Chapter 22
Francesca
Still, there’s no denying the surge of gleeful satisfaction when the checkered flag waves and my name sits sixth on the timing sheet.
As the mechanics and engineers swarm my car, I remove my helmet before peeling off my gloves.
My fingers are damp with sweat inside the Nomex lining and my hair is even sweatier as I pull off the balaclava.
Engineers move around me with the quick precision of muscle memory, plugging in cooling fans, checking tire pressures, and downloading telemetry.
And then I see him.
Ronan’s leaning against the low wall outside our garage in the paddock, fire suit unzipped to his waist, undershirt clinging to him in all the right ways. His arms are folded, ankles crossed, posture loose, his eyes locked on me.
“P6,” he says when I walk over, voice low enough that only I can hear it. I settle in beside him, the picture of two drivers making small talk. “You’re making half the grid nervous, Accardi.”
I flash him a grin as I pull the zipper down, shrugging out of my sleeves and letting the fire suit fall to my waist. “Good. I’m aiming to make you nervous too.”
His mouth tips in that slow, dangerous smile that never fails to short-circuit my brain. He stares across the paddock. “You already do. But not because of the track.”
I tilt my head, pretending I’m not hanging on every word. “Then why?”
His head turns my way and he leans in a fraction, close enough that the rest of the garage blurs into background static. “Because I’m invested now in your success. It’s starting to mess with my head.”
I laugh it off, but it’s not the flippant sound I was aiming for. It’s much softer, genuinely from the heart. “Careful, Barnes. Someone might think you like me.”
His knuckles graze my forearm, the touch light enough to be deniable if anyone’s watching. But it heats me all the way to my toes.
“Go do your press,” he murmurs, straightening up. “I’ll see you after.”
I nod, already missing the heat of his proximity as I turn toward the press room, and realize I’m smiling like a complete idiot.
Inside, the air is a little too cold from the AC, the overhead lights buzzing faintly. Nash is already seated at the table, leaning back in his chair with that lazy grin he’s become known for. I slide into the empty seat beside him and tap the mic to ensure it’s on.
We start with the usual—track grip levels, weather forecasts, tire choices. I keep my answers short but confident, the way the team likes it. Then one of the reporters leans forward, pen poised.
“Francesca, as the only woman in Formula International, is there extra pressure to perform? To prove you belong here?”
I’ve heard it a hundred times. Nash glances at me sideways, but I just smile and move closer to the mic.
“Every driver on this grid feels pressure to perform. The stopwatch doesn’t care about gender, nationality or how many seasons you’ve been here.
It only cares how fast you are. My job is to be fast. The rest takes care of itself. ”
Before the moderator can move on, another voice cuts in. “But do you think sponsors expect something different from you because of the publicity factor?”
“I think sponsors expect professionalism and results,” I say. “And I give them both. Everything else is only noise.”
Nash chuckles into his mic. “And for the record, she’s not just giving them results—she’s one of the most technically consistent drivers out there right now. I’ve seen the telemetry.”
There’s a ripple of interest, a few more hands shooting up.
“Francesca, what do you say to critics who claim you were brought in for diversity over merit?”
I tense but keep my response even. “I say watch the lap times. If anyone still thinks I’m here for any reason other than skill, they’re welcome to meet me out on the track.”
That gets a few smiles and Nash leans toward me just enough for the mics to pick it up. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”
I bite back a laugh, but inside, I’m steady. Same questions, same answers, but each time I give them, I feel myself taking more ownership of the space.
?
After the presser, I meet with Bex and the strategy team, bouncing suggestions and ideas before our next free practice. We finish with about an hour before FP2 and I wonder what to do with myself.
I unlock my phone and check my messages, my pulse skittering to see one from Ronan. Want to take a short walk?
It was sent about five minutes ago, so I quickly shoot one back. You want to walk around the paddock? Together? Won’t people talk?
The three dots blink, indicating he’s responding. I think we can take a walk side by side and not molest each other. Nothing to see but two friendly drivers who bonded over a commercial shoot.
He’s got a good point. Absolutely, I text back, and two minutes later I’m stepping out into the paddock to meet him.
He’s leaning against the railing outside my garage, fire suit still hanging around his waist, same as mine. He has the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth when he sees me. “What a surprise meeting you here,” he drawls.
He falls into step beside me and we walk down garage alley, sidestepping various crew members, reporters, media personalities and VIP guests with paddock access.
It’s like walking around an amusement park but with so many people on a mission to get somewhere, no one seems to pay attention to two rival drivers taking a walk.
I smirk at him. “What a surprise. You texted me.”
“Adds drama to the moment,” he says. “Besides, I thought you could use a break from the adoring masses.”
“I think that’s you, Barnes. I’m just here for the free espresso in the hospitality tent.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. “And here I thought you were finally warming up to my company.”
“Don’t push it,” I tease.
Our shoulders brush as we sidestep a cameraman, and I catch the flicker of amusement in Ronan’s eyes. For a minute, it’s easy—two drivers on neutral ground, sharing a rare sliver of normal before the circus swallows us again.
“You okay for FP2?” he asks, casual but with a genuine thread of concern running under it.
“Worried about me, Barnes?” I arch an eyebrow, playing it off, even though he makes me feel seen and understood.
He snorts, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Worried about everyone else on the track. You always beware the rookies—they’ve got the most to prove.”
I exhale a short laugh, but it fades into honesty before I can stop it. “I’m definitely feeling the pressure.” The admission would normally be embarrassing, but I trust Ronan not to weaponize it.
His gaze holds mine for a long beat. “Just do what you do best, and you’ll be fine,” he says, confidence lacing his words. Then, without missing a step, “By the way, any chance you’ve got some of that incredible ragù left?”
I stop dead, the bustling hum of the noise of the paddock filling the space between us.
He slows too, glancing back at me with mock innocence.
My brain catches onto the fact that we didn’t make any plans after he left my place last night—and that while he’d handled my parents’ surprise arrival like a pro, I know it must’ve thrown him off.
“Want to come over to eat?” I hazard, studying his face.
“I mean… if there’s ragù,” he hedges, eyes twinkling with that mischievous glint.
“My mamma’s cooking tonight,” I warn, walking again. “And whatever she makes will be better than anything I could ever do. You sure you want to sign up for another night with my parents? They might get nosy about… us.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Your parents are easy.” A ghost of a smirk. “Count me in.”
A buzz of euphoria hits me hard upon hearing he’s willing to step right back into the line of fire—not for the food, but for me.
“Dinner’s at—”
A woman’s voice cuts in—abrasively loud. “There you are.”
Ronan and I turn, and I’m shocked to see Vivienne Barnes walking our way.
She’s surprisingly put together, her pale blond hair smoothed into a glossy wave, oversized sunglasses framing a face that could be beautiful if it wasn’t pinched tight with irritation.
A cream wrap clings to her shoulders, the perfect complement to a high-end handbag in the same shade.
Ronan’s posture changes in a blink—shoulders taut, jaw hard. He moves three steps to intercept her. “What are you doing here?”
“You’ve been ignoring me,” she complains, not even sparing me a glance. She’s too loud and heads turn as people walk by.
Ronan lowers his voice, I’m guessing in the hopes her tone will match. “I’ve seen you every night this week,” he says between clenched teeth.
It’s an accurate reminder to his mother that she doesn’t have things right, whether that’s intentional or because she’s under the influence.
I can’t tell, to be honest. She’s not slurring her words and she’s walking fine.
She looks like a London socialite. But then she removes her sunglasses, and there…
Her eyes are glazed, pupils large. It’s obvious she’s on something.
Ronan looks around before his regard comes back to his mom. “How did you get here?”
“I had my driver bring me here just so I could get five minutes with you.”
I can tell Ronan is struggling to stay calm, but he has no choice… too many people around. “Now is not the time, Vivienne. I’m in the middle of free practice.”
Those were apparently the wrong words, and I can see the change come over her.
It’s like proverbial claws come out and she practically shrieks at him, “This is the thanks I get? I come here to support you”—she waves her sunglasses around wildly—“at your racing thing, and you ridicule me. What son does that to his mother?” she cries, looking around at the crowd. “Tell me… what son does that?!?!”
I’m stunned to inaction for a moment, horrified on Ronan’s behalf. There’s a growing number of eyes in our direction—crew, a couple of lingering reporters.
Ronan looks panicked, his words clipped. “Not here, Vivienne.”