Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
“This is ridiculous!” she shouts, but her tone’s pure delight.
“Ridiculously fun,” I correct, downshifting as we dive into a tight hairpin. I catch a glimpse of her grin—wide, unguarded, the kind you can’t fake—and it sharpens the adrenaline.
We blast through Sector 2 and the g-forces press us together. She’s laughing now, full and free, and throwing in commentary like she’s in the middle of a race broadcast. “And here comes Barnes into the final chicane, under immense pressure from—oh wait—it’s just me, stealing his line!”
I bark out a laugh as we rocket down the main straight, the revs climbing toward redline. “Keep talking, Accardi. You’re up next.”
I ease the car into the pit lane and kill the throttle, rolling us to a smooth stop near the marshal’s post. The smell of hot brakes lingers as I unclip my harness. Francesca already has hers undone, her eyes lit with challenge.
“Careful exiting the car,” I warn. “Wouldn’t want you to trip before you’ve even started.”
She shoots me a look as she swings her legs out. “I can handle walking, thanks. Worry about yourself, Barnes.”
We circle around the car, trading the narrow gap between the nose and the barrier. I can’t help brushing my gloved hand along the small of her back as we pass—just to feel her straighten ever so slightly. She slides into the driver’s seat with a quick, practiced motion, pulling the harness over her shoulders and snapping each buckle into place before I’m even settled.
“You going to give me pointers or just sit there looking impressed?” she teases.
“Depends,” I say, settling into the passenger side. “You planning to make me scream or admire you?”
She grins, fires the ignition, and answers by dropping the clutch like she means it. The car surges forward, the tires gripping hard as she slings us into Turn One 1 with zero hesitation.
And damn—she’s good. Not just quick on the throttle, but fluid in the way she carries speed through the corners. Her hands stay steady on the wheel even when the rear twitches over a bump, and she’s got the nerve to brake late into the uphill kink.
She’s not perfect—overshoots a braking marker into the hairpin and laughs it off—but she recovers with a neat downshift and a clean exit. I find myself watching her more than the track, noting the way her focus sharpens, how her shoulders loosen on the straights to enjoy it.
I knew she was good, because you have to be at this level, but I’m seriously impressed by her talent. And… really proud that she’s the first female in FI. It makes me want to shout it from the rooftops, but I can’t do that. Us being secret and all.
By the time we’ve swapped seats twice, we’re trading insults about cornering lines like we’ve been doing it for years.
After the last run, we roll into the pit lane and ease to a stop near the wall. She tugs off her helmet, shaking her hair free in a tumble over her shoulders, her cheeks flushed from the night air and adrenaline. I pull mine off as well and run my hand through sweat-damp hair, still grinning from the last lap.
We climb out, boots scuffing against the concrete. I round the nose to meet her, catching the glint in her eyes—equal parts exhilaration and pride. Without saying much, I hook a hand around her elbow and nod toward the far end of the paddock, where the floodlights fade into shadow.
Her brows lift when she spots the small folding table I set up earlier with a wicker picnic basket waiting on top and a blanket on the small patch of grass beside it.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” she says, a smile tugging at her mouth. “You’re a closet romantic.”
“Hardly,” I deadpan as we reach the table. “But I had to give you a reason to survive my driving.”
She drops onto the blanket, crossing her legs, and I settle opposite her, unpacking the basket—prosciutto, wedges of pecorino, fresh bread, and a handful of olives in a small tin. Her fingers brush mine as she takes a slice of bread, tearing it in half.
She declines the wine I bought, telling me we’ll have it later, and downs a bottle of water. We make small talk at first—about how the car bit into the corners and how smooth the gearbox felt. “Never done anything like that before,” she admits, biting into her bread with a grin. “I think my heart’s still doing a qualifying lap.”
I chuckle, picking up an olive. “That’s the point. If you’re not buzzing after, you’re doing it wrong.”
“Mmm,” she agrees.
For a moment, we sit in the quiet, enjoying the meal. She tears off another piece of bread, chewing thoughtfully. “So,” she says, tilting her head, “how was your day?”
I shrug, reaching for a slice of pecorino. She knows I was likely doing the same as her, getting ready for Silvercrest. “Usual stuff at the factory. Went through prep with the team, worked out with Lex.” A beat passes before I add, more reluctantly, “Checked on Vivienne before I left to pick you up.”