Chapter 19 #2
He and Francesca banter back and forth, a friendly teasing. It’s all fluff, not too deep.
Our mains arrive, steam ghosting from the plates.
Francesca splits her pasta with Carlos without asking, like they’ve done it a hundred times, and once again, there is an ugly sensation that tugs low in my gut.
I cut my veal too precisely and listen to them trade an old Bahrain story that ends with her snorting into her napkin.
I am not jealous, I tell myself.
Carlos pours himself another inch of wine, then tips the bottle toward me. “Sure you won’t?”
“Positive.”
He studies me over the rim of his glass, eyes bright with something that isn’t unkind. “You’re terrible at this, you know.”
“At what?” I keep my fork moving.
“Pretending.” His smile edges wry. “Every time she laughs, you look like you’ve been handed pole and a penalty on the same sheet of paper.”
Francesca goes very still beside me. The restaurant hums on—cutlery, low talk, a waiter’s baritone apology from somewhere near the door.
I set my fork down, slow. “That so.”
“Relax,” he says, amusement in his tone. “I’m not interested in her in that way.”
“She can speak for herself,” I say.
“I can,” Francesca murmurs, a warning threaded through the words.
Carlos leans back, palms up. “Look, mate. I’ve got enough drama with my own team’s management to last me a career.
Francesca’s my friend. The kind I’d take a penalty for.
The kind I don’t screw over. I can tell you’re…
whatever it is you are about her. It’s none of my business until it hurts her. Then it’s my business.”
It’s a threat but rather than pissing me off, I like that he’s protective of her.
I hold his gaze a beat. “Noted.”
Carlos nods like some unspoken box has been ticked. The tension in the air loosens a fraction, and the conversation stumbles before catching its rhythm again.
“So,” Carlos says, spearing the last olive, “tires for Silvercrest. Think we’re in for graining, or just the usual complaining?”
I shrug. “Bit of both, depending on who’s talking.”
Francesca smirks. “Which means mostly you.”
That earns her a look, but it’s Carlos who chuckles and leans forward. “Speaking of complaining, did I ever tell you about the time I fainted in the simulator?”
Francesca’s eyes widen. “No. What?!”
He grins, sheepish. “Long session, no breakfast, and it was a little too warm. I came out of a hairpin, blacked out, and when I woke up, they were all crowded around me. It was embarrassing.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Bet the telemetry looked impressive.”
“Oh, yeah,” Carlos says, laughing now. “Apparently, I had the cleanest lap of my life right before I passed out. Still get reminded of it anytime I say the car feels heavy.”
Francesca presses a hand over her mouth, laughing so hard her shoulders shake. “Please tell me someone got video.”
“Of course,” he says with mock despair. “Gets resurrected in the group chat whenever I need humbling.”
Her laugh turns into a wheeze, tears shining in her eyes. Against my better judgment, the corner of my mouth twitches. “Careful, Accardi—you’re going to make people think we enjoy each other’s company.”
She bumps my knee under the table, still grinning. “We don’t?”
I glance at Carlos, then back to her. “Maybe a little.”
“Those are some big feelings you’ve got pouring out,” Carlos deadpans, and we all laugh.
It shouldn’t be this easy to like him. It annoys me that it is.
By dessert—three spoons, one ridiculous slice of lemon tart—we’re fully back in neutral.
We talk mostly about racing, but every once in a while, Carlos and Francesca talk family—funny stories that make my heart both full and empty at the same time.
Truly happy that they have wonderful families, but always the grim reminder that I don’t.
“Right, then,” Carlos says finally, pushing back his chair. He pulls a few notes from his wallet and tucks them under the bill before I can reach for mine. “My treat. Since I invited her first.”
“I’ll get the next,” I say as I rise from my chair. Francesca does the same.
“Yes, you will,” Carlos quips before looking between us with a glint that’s admittedly quite brotherly. “And you’ll both behave yourselves at Silvercrest. Save the fireworks for the track.”
Francesca laughs softly and I suppress a smile. Carlos is in the know now, and it’s not as bad as I thought it would be.
Outside the restaurant, the night breathes cool against my face. Carlos hugs Francesca quick and clean, then offers me his hand again. We shake like friends. No point-scoring. No posturing. Just agreeable terms we both can live with.
“Good night, Barnes.”
“Night,” I say, and mean it.
Carlos heads for the Tube, hands in pockets, shoulders easy.
Francesca and I stand there a second. She looks up at me, mouth tilted like she’s holding back a verdict.
“Well?” she asks.
I huff. “I still don’t like him looking at you.”
“You mean anyone,” she says, smiling.
“Anyone,” I concede, then add, begrudging, “He’s… fine.”
Her brows climb. “High praise.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
She steps closer, slipping her hand into mine like it belongs there. My chest does that tight thing I’m pretending is indigestion. “Thank you for coming.”
“I said I would.”
“I know,” she says softly. “But thank you anyway.”
There are a hundred things I could say that would be true to some of my innermost feelings.
I don’t do this dating thing. I don’t meet the best friend.
I don’t sit at tables and act civil while someone knows you better than I do.
But none of these thoughts make it past my teeth because I’m not sure they’re true anymore.
“Want to do anything else tonight?” I ask her.
She shakes her head, tucking her hand into the crook of my arm. “I believe you said something about staying at your flat?”
A slow grin pulls at my mouth. “We won’t get much sleep.”
It’s meant to sound cheeky—and it does—but underneath, there’s a jolt of electricity.
Before I can think too much about it, I lean down and kiss her. Not hurried, not careless.
Just enough to hold me over until we get home.