Chapter 13
Francesca
The flashbulbs start before the car even rolls to a full stop, strobing through the tinted glass. Outside, the red carpet cuts a bold stripe toward the sweeping marble steps of the Royal Albert Hall, its iconic redbrick facade and domed roof glowing under the London lights.
Tonight’s the annual Drive for Life Charity Gala—an FI tradition as old as some of the circuits we race—raising millions for children’s hospitals in every country on the map.
Attendance isn’t optional and every driver is expected to show up, smile for the cameras, and play the part of glamorous goodwill ambassador before the new season hits full speed.
Oh, and we’re expected to donate too, but that’s not a hardship for any of us.
Nash slides out first, polished and easy in a midnight-blue tux that looks like it was made for him—which it probably was.
He turns, offers Bex a hand, and she steps onto the red carpet in a wash of flashing light.
They were gracious enough to offer me a ride, and I eagerly accepted.
This is my first big event as an FI driver and I’m so nervous, I couldn’t even eat today.
I slide along the seat to exit, and I’m surprised when Nash turns to help me also.
He winks as we lock digits, and I step out in my impossibly high heels.
The shouts from the photographers are disorienting as we start up the sweep of crimson. Inside the open doors, I see people in tuxedos and expensive gowns milling about the lobby with drinks in hand. It’s one of many black-tie events meant to kick off the week leading to Silvercrest.
I’m not usually the bombshell type, but tonight I glammed up in all the ways a woman can.
I’m wearing a slinky, curve-hugging gown, made of deep emerald silk that clings in all the right places and drapes low in the back.
My hair is in a glossy wave over one shoulder, my makeup smoky and sharp.
As an athlete, most of my days are spent with a fresh face and my hair in a ponytail, so it’s always a bit of a shock when I see the made-up version of myself in a mirror.
I swear I look like someone else entirely.
Hopefully, someone who belongs here.
Bex leans forward to look at me. “Smile for the cameras, rookie.”
I lift my chin, managing a cross between a smirk and a pose. “Feels like a firing squad.”
“You get used to it,” Nash says, and like a true gentleman tucks my hand into the arm opposite Bex as we walk the carpet. “Or you fake it well enough that people think you have.”
Inside, the noise dulls to a low hum of cultured conversation. I should be thinking about sponsors and small talk, but instead, my mind drifts to Ronan—specifically, to the way he slipped out of my bed in the dead of night without so much as a note.
It shouldn’t sting. We agreed—no strings, just sex. And yet… here I am, pretending that my heart didn’t notice the empty space beside me this morning.
So tonight, I’ll be cordial. Aloof, even. Best way to keep him from getting any deeper under my skin. And if my sexy gown just happens to drive him slightly crazy, that’s a bonus.
The first familiar face we spot is Carlos, already nursing a whiskey and checking out the scene. He’s in a charcoal suit with a black shirt, no tie, looking as if he stepped off a magazine cover.
Nash and Carlos give backslaps and he kisses Bex’s cheek. They move off with the promise to return after they get cocktails at the bar.
“Look at you.” Carlos grins, pulling me into a hug. “And here I thought I’d have the most heads turning tonight.”
As if by magic, a waiter appears with a tray of champagne flutes. I take one, intent to stick with this and nothing heavier since I’m not a big drinker.
“Sorry to disappoint,” I say, taking a small sip.
“Please, I’ll allow it,” Carlos says, clinking his glass lightly against mine.
We chat for a bit, Carlos pointing out the who’s who in FI sponsors.
We spot Lex and Posey walking down the carpet and through the wide-open doors into the lobby reception.
He’s all clean lines in classic black tie and she’s stunning in a pale gold gown that catches the light with every step. We wave, and they head toward us.
“Francesca,” Lex says with a wide smile. “This is my Posey.”
My heart melts at the tenderness in his voice and the way he called her “my Posey.” I’ve been quite eager to meet the American romance author.
She offers her hand, her smile genuine and bright.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m very excited about your debut in FI.
First Harley Patrick as a team principal, Brienne Norcross as a team owner, and now you as a driver.
Women are going to rule the world one day. ”
“You are my soul sister,” I joke, and she laughs softly, her grip firm and confident.
Carlos gestures subtly toward a tall, silver-haired man across the lobby. “There’s Charles Hadden.”
“Making a splash,” Lex snorts.
“Who’s Charles Hadden?” I ask.
“CEO of Brenwick Aviation. See the woman with him?”
Posey and I look that way. She’s young, barely looks eighteen. “His daughter?”
Lex chuckles. “His third wife. The second was barely twenty-five.”
Carlos shakes his head. “The first one left him for a yacht captain.”
“Guess that’s one way to keep things interesting,” I say, and we all laugh quietly before the conversation drifts back to the room around us.
Nash and Bex join us again and we lapse into talk about racing, because…
that’s what we do. I’m laughing at a joke Carlos made when movement through the open doors catches my eye.
A sleek black limo has pulled up and Ronan is stepping out.
I see glimpses of him as other people circulate around the grand lobby and my breath catches.
His tux is perfectly cut, crisp white shirt open at the collar just enough to look dangerous.
His hair is swept back, face clean-shaven, the whole effect so effortlessly male it’s almost obscene. The cameras pop like gunfire.
Then he turns back to the car and offers a hand.
A tall, impossibly polished blond steps out—silvery gown, legs for days, the kind of beauty that looks like she has a filter over her.
She tucks herself neatly against his side, his arm goes around her waist, and they smile in perfect sync for the cameras.
The photographers surge forward, shouting his name.
My heart plummets through the floor. We never discussed… other people. And why would we? Last night didn’t make anything official. We both agreed… just sex.
Still, it’s a gut punch, mostly because I’m guessing it’s probably just sex with this girl too. My self-esteem takes a direct hit, and I curse myself for being so stupid as to think I saw something more in that man.
I watch as they move toward the entrance, Ronan taking her hand to lead her through.
He scans the room as soon as he steps inside, eyes sweeping over the crowd until they land on me.
A bolt of adrenaline sizzles through me, almost equivalent to the way it feels when the engine of my race car is started.
But I can’t let him see that he affects me.
I refuse to, so I smooth my features to be cool and unreadable, even as my pulse hammers in my throat.
For what seems like an eternity, our gazes stay locked across the room until the woman he’s with takes his attention away with a whispered word.
As soon as our eye contact is broken, I take a long sip of my champagne and hiccup on the bubbles.
Carlos touches my elbow and leans into me. “All right, what’s with the face? You look like you just bit into a lemon.”
My entire being is overcome with bitterness, but I give him a bright smile. “I think I need a drink.”
He glances at the half-full champagne flute in my hand. “Pretty sure that’s already a drink.”
“I mean a better one.”
I set the flute down on the nearest passing tray and head for the bar, the click of my heels swallowed by the plush carpet. The lobby turned ballroom glows—gold light from chandeliers, the mirrored bar polished to a high shine. Laughter circulates, a reminder that I’m supposed to be having fun.
I am decidedly not having fun.
Carlos keeps pace with me easily, and when I reach the bar, I don’t bother with the menu. I catch the bartender’s eye. “Grappa Riserva,” I tell him, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Neat.”
Carlos steps up beside me and tilts his head, curious. “Grappa? What’s that?”
“It’s an Italian brandy,” I say, lips curving. “Made from the leftovers of winemaking—skins, seeds, stems. It’s very strong and meant to be sipped.”
The bartender sets the small glass in front of me, clear liquid catching the light. I lift it, swirl it once… then knock it back in a single swallow.
Carlos’s eyebrows shoot up. “Supposed to be sipped, huh?”
I grin and set the empty glass down with a soft click. “Rules are overrated.”
The liquid sears down my throat and warms me on its way down, sharp enough to make my eyes water. For one brief, glorious second, it cuts through the noise.
Carlos watches me like I’ve sprouted a second head. “All right,” he says slowly, “what’s going on? You don’t drink like this.”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” He shifts, bracing one forearm on the bar, the other blocking my exit. “You’ve got that murder glare going. I remember it well from our FI2 days. It nearly struck down that reporter in Monaco when he called you ‘little lady’ in the paddock.”
The memory earns a smirk from me, but it dies fast. I blow out a long breath, my shoulders sagging enough to let the words slip free. “I slept with Ronan last night.”
I wince, wishing the words would crawl back into my mouth, especially after Carlos’s entire body jerks. His brows shoot straight up, and his eyes widen to saucers. “You slept with Barnes?” he hisses.
I cut him a look. “Do you know another Ronan?”
“Christ, Francesca…” He scrubs a hand over his face like he’s trying to erase the words from existence. “He’s—”