Chapter 17 #2
She’s not perfect—overshoots a braking marker into the hairpin and laughs it off—but she recovers with a neat downshift and a clean exit. I find myself watching her more than the track, noting the way her focus sharpens, how her shoulders loosen on the straights to enjoy it.
I knew she was good, because you have to be at this level, but I’m seriously impressed by her talent. And… really proud that she’s the first female in FI. It makes me want to shout it from the rooftops, but I can’t do that. Us being secret and all.
By the time we’ve swapped seats twice, we’re trading insults about cornering lines like we’ve been doing it for years.
After the last run, we roll into the pit lane and ease to a stop near the wall.
She tugs off her helmet, shaking her hair free in a tumble over her shoulders, her cheeks flushed from the night air and adrenaline.
I pull mine off as well and run my hand through sweat-damp hair, still grinning from the last lap.
We climb out, boots scuffing against the concrete. I round the nose to meet her, catching the glint in her eyes—equal parts exhilaration and pride. Without saying much, I hook a hand around her elbow and nod toward the far end of the paddock, where the floodlights fade into shadow.
Her brows lift when she spots the small folding table I set up earlier with a wicker picnic basket waiting on top and a blanket on the small patch of grass beside it.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” she says, a smile tugging at her mouth. “You’re a closet romantic.”
“Hardly,” I deadpan as we reach the table. “But I had to give you a reason to survive my driving.”
She drops onto the blanket, crossing her legs, and I settle opposite her, unpacking the basket—prosciutto, wedges of pecorino, fresh bread, and a handful of olives in a small tin. Her fingers brush mine as she takes a slice of bread, tearing it in half.
She declines the wine I bought, telling me we’ll have it later, and downs a bottle of water.
We make small talk at first—about how the car bit into the corners and how smooth the gearbox felt.
“Never done anything like that before,” she admits, biting into her bread with a grin.
“I think my heart’s still doing a qualifying lap. ”
I chuckle, picking up an olive. “That’s the point. If you’re not buzzing after, you’re doing it wrong.”
“Mmm,” she agrees.
For a moment, we sit in the quiet, enjoying the meal. She tears off another piece of bread, chewing thoughtfully. “So,” she says, tilting her head, “how was your day?”
I shrug, reaching for a slice of pecorino.
She knows I was likely doing the same as her, getting ready for Silvercrest. “Usual stuff at the factory. Went through prep with the team, worked out with Lex.” A beat passes before I add, more reluctantly, “Checked on Vivienne before I left to pick you up.”
My words trail off and I pop another olive in my mouth. Francesca tilts her head. “And how was she?”
“Same. Maybe worse.”
Her smile fades and becomes gentler. “I’m sorry.”
“Her tongue sharpens when she’s drunk. She gets sentimental when she’s stoned. Luckily, I’ve developed a thick hide over the years, so it pretty much bounces off.”
“You know it’s okay to put boundaries in place, right?” She takes a sip of water. “I mean… I know she’s your mother, but you don’t have to accept abusive behavior.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “Feels like I’ve been putting boundaries in place since I was fifteen. Doesn’t stop her from stepping over them without a care in the world.”
“It’s not your job to carry it all,” she says. “Not if it’s crushing you.”
I don’t answer right away. Her words crashing into me and for a second, I have to look away. Francesca sees too much. A part that is shielded, and it scares me that she’s starting to chip away at that armor.
I think she gets that I’m at the end of my sharing because she offers me a bright smile. “How about I tell you something heavy?”
A protective instinct rises within me, almost a thrill at the prospect of giving her support.
It’s an unknown feeling, but I’m intrigued beyond measure because Francesca is like bottled sunshine, eternally optimistic.
She seems to have the world in her palm.
I can’t imagine she bears anything heavy. “Okay… lay it on me.”
She shifts, leaning back on one hand. “Since we’re trading honesty… sometimes it feels like I’m just one bad weekend away from proving everyone right—that I don’t belong here.”
My mouth drops in surprise. “How can you even think that?”
She shrugs. “Because I’m the first, and I’m setting the standard for women. The pressure is so intense and sometimes I don’t think I’m strong enough to take it.”
I itch to pull her into my arms and wrap her in a hug. I want to tell her I’ll make all those naysayers regret their words and I’ll fix all her problems.
But if there’s one thing I’ve come to learn about this woman, she’s tough as nails.
It’s her core personality. “Your talent got you here. You beat out dozens of prospects, every one of them having a leg up on you already merely because they have a dick. You fought for this, and you won. Anyone still doubting you is afraid you’re going to make them look slow.
Which, to be fair, you probably already have. ”
That earns me a laugh, small but real. Her eyes shine with gratitude and I know she needed an affirmation of blunt facts, not the warm embrace of comfort.
“How about one more time around the track for each of us?” I suggest.
Her eyes light up with excitement. “You’re on.”
In the end, she “beats” me by a tenth of a second. I let her. Watching her gloat is worth more than the scoreboard.
As we walk back toward the car, she bumps my shoulder with hers and leans in to plant a quick kiss on my cheek. Without thinking, I catch her wrist and pull her in for one even deeper. The kiss is unhurried but certain, and I wonder how come I’ve never been lucky enough to have this before.
When we break apart, she’s smiling in a way that makes my chest feel tight. “Going to stay with me tonight?”
“You’re bloody right I am,” I reply, and then kiss her again.