Chapter 23
Ronan
Dinner at Francesca’s flat is even better than the night before, and that’s no shade on her cooking, but her mum’s lasagna alla Bolognese is truly to die for.
The only thing left on the table right now are the crumbs from her almond biscotti and empty espresso cups.
My stomach is happy, if not a little overextended.
I can see how eating meals prepared by these two women could be dangerous to the waistline.
I shouldn’t be this comfortable, leaning back in my chair and listening to her parents’ teasing banter over who snores the loudest, but somehow, I am.
It’s a bit unnerving how easy it’s been with Luca and Giulia—two people I didn’t know forty-eight hours ago.
But then again, from the start, even when she confronted me in that pub, Francesca had a way of getting me to step outside my comfort zone.
With animated hands, her father launches into a story—most likely to deflect from his snoring—about how Francesca and her brother once turned their sloped driveway into a “kart track,” complete with baking sheets for cars. I huff out a laugh, the mental picture too funny.
“Alessio still swears he won that race, eh?” Luca says with mock exasperation before shaking his head. “Shame he couldn’t be here tonight. But he’ll be here Sunday.” His attention shifts to me. “I think he’ll like you a lot.”
Francesca grins, nudging my knee under the table. “That’s saying something. My brother has very discerning tastes.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Sounds like someone I’ll need to be on my toes for.”
Giulia offers me a knowing smile. “He will grill you, Ronan. Over your affections for our Francesca. And he will not apologize for it.”
There’s no malice in her words, only truth. I manage a crooked half smile. “Then I suppose I’ll be ready.”
Funny how this shit used to scare me but now… it’s more like the adrenaline-fueled rush I get on the track. I better be careful, or I could start craving this connection.
Francesca’s eyes flick to me, warm and teasing. “Regretting getting involved with me yet?”
“That still remains to be seen since I haven’t met Alessio.”
Everyone laughs and Giulia rises, collecting plates.
“No, Mamma,” Francesca says, jumping up, and I find myself doing the same with my coffee cup in hand.
“You cooked, we clean,” I offer.
“But you both have qualifying tomorrow,” she says, waving us off and taking my cup from me.
A surge of fondness hits me hard and I realize…
I don’t think I’ve ever been fond of a person in my life.
Sure, I’ve got all kinds of feelings for Francesca I’m still wading through but looking at her mamma right now—a woman who cooked an amazing meal with love and now wants to clean up because we have qualifying—warm affection bubbles in my chest. It’s funny, because in my upbringing, mothers didn’t cook, and I was never taught to help clean up. We had staff to do that.
And my mother most definitely never worried about me getting enough rest before a race.
Giulia shoots a pointed look at Luca, who starts clearing the table. She pats her daughter on the cheek. “I know it’s hard having us here because you and Ronan aren’t getting any privacy—”
“Mamma,” Francesca exclaims, cheeks going pink, and I duck my head so they can’t see my smirk.
“I’m just saying… you could use some time together. So how about you two go for a walk while your papà and I clean up. It’s a nice night out.”
Another wave of tenderness for this woman. It’s easy to see why she offers this to her daughter, but she’s doing this for me as well. I’m spontaneously unable to stop myself and I lean down to press a light kiss to her cheek. “We will accept your kind offer, Giulia.”
I take Francesca’s hand and pull her out of the kitchen. She waves to her parents, a silly smile on her face.
We grab our jackets by the door, hers a soft quilted thing in navy, mine a thin black one with the Crown Velocity logo stitched small on the sleeve. Francesca calls out, “Ciao, Mamma! Buona notte, Papà!” and the answering “Buona notte!” follows us out the door.
Outside, the air bites sharper than I expect.
March in Surrey is unpredictable—cold but damp, the kind of chill that can inch its way under your clothes.
The street is quiet, lit by the glow of tall Victorian lampposts.
Rows of semi-detached brick houses stretch out in both directions, their windows glowing warm with evening light.
Somewhere down the road, I hear the faint bark of a dog.
Francesca pulls her jacket tighter and I fall into step beside her.
For a few strides, I keep my hands shoved into my pockets, trying to contain the restless energy pulsing through me.
But the street is empty, the night almost suspended in time, and before I can second-guess it, I reach out and catch her hand.
She looks up at me in surprise, eyes catching the lamplight, and then she threads her fingers through mine without hesitation. The warmth of skin against mine is grounding, a small thing that feels monumental.
For once, I don’t think about who might see us. I don’t think about the press or the stories or my team’s inevitable reaction. I think only of the woman beside me, and how, in this quiet stretch of Woking, she is the one thing in the world that makes sense.
“I’ve only ever held a girl’s hand once before,” I say, breaking the easy silence as we stroll along.
Francesca’s hand jerks in mine, her face turning to me in question.
“It was this girl I liked when I was eighteen… Katherine. I brought her home to meet my parents and well… you met Vivienne. I’m sure you can imagine how it went.
So, Katherine was the first and the last. I never dated or let myself like someone enough to hold their hand since… until you.”
Her fingers squeeze mine before she pulls free. I mourn the loss no more than a heartbeat because she’s slipping her hand into the crook of my arm, using her other hand to hold tight to me. She presses in closer as we walk.
“I don’t know how you survived that,” Francesca says quietly. “I’ve seen your mamma twice now, and both times were horrible. And please know I’m not judging her, merely reflecting on your situation, that you have to deal with it and her.”
“I survived by not letting anyone get close to me,” I admit.
“It’s easier than having someone let you down, and I certainly didn’t want to subject anyone to this…
family dynamic. Vivienne is my cross to bear since my dad has washed his hands of her.
” I stop on the sidewalk and turn to face Francesca.
“But today… you handled her brilliantly, and I don’t even know how to begin to thank you for what you did. ”
“You don’t have to.”
“No, I do. And I hate that I have to. It’s—” I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply. “It’s frustrating, knowing you had to step in when I should’ve been able to handle it myself. I should have her figured out by now, so this shit doesn’t happen.”
Her head tilts, eyes steady. “Maybe it’s not about what you should have been able to do. Sometimes help isn’t a matter of capability, it’s timing. And I was the better option in that moment.”
“Maybe,” I concede, mulling her words over as we begin walking again.
Her boots scuffing on the pavement breaks the silence for a bit until she asks, “Can I say something?”
I nod, wary but also trusting this woman.
“You can’t fix her, Ronan. You’ve tried, I can tell.
But it’s not on you. She’s not going to change just because you want her to.
And every time you let her turbulence pull you under, it’s like you’re the one paying the price for her choices.
” Her words are gentle, not judging. “At some point, you’ve got to let go.
Stop letting her take so much from you.”
The truth of it needles under my ribs, but it’s oddly freeing hearing it said aloud. I would never have the guts to come to that conclusion on my own.
“It meant a lot… you stepping in, because I’ve never had anyone do that before. I’ve never trusted someone the way I trust you.”
Francesca smiles up at me. “You never have to thank me for having your back, Ronan. That’s what two people in a relationship do.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Lots of experience, have you?”
“No, just watching my mamma and papà who are committed to each other and operate as a united front and partnership at all times. Good role models.”
“I know I don’t have to tell you how lucky you are to have parents like yours. Someone like me might be envious of that, but truly… it makes me so happy that you have that in your life.”
Francesca sighs, squeezes my arm. “Does your mamma show up like that often? Out of the blue? She looked put together today and it was a little jarring, but I could tell she was high.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “She doesn’t do it often, which makes it shocking when it happens. However, it’s been worse than what you saw today.”
“How so?”
An ugly bitterness wells in me. “Public scenes, vanishing for days. She’d come back acting like nothing happened, and I spent years trying to cover for her, trying to keep it out of the papers and keep people from talking.”
Her eyes soften, but she doesn’t pity me. That almost undoes me more than if she had. “It makes sense why you keep so much to yourself,” she says.
I glance at her. “What do you mean?”
“Because showing emotion gives people ammunition to use against you.”
“You read me too well.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
“It is when you’re not used to it. Most people don’t even notice when I shut them out.
You…,” I pause, the words scraping raw on the way out.
“You get past my defenses without trying. You call me on my shit without making me feel cornered. And it—” I stop, shaking my head.
“It makes me want to say things I’ve never said to anyone. ”
Francesca smiles in understanding and teases, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were getting ready to declare your fondness for me.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “I think I’ve given you enough tonight.”
“Fair,” she quips with a laugh, and that right there is why I want to say things to her. She’s low pressure, doesn’t judge and doesn’t try to fix me. She accepts me for who I am, ugly spots and all. This woman is the type who’s not going to bolt when life gets messy.
Francesca’s phone—tucked in her back pocket—rings, but she ignores it. But then it rings again and she frowns, pulling it free.
She holds the screen out to me and I see it’s Carlos calling. I think it says a lot about how far I’ve come when the twinge of jealousy is barely discernible. After her voicemail picks up, it immediately rings again.
Worry filters into Francesca’s eyes and we share a look that says You better answer that.
“What’s wrong?” Francesca asks as soon as she puts the phone to her ear. I can’t hear what Carlos is saying, but he seems to be saying a lot. Then Francesca says, “I’ll call you back.”
“What is it?” I ask after she disconnects.
“Carlos has been texting me, but I didn’t answer so he called.” Francesca maneuvers to her messages and I peer over her shoulder. “He said there’s a picture circulating of us with buzz about us being together.”
I wait for the dread that I imagined would happen if we were outed to the public, but it’s not there. I wonder why that is.
Francesca pulls up the text and there’s a link to an Instagram post. It’s a clear photo taken from today.
I remember the moment well—it’s after Francesca handled my mum and I reached out…
took her hand before she could walk away.
It’s unmistakable—our arms outstretched, fingers just slipping free from each other, and Christ…
the look on my face. I look utterly besotted.
Upon reflection, that’s how I felt in that moment.
The caption reads: Enemies to lovers? #SilvercrestSpotted
For a second, I can only stare. Then a low, incredulous laugh escapes me. “Guess we’re trending.”
Francesca’s head snaps up. “Aren’t you upset?”
“Are you?” I counter.
She shakes her head, beautiful golden locks falling over her shoulders. “No, but you’re the one who wanted to keep it secret.”
“I didn’t want it to be a distraction, and frankly, this will be a distraction. But it’s out there now so the best we can do is keep our heads down until after the race.”
Her eyes narrow. “But you’re truly not upset?”
“I’m not,” I reply, pleased with my growth and maturity. “But I expect we’re going to get hammered in the press. We need a stock answer both of us can use.”
Francesca puts her finger to her chin, eyes upward as if she’s thinking hard. A smile breaks free and she grins. “How about you say, ‘Francesca Accardi is the best formula race car driver I’ve ever seen and that photo was just me yearning to be like her.’”
I laugh, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her close. “Not going to hear me say that in a million years because no matter how much I like you, I’m still going to beat you on the track.”
“Bring it,” she challenges and then kisses me so thoroughly, I know that if she did beat me, I wouldn’t even be mad about it.