14. Alaric
ALARIC
The paddock is buzzing with the kind of energy I crave all year.
Today is qualifying, which can be just as exciting as the race itself.
Every driver will have their chance to clock the fastest time on the circuit.
Starting positions for tomorrow’s race are determined today.
The grid is well-established, with only one rookie out there this year.
But despite how much time drivers spend training during the offseason, there are always some cobwebs to dust off during the first few races.
As I make my way over to the garage, I keep my focus on my phone. I may also be trying to convince myself that I’m not looking for a certain petite blonde.
I’m starting to crave her attention. It’s a foreign and perplexing desire.
I’ve always been fine on my own, never interested in the company of one specific person.
It’s one of the reasons for my divorce. As much as I loved and cared for Sophie, I never craved her company, and I was never deeply affected by her presence or lack thereof.
Another realization that’s taken me aback? I like the version of myself that peeks out when Evangeline’s around. I’m surprisingly candid and open when she’s around. There’s an ease to our undeniable connection. Like I don’t have to be perfect. Like the weight of the world isn’t all on my shoulders.
I’m also shockingly reckless in her company, as proven on more than one occasion. My mind wanders and my impulses are difficult to quell. When I touched her last night, the sensation was reminiscent of the celebratory fireworks blasting off at the end of a grand prix.
I shouldn’t have touched her at all, I remind myself as I scan into the back of the garage. That was a mistake. A damning, moronic blunder.
It won’t happen again. It can’t. Not only is it wildly inappropriate to have such an intimate interaction with a subordinate, but it’s unfair to my team if I’m distracted.
I don’t have the time or bandwidth to lean into an attraction when my focus needs to be on winning and improving Granata’s reputation.
My feelings are the lowest priority in this situation.
Stashing my phone, I round one of the tight corners, finding Amira coming toward me.
“VIPs will be arriving in the garage in thirty minutes,” she reminds me as she breezes by.
Noted. But not my top priority right now. I’m anxious to speak to each of my drivers.
I check in with Ferris first.
Clapping him on the back, I lean against a tool chest.
“How are you feeling?” I’m genuinely curious about his mental state, but it’s best to avoid getting into anything too deep if he’s already getting his head in the game, so I keep it vague.
“Good,” he assures me with a swift, confident nod. “Ready to go. Ready to push.” With that, he pulls his balaclava over his head.
I grin. “We believe in you. I’m glad to have you on this team.” Straightening, I clap him on the shoulder once more and wave to a few of the mechanics nearby.
Formula 1 drivers, unlike the athletes who play just about any other sport, are competing against their teammates. Ferris and Heath have to work together to score points for Granata in the Constructor’s Cup, but they’re also vying for individual positions in the Driver’s Championship.
Since they drive for the same team, their cars are nearly identical, meaning neither has a mechanical advantage.
There’s always a top driver, even when a team says there’s not. There is too much data and statistical evidence to pretend that everything is fair and even on a Formula 1 team.
Ferris did well in yesterday’s practice sessions, but Heath is consistently clocking sixth-tenths faster around this circuit.
Which is why I came to Ferris first. To show him that I’m confident in his abilities. So he understands that despite his slower times, he’s an essential player on this team.
On my way to Heath’s side of the garage, I bump into Sandro.
“How’s he feeling today?”
“He’s ready,” the performance coach assures me as we stand side by side and watch Heath lower himself into the car. “Sharp. Well-rested. Riding the high of those lap times from practice.”
I grin. “He should be proud of that.”
An F1 driver who is really locked in with their machine is damn near magic.
The foundation of competition in this sport is built in the garage.
Every team designs and develops their own car within the Formula’s regulations.
Designers, technicians, and mechanics play crucial roles in building out the amazing vehicles used for this sport.
But it’s the optimization between the driver, their car, and the engineers that thrusts a good team into greatness.
I approach Heath’s vehicle and lean over the halo to snag his attention. “Let’s go racing.”
He gives me a thumbs-up, eyes bright through the opening of his helmet.
Satisfied the team is ready, I make my way toward the pit wall.
As I round the corner, I catch sight of a flash of leopard print, and my muscles lock up.
Frozen to the spot, I scan the surrounding area.
My chest constricts, a heady pressure that has nothing to do with today’s race pressing against my sternum.
How is it possible that this woman has such a visceral hold on me? Because I swear I just had a Pavlovian response to animal print.
I’m still stuck in the same place when I find her again. She bounds toward me, sporting a red Granata team shirt and an adorable animal-print sports skirt.
“Hi.” Her bright smile is accentuated by her bold red lipstick.
I stammer a quick “hello,” entirely too fixated on her perfect mouth to come up with anything more clever.
If possible, her smile grows.
And my mind blanks. I don’t even remember where I am or what I’m supposed to be doing right now.
“Happy quali.”
She’s adorable. Genuinely excited. And my god, does she look good in Granata red.
Without my permission, my body gravitates toward her. “We’re about to find out just how happy it’ll be.”
Her eyes shine as she surveys our surroundings, taking it all in. She shifts from one hip to the other, then peeks back up at me, catching her bottom lip between her teeth, that elation transforming into uncertainty.
“So,” she hedges, “I made you something.”
Curiosity rolls over me, along with confusion. “You made me something?” I repeat like an idiot.
She nods. “Last night, you seemed nervous. I figured you were probably stressed, or pent up.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “Pent up” is an understatement when it comes to how I feel around this woman. Irritable and unbelievably horny are more apt descriptions.
“I packed up my work supplies and tools and brought my show on the road. Although I guess my business is more of a side hustle for now, considering I have a full-time job. Granata is definitely my priority.”
The last several words rush out of her as she sweeps one hand down her outfit as if I haven’t already memorized every detail of her on-brand clothing.
“But I couldn’t completely close up shop. I’ve built a community of subscribers, and those people count on me. So I brought—”
“Ric.”
At the sound of my assistant’s voice, I snap my head to one side. Quinn is standing several yards away with my headset in hand, wearing a look of exasperation.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell Evangeline, my mood sinking a little. “I need to go. Could we meet up later, perhaps?”
The second the words leave my mouth, I wish I could take them back. The audacity there is ridiculous. I can’t “meet up later” with a subordinate. Who also happens to be significantly younger than me and my son’s ex.
“No need. I’m rambling.” She laughs, extending her arm. “Here. Take this.”
Eagerly, I reach out and accept what she’s offering.
She places a small, lightweight red column in my palm. It’s made of some sort of plastic, and there’s a little clicker button no bigger than my thumb on top.
“It’s a fidget. I color-matched the Granata logo and used a soft blend filament so it won’t make a sound. You can keep it in your pocket or use it during the race. If it helps, that is.” She holds up a hand. “No worries if you don’t like it.”
I test out the button and smile when it compresses and makes a barely there click.
“You made this for me?” I turn it over in my hand, then assess her again.
Her whole being illuminates. “Mm-hmm. I make them for all my friends.”
A bitter sensation sweeps through me and frustration rears its head once more. The last thing I want is to be this woman’s friend.
My body is still clearly in charge, my focus once again fixated on those perfect cherry red lips just begging to be kissed. I scan the freckles dotting her cheeks and nose to try to stifle the urge to touch her.
She watches me, her cerulean eyes full of joy. Expectant hopefulness radiates off her.
“Thank you for this,” I finally say, forcing myself to break the spell we’ve once again found ourselves under. “I do have to get going now.”
With a dip of her chin, she squeezes my forearm. “Good luck today.”
I swallow back a groan, then ball my free hand into a fist, fighting my every cell’s instinct to her touch.
I smile back, awkwardly wave, and turn to head to the wall.
Before I make it even two steps, she calls my name.
Holding my breath, I turn.
She’s right where I left her, grinning, with her hands clasped in front of her chest. “Get excited. It’s going to be great.”
I don’t bother tempering my smile. Instead, I allow her contagious enthusiasm to illuminate me from the inside. I’m still smiling when I accept my headset from Quinn and finally take my place on the pit wall.