24. Wes
The second I drive past the exit to Logan Airport, Elizabeth shoots me a glacial glare.
She’s been quiet the entire ride. I’ve been giving her space to process before she’s thrown into the chaos of a race weekend—especially since I pushed her to open up about the world-shattering fight with her sister.
But I want her to know that it’s okay to be vulnerable sometimes.
That she can feel safe with me. That she can trust me.
But I probably should have informed her of our itinerary.
“So,” I say slowly. “The thing is, I’m from Boston.”
“I figured that would mean you know how to get to the airport.”
“About that,” I drawl. “There’s really no reason for you to get there seven hours early.”
Elizabeth glares harder. “Are you kidnapping me?”
I grin. “In a sense.”
“Wes. Where are we going?”
I keep my eyes on the road and my voice casual. “My parents’ place.”
Out of my peripheral vision, I see Elizabeth’s jaw drop.
“The Canadian Grand Prix is the one race they go to every year, so they’re on the same flight as us. Plus, I didn’t bring my bag for the weekend with me.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I hear her mutter from the passenger seat, and I hold back my chuckle. “Is there anything I need to know?”
“Not really,” I say with a shrug. She definitely doesn’t need to know that I’ve never brought anyone home with me. “I mean, you’ve looked them up, right?”
“The internet is not going to tell me the things their only son can.”
My parents are genuinely great people—warm, curious, and interesting.
Despite us butting heads over my career choice when I was younger and their disapproval of some of my more ne’er-do-well ways, they’ve never given me an ultimatum or made me feel like a disappointment.
They’ve always supported me, even when I went against their advice.
“I’m sure you already know that they’re Michael and Rebecca Grant, and they’re both Harvard professors.
That sounds intimidating, but I swear they’re normal.
They go to the farmer’s market and donate to NPR.
Sure, my dad’s a top global economist, but he’s also very into gardening.
He’s been talking about getting a permit to keep bees.
And you already know my mom is a Jane Austen scholar.
Oh, and since you’ll see the overstuffed bookshelves that line basically every wall, you should also know that she has a side gig as an author. ”
“Wait, what?” Elizabeth asks, perking up. “What kind of books does she write?”
“Historical romance.”
“Really?” Elizabeth asks, her voice flooding with curiosity.
“Yep. She’s pretty prolific, actually.”
“Huh,” Elizabeth says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Rebecca Grant book.”
“That would be because she uses a nom de plume. I’m guessing you have heard of Rosalind Sinclair?”
Elizabeth gasps. “Your mother is Rosalind Sinclair?”
I’ve seen this woman in the presence of royalty and rockstars—never once has she lost her composure. But it’s my mother that she gets excited about.
“The one and the same,” I say, smiling. “Are you a fan?”
“Are you kidding? Her Ladies of Larkspur Lane series rewired my entire brain.”
I chuckle. “If you tell her that, she’ll probably send you home with an entire autographed set.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Grant.”
Four hours later, my parents and Elizabeth are chatting away in the backseat of the SUV I hired to take us to the airport.
I gave them even less of a heads up about Elizabeth than I gave her about them.
When she walked into their handsome red-brick home in Mid-Cambridge, there was stunned silence—a completely understandable reaction upon seeing her for the first time, to be honest. After offers of iced mint tea and fresh banana bread, my parents ushered Elizabeth into the tidy living room and proceeded to pepper her with questions about her life and job.
I felt slightly guilty about needing to pack for the race and leaving Elizabeth alone with them, so I rushed to get everything in my suitcase.
But I didn’t need to. When I came back downstairs, my mom was sitting next to Elizabeth on the navy couch they recently reupholstered, showing her childhood photos of me.
The sight felt as if someone had punched me in the solar plexus.
“That’s a hell of a woman,” my dad said, coming to stand next to me.
“Believe me, I know,” I told him. “Has she told Mom that she’s her biggest fan yet?”
“I don’t think Elizabeth has had time to get a word in edge-wise,” he said, smiling. “It seems the feeling is mutual.”
I headed over to the bookshelf filled with my mom’s books, and located the Ladies of Larkspur Lane series.
“Elizabeth, this is the one you said rewired your brain, right?” Her eyes nearly popped out of her head, but my mom gasped in delight and, just as I predicted, insisted on signing and personalizing a copy of each book in the series for Elizabeth to take with her.
As the afternoon went on, my parents and Elizabeth continued to chat about everything from her impressions of the world of motorsports to a TV show about Victorian-era assassins, which gave me ample time to upgrade Elizabeth’s economy seat to business class, post a couple photos from Cape Cod on social media, and have a whole text conversation with Lu about my favorite Montréal bagel place.
Once we’ve checked in to our flight and made it through both security and immigration, Elizabeth pulls me aside while my parents continue on to the lounge. “I’m guessing you’re the reason I suddenly have a business-class ticket?”
I shrug. “I have more points than I know what to do with.”
“You should have told me. I thought it was a mistake.”
“Please don’t tell me that you actually tried to correct an upgraded airplane seat, Jacobs. Why were you in economy, anyway?”
She shoots me a frosty look. “Martine only books me in business class if the flight is longer than five hours.”
“Christ, really?”
“Not all of their employees are pampered drivers.”
I grit my teeth and shake off that barb. “It behooves them for the pampered drivers to be well-rested at the track.”
“My point is that my surprise at being handed a business-class ticket makes sense considering I know the policy.”
“Well then, I’m very sorry for surprising you with something nice,” I snark, and a storm flashes in her eyes.
“Don’t be a brat, Grant.”
There’s a specific note in her voice, something edgy and knowing. Suddenly that term takes on a completely different meaning. “Oh. Am I—?”
“We’re not having this conversation.”
“Here? Or at all?”
She gives me a long look. “At all.”
Well, damn. “Why not?”
“Because we work together, Wes. We can’t.”
This shouldn’t surprise me. It’s the exact reason she didn’t want anyone to think she was my date in Monaco. But still—I thought something had shifted between us. I thought D.C. proved she’s as drawn to me as I am to her. I thought last night meant something.
But maybe not. Maybe I was just a convenient outlet.
“In any case,” Elizabeth says coolly. “Thank you for the upgrade. You didn’t need to do that.”
“It’s no big deal,” I say easily, unwilling to let her see how affected I am by her casual rebuff of me, of what we’ve shared, of last night. “What are colleagues for, right?”
I usually love everything about the Canadian Grand Prix.
But for the past two days, the only thing anyone has asked me about is if I’ll be racing with Martine next year.
I should have seen this coming. It’s no secret that my contract is up in a matter of months, and “silly season”—the time when rumors start to fly about team changes—is in full force. In the past, I’ve taken it all in stride. But this year? Things feel much more aggressive.
When a reporter who often has very juicy and shockingly accurate scoops cornered me after the first free practice on Friday and asked if Baz had talked to me about the team going in a direction with “less baggage” next year, I knew we had a real problem on our hands.
I immediately called my agent, who was just as surprised as I was.
I asked if there’s any indication that Martine wouldn’t be extending my contract. His answer was a very firm no.
I’ve been around long enough to know that though reporters in this sport can be real assholes, they don’t make shit up.
They’ve heard this from someone they deem worth listening to.
And my money is on a certain Italian who desperately needs some good press and is pissed I didn’t give it to him in Monaco.
Luckily, qualifying goes well. The upgrade we introduced in Barcelona is still going strong and I’ll be starting in P2 alongside drivers from my former teams, Orion and Sterling.
Despite that, during the post-qualifying interviews, yet another reporter asks me about my future at Martine.
So I give her my brightest smile and let every ounce of my Boston accent loose.
“I’ll let my driving be the answer to that. ”
The next morning, Andrew tells me the clip has gone viral.
While he’s pleased about it, it puts even more pressure on me.
I can’t fuck this race up. I can’t make a laughing stock of myself after getting a little bit cocky.
But I also can’t let the pressure get to me.
I can’t psych myself out. I can’t let anyone other than me control this race.
On Sunday afternoon, I get in the car, take a deep breath, and visualize all the open drawers in my mind. But every time I try to close them, they don’t budge. I push and push, but none of them move at all.
During the formation lap, I’m more nervous than I’ve been before a race in years. I need a pep talk—and not a sweet one.
I freeze. Because that’s an idea.
Once I’m back in my grid box, I say, “Hey, Paul?”
“I’m here, Wes.”
“Can you get Jacobs on the mic?”
“We’re almost at lights out.”
My stomach twists with anticipation. “I know.”
“Hold on.”
I keep my eyes on the lights in front of me. My heart is galloping, my breathing is shallow, and both my fingers and toes are twitchy. It’s not a good sign.
“Wes.” Elizabeth’s cool balm of a voice washes over me. “You rang?”
I husk a laugh. “I’m nervous. I need you to tell me not to be.”
There’s a pause. I wonder if she understands what I’m asking.
“Listen to me, Wes. You’re not allowed to be nervous.”
Her voice is sharp and edgy. It’s not quite the commanding tone she used that night in D.C., but it’s close. And somehow, hearing her tell me I’m not allowed to be nervous, makes me want to put an immediate stop to it.
“In fact,” she adds. “The only thing you’re allowed to do is win this race. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say, right as the first light goes dark.
The drawers slam shut.
“Good,” she says, her voice harder now, a little bit vicious. “Go win, Wes.”
When the last light goes out, I hit the accelerator.
As I snake through the first turn, I overtake Thad in the Orion—and then there’s only clean air in front of me.
It’s not an easy race. In addition to the mandatory pit stops, there are two collisions and a groundhog that pops up on the track, triggering a virtual safety car that slows the race down for three entire laps.
Even so, I don’t get nervous again. I don’t lose focus. I don’t forget that I’m not allowed to be nervous today.
When I cross the finish line, Paul whoops in my ear and Albrecht informs me that I’ve just set a new record at this track. But I don’t exhale fully until I hear “You’re the winner of the Canadian Grand Prix.”
I did it. I won.
My second race in a row.
My third of the season.
Holy shit.
When my car is parked, I jump on the nose and throw my arms in the air.
But it isn’t until I lock eyes with Elizabeth Jacobs and watch as she mouths “good boy” that I feel the full force of this win.