8. Evangeline
EVANGELINE
I’m overheating, even with the air blasting on the coolest setting.
It’s been close to an hour since I climbed into the driver’s seat. My hands are at ten and two, and the car’s even in drive, but I can’t convince myself to lift my foot off the brake and pull away.
My gut and my brain war with one another, instinct clashing with ego as I sort out my thoughts.
In the moment, I had no problem turning down Alaric’s generous offer of assistance. But doubt has crept in, keeping me from driving away.
I can’t work for Granata. Can I? While I grew up in the periphery of motorsports, I don’t have any viable skills to contribute to an F1 team. I’m not a mechanic or an engineer. I drove karts a little when I was a kid, but it didn’t last long. I was too impulsive and impatient.
Still.
There’s a quiet voice telling me that maybe I should do it.
If I worked for Granata, I could travel all over the world with my friends as planned. My housing situation would be resolved, and I could continue running A-Tizket A-Tasket. I’ve already researched the best way to ship orders and restock my supplies throughout the season.
Is it foolish not to accept the help this man is offering? His son is the one who created so much of the mess I’m wading through now. Knowing Luca, there’s a solid chance he’ll never return my calls or repay even a fraction of the thousands he owes me.
Worst-case scenario is that he ghosts me completely and I never hear from him again.
As it is, I’m looking at a future where I’m saddled with debt and essentially homeless. I have to be out of my apartment by Sunday. That means I have less than forty-eight hours to make a plan. Yet here I am, unable to even force myself to pull out of this driveway.
Tears well in my eyes once again.
God, I’m so sick of crying.
A hard knock on my window startles me, my body instinctively surging forward. I shriek when I hit my forehead on the flipped-down visor.
Ow.
Blinking away tears, I turn to the source of the commotion.
Alaric is standing at my door, bent at the waist and peering through the window.
With a hand to my chest, I will my heart rate to settle and push the button to lower the window.
As I turn to face him, he winces.
Then he shocks me into stillness, moving closer and reaching through the open window, stroking the side of my face.
His touch lingers; I can’t help but lean in.
“Are you all right?” he murmurs, tenderness coating the question as he surveys me. Brows knitted in concern, he brushes his thumb over my temple.
My face fits perfectly in his big hand.
Energy hums between us, nearly vibrating where we’re connected. Warmth washes over me and a tingling sensation follows. Lightness curls around me, granting me permission to fully exhale.
Like this, with Alaric’s hand on my face, I feel seen. More significantly, I feel safe.
“Evangeline?”
“Hmm?” I mutter.
“Are you all right?” he asks. “You hit your head. You can’t deny it this time—I saw it.”
Embarrassment extinguishes all the pleasant sensations, and I pull back, breaking our connection. “I’m fine,” I squeak. Shit. My delayed response had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with his proximity. But I can’t tell him that.
“You’re still here,” he remarks.
Putting the car in park, I blow out a deep breath and regard him.
The sun is high in the sky, casting a halo that illuminates him from behind.
Anticipatory regret douses my insides as I assess the man who holds significant power in this situation. I hate being beholden to anyone. And I still need Luca to apologize, god dammit.
But I think I need this.
So I take a deep breath, sit up a little straighter, and say, “Tell me about the job.”
To his credit, Alaric doesn’t look the least bit ruffled. His expression remains even, his lips pressed together as he studies me.
He’s quiet for so long I start to worry he didn’t hear me.
Or worse: that he’s changed his mind.
“It’s a year-long contract,” he finally says, putting me out of my misery.
“The position is in a new department focused on collecting and analyzing data about Granata’s reputation.
The ideal candidate has a strong understanding of Formula 1 but isn’t formally or emotionally connected to any specific team or driver.
It’s a job that requires on-the-ground access at each race, because while much of the data we need can be found online, the team will also collect in-person comments and impressions.
If you’re comfortable using Excel, and don’t mind the less glamorous behind the scenes work, it’ll be a good fit. ”
“And it’s salaried?”
He nods. “With full benefits. Meals included. All expenses paid for travel, with top-tier accommodations and local currency stipends for most destinations. I can have a full offer package worked up and sent to you by this evening.”
My mind spins. My friend Beatrix works on the social media team for Kelly, and I have a rough idea of what she makes. It’s an impressive salary, although not unwarranted given the demands of her job. If the offer from Granata is anywhere close to that, I’d be stupid not to take it.
Plus, full benefits mean health insurance, which means maybe my ADHD meds would be partially covered and I wouldn’t have to scour the internet for pharmacy coupons month after month. Talk about the real American dream.
“When do you need an answer?”
Alaric grimaces. “Tomorrow.”
My stomach sinks. Oh god.
I can’t do this.
Can I?
The crushing weight of everything that’s happened today presses against my body and pins me to the seat. The force of my overwhelm is visceral—a pain in my chest I find myself rubbing at to soothe.
Alaric bends lower, resting his elbows on my open window. I squirm in my seat, feeling like he’s far too close yet nowhere near close enough.
His lips tip up into a smirk. “Would it help if we laid in the driveway again?”
I snort, then immediately slap a hand over my face to downplay the unladylike gesture.
My shoulders shake in silent laughter, all the stress draining out of me and my body finally relaxing.
“I’ll take the job,” I tell him decidedly. “I’m not sure I’ll be any good, and if I don’t meet your expectations or can’t—”
He smacks the side of my car gently, silencing me. “You’ll be perfect.”
Straightening, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. He holds it up to his face, unlocking it, and hands it over.
“Give me your information so we can get the details ironed out. You should receive several emails tonight, and many will need your immediate attention. Once we get your information confirmed, the logistics team will send over your travel schedule. Everything will be sorted by Sunday afternoon.”
Relief drenches me with the intensity of a five-story waterfall. With each word that comes out of this man’s mouth, I’m more sure this is the right call.
Though when I look down at his phone and am met with a picture of him and a much younger Luca, I’m once again plagued with worry about the consequences of what I’m about to do.
But fuck Luca.
Screw his broken promises and his total lack of care for anyone but himself.
He did what was best for him.
Now I’m doing what’s best for me.
Before I lose my nerve, I add my contact information to Alaric’s phone and hand it back.
He accepts the device, takes a few steps back, then hits me with a dazzling smile. “I’ll see you in Australia, Evangeline.”
Tears well in my eyes again. I’m too scared to speak—to jinx myself or say something that will make him rescind the offer and leave me back at square one.
I’m going to Australia, like I planned.
“See you down under,” I reply with a small smile.
I’m still smiling when I coast down Alaric’s driveway, finally moving forward.