Chapter 17
Ronan
Steam still curls in the air from the shower when I step into my bedroom, toweling my hair dry. The clock on the dresser says I’ve got just enough time to make it across town to Francesca’s without pushing the speed limit—not that I’d ever admit to worrying about being late for a woman.
And not that I’d ever obey a speed limit.
I tug on a clean T-shirt and jeans, shove my phone and wallet into my back pocket, and head for the door.
Habit makes me detour toward the east wing to do my duty.
Vivienne’s where I expect her to be, sprawled on her chaise in a silk robe hanging off one shoulder, a magazine open in her lap but clearly unread.
“Where are you going?” she asks, eyes flicking up with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
“Out,” I say, hand on the doorframe. “How are you feeling today?”
“Out where?” she asks.
I should lie to her as it would make things easier, but the excitement of seeing Francesca has me blurting, “I’ve got a date.”
Her laugh is sharp and humorless. “You? On a date? Poor girl. Does she know what she’s in for?”
I should walk away. Instead, I give her the look I reserve for reporters who cross the line. “Don’t wait up.”
“You don’t think you’d actually be capable of a relationship—” she starts, but I’m already pulling the door shut. Her words are muffled to a dull rant behind it, the poison within them not as contained.
You’d think I’d be used to it by now, or that I’d come to some sort of peace in that this is the result of an addiction and not her true nature. But I guess when it’s your mother—the one person who should have your back no matter what—it’s a pain that can’t be eased.
I can’t let that linger over me though. I don’t want to spoil whatever this might be with Francesca.
On the drive, the sting fades a little, replaced by flashes of the afternoon at Crown Velocity.
Lex and I managed to work side by side without snapping at each other—running data checks in the sim room, trading quiet observations over sector splits, then a light training session in the gym that ended with him trying to best my plank time.
He lost by twenty seconds, muttered a line about “core freak,” and I caught myself almost laughing for real.
Almost.
The easy rhythm between us felt strange at first, like sliding into a well-worn seat you’d forgotten was comfortable. I didn’t realize how much I missed having him as a friend until I’d burned it all down and was left with the silence. Now, having even a piece of that back has me feeling lighter.
In the gym, between sets, he paused and said, “By the way… thanks for making it right with Posey at the gala.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t make it right.”
“You did,” he countered, grabbing a towel. “Posey has a kind and forgiving heart. She said you were genuine, and that’s good enough for her. She’s good with you.”
That sat with me for a second before I asked, “And you?”
Lex’s mouth tipped into a wry half smile. “I’m better than I was just two days ago.”
Not exactly a sweeping reconciliation, but clearly, my talk with Posey helped.
My thoughts turn to Francesca. This thing between us is supposed to be simple—sex, no strings—but instead of showing up at her flat just to take her to bed, I’ve got something else planned. Something she’ll actually remember.
A date.
If I’m honest, I’m not sure I’ve ever really done one before. Not like this. Not with the intent to give someone an experience they’d actually want, outside of a hotel room and four walls. And for reasons I can’t fully explain, that strikes me as significant.
Francesca’s already outside when I pull up and I’m almost disappointed.
I had thought part of the ritual of picking a girl up for a date included going to her door to get her.
But the smile she gives makes me think that perhaps she’s too excited for our night together and doesn’t want to waste time with formalities.
Her long hair is loose around her shoulders, and she’s in jeans and a fitted leather jacket that make her look like she belongs on a podium and a motorbike at the same time.
“You’re very cloak-and-dagger about this,” she says as she slides into the passenger seat.
“I told you,” I say, easing into gear. “It’s going to be fun.”
Her smile tilts. “You’re not going to push me into a lake, are you?”
“Tempting,” I say, “but no.”
We head out of Guildford and into the countryside, streetlights thinning to nothing until it’s just the hum of the engine and hedgerows rushing past in the dark.
Twenty minutes later, I pull through a set of gates into a small driver development facility—one that’s used for off-season testing by all the British teams. Floodlights spill across an empty stretch of tarmac, the faint glow of a track marshal’s booth visible at pit entry.
Her eyes widen as she takes it in. “You brought me to a racetrack?”
I kill the engine, watching her reaction. “Figured you might enjoy driving without anyone measuring every sector time you put down.”
She turns toward me, and it’s not the usual competitive spark I see in her. It’s softer and it makes my heart squeeze in reaction. “Thank you. This is amazing.”
The true gratitude in her tone humbles me a little. The women I know would want expensive dinners, jewelry.
Not Francesca. She wants fun.
The marshal waves us through with a casual salute, and soon we’re climbing into a stripped-out coupe—a low-slung beast in matte graphite.
Its wide stance and flared arches give it the kind of predatory look that makes you think twice before getting in.
The interior is nothing but bare metal and exposed welds, the dash replaced with a digital display the size of a paperback.
Racing harnesses hang where seat belts should be, and a half cage arcs overhead promising to protect us.
It’s a car built for one thing and one thing only—speed.
Francesca tugs her helmet into place, fingers fumbling with the chin strap until I step in.
“Hold still,” I say, the pads of my thumbs brushing the soft curve of her jaw as I tighten it. Her eyes meet mine through the visor opening, and for one reckless second, I almost lean in. Instead, I settle for a small tug on the strap and a quiet, “There. Perfect.”
She grins, a spark of challenge in it. “You going to baby me the whole lap or just before we start?”
I smirk. “Depends. You scream easy?”
Her laugh is quick and bright. “You wish.”
We climb in, each movement a squeeze past the roll cage and into the deep racing buckets.
I fasten her harness first, pulling the straps snug over her shoulders before securing my own.
The cabin seems smaller with her this close, the scent of her shampoo somehow cutting through the faint tang of petrol and hot rubber.
I fire the engine—a guttural roar that drowns out everything else.
I ease the car through a warm-up lap, letting the tires and brakes come to life. The track curves ahead like a silver ribbon under the floodlights. I keep my hands smooth on the wheel, the chassis talking through the seat.
“Not bad,” she says over the intercom, her tone light. “You always this gentle?”
I glance at her and smirk. “Only until I know you can handle it.”
On the next straight, I drop the hammer.
The engine snarls, shoving us back into our seats.
Her surprised laugh bubbles through my headset, infectious enough that I can’t help grinning.
The first corner comes fast, and I pitch us in cleanly, the tires singing against the asphalt.
She whoops like she’s on a roller coaster, leaning into the turn with me.
“This is ridiculous!” she shouts, but her tone’s pure delight.
“Ridiculously fun,” I correct, downshifting as we dive into a tight hairpin. I catch a glimpse of her grin—wide, unguarded, the kind you can’t fake—and it sharpens the adrenaline.
We blast through Sector 2 and the g-forces press us together. She’s laughing now, full and free, and throwing in commentary like she’s in the middle of a race broadcast. “And here comes Barnes into the final chicane, under immense pressure from—oh wait—it’s just me, stealing his line!”
I bark out a laugh as we rocket down the main straight, the revs climbing toward redline. “Keep talking, Accardi. You’re up next.”
I ease the car into the pit lane and kill the throttle, rolling us to a smooth stop near the marshal’s post. The smell of hot brakes lingers as I unclip my harness. Francesca already has hers undone, her eyes lit with challenge.
“Careful exiting the car,” I warn. “Wouldn’t want you to trip before you’ve even started.”
She shoots me a look as she swings her legs out. “I can handle walking, thanks. Worry about yourself, Barnes.”
We circle around the car, trading the narrow gap between the nose and the barrier.
I can’t help brushing my gloved hand along the small of her back as we pass—just to feel her straighten ever so slightly.
She slides into the driver’s seat with a quick, practiced motion, pulling the harness over her shoulders and snapping each buckle into place before I’m even settled.
“You going to give me pointers or just sit there looking impressed?” she teases.
“Depends,” I say, settling into the passenger side. “You planning to make me scream or admire you?”
She grins, fires the ignition, and answers by dropping the clutch like she means it. The car surges forward, the tires gripping hard as she slings us into Turn One 1 with zero hesitation.
And damn—she’s good. Not just quick on the throttle, but fluid in the way she carries speed through the corners. Her hands stay steady on the wheel even when the rear twitches over a bump, and she’s got the nerve to brake late into the uphill kink.