That depends on your definition.”
His hand brushes mine when we both reach for the prop bottle. Just a graze, but it zings up my arm like static electricity.
Timmy flutters behind the camera. “Yes, yes! That! Do it again, but this time, Ronan, look at her like she just took the last bottle and you’re this close to demanding it back. Francesca, darling, be smug. Coy. You know how to toy with the enemy.”
We reset, but the heat between us doesn’t.
“You always this good at taking direction?” I whisper as the camera guy adjusts his frame.
“Don’t confuse cooperation with compliance.
” He says it without looking at me and when the shutter clicks, I smirk like Timmy wanted and it’s not entirely fake.
I lean in, a hair closer than needed, and Ronan doesn’t pull back.
If anything, he shifts subtly forward. There’s barely space between us now, our shoulders brushing, our bodies angled too intimately for enemies.
Another take. This time, we’re told to square off, shoulder to shoulder, forearms raised like we’re about to wrestle the bottle away from each other. His fingers wrap over mine—strong, steady, and too warm for someone who pretends to be cold.
I try to keep my voice even. “You left the pub fast last night.”
He lifts his gaze to mine. “You left an opening. I took it.”
“Running doesn’t suit you.”
“Neither does overthinking,” he murmurs.
The next pose requires us to face each other, close enough that I can feel the whisper of his breath when we exhale at the same time. His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second—just long enough to make me forget the next pose.
Timmy calls, “Brilliant! One more, now with the bottle between you—hands touching. Close. Like you’re about to fight or kiss. I don’t care which.”
I move without thinking, but Ronan hesitates before stepping in. He adjusts the bottle between us, deliberately brushing his fingers over mine again.
“You sure you’re up for this?” I ask quietly.
He doesn’t answer right away. Then responds quitely so low only I can hear it. “You’re not the only one who didn’t sleep last night.”
The camera snaps. The wind picks up. My heart trips over itself.
And I realize I’m in trouble.
“Okay, darlings,” Timmy coos, looking at us as if we’ve hung the moon. “I could not have asked for better. Simply spectacular. I think that might be a wrap.”
“Wait a minute,” I exclaim, and everyone turns to face me. “Let’s get a few more groups.”
“Did you have specific ideas in mind?” Timmy asks with interest, and I hear Ronan, Lex and Nash all groan.
I step out of frame, wiping a sheen of sweat from my upper lip with the back of my glove. The photographer glances toward Timmy for the next setup, but I beat him to it.
“Lex, Ronan—you two in the middle,” I call out, gesturing toward the mark with a tilt of my chin. “Me and Nash on the ends.”
Lex raises a brow in amused curiosity, already halfway into motion. Ronan, predictably, doesn’t move. He turns his head slowly, fixing me with a look that could curdle milk.
I lift a shoulder. “What? It’s a fake brand unity shoot. So fake it.”
He doesn’t respond, but the muscle in his jaw jumps once. For a second, I think he’s going to refuse outright, but then Lex moves first, giving Ronan a pointed look as he walks past him toward center mark. “Let’s do this, Barnes,” he says.
Ronan blinks in surprise at being addressed by Lex and follows, slow and stiff like he’s walking toward a firing squad. He doesn’t look at me as he takes his spot beside his teammate, but the tension radiates off him like heat from an engine left running too long.
Nash and I assume our positions on the outer flanks, forming a neat, balanced row in front of the massive Drivex banner—Titans bookending the Crown drivers. Timmy squeals in delight somewhere behind the camera.
We pose. Arms crossed. Backs straight. The four of us staring down the lens like a squad of sleek, marketable assassins.
The first few shots are awkward. Ronan keeps glancing fractionally to the left, as if trying not to acknowledge Lex standing inches from him. I hold my breath every time their shoulders accidentally brush.
Then Nash cracks the silence and I could kiss him because it’s perfect.
“Hey, Lex,” he says dryly. “Are you using more conditioner lately, or is that just the glint of mediocrity in your hair?”
Lex barks out a laugh, turning his head enough to shoot Nash a mock glare. “At least I have hair, grandpa.”
“Oh, it’s like that?” Nash fires back, eyes wide in mock offense. “I’ll have you know, this receding hairline is a sign of wisdom. And testosterone.”
“I’m sure that’s what Bex tells you,” Lex replies smoothly.
That gets a full snort out of me, and even the camera guy chuckles. The pose softens enough for the shot to come alive, although only three of the four drivers are grinning.
While Ronan didn’t laugh, I notice his posture eases slightly. His arms are still crossed, but he’s no longer clenching like he’s chewing glass.