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)
For a second—one clean second—something akin to vulnerability cracks across his face. Then it slides away. “Are you finished?”
“More than,” I reply and turn to leave. I know I’ll never be back.
♦
Traffic snakes along the embankment, brake lights washing in red streaks over wet streets. The text message from Francesca earlier made me smile and scowl all at the same time. Trattoria Viale. 7:30. Don’t be late. Don’t be jealous.
I’m not late. I’m early, which is worse.
And I’m definitely not jealous.
Much.
The restaurant has valet parking, and I don’t miss the glint in the man’s eyes when I hand him money and the keys to the Aston Martin. I enter a warm atmosphere with brick walls crowded with framed black-and-white photos of famous people who have eaten here. Copper pans hang above a postage stamp bar, and my stomach rumbles in response to the scents of garlic and butter wafting through the air. I’m grateful that my girlfriend—wait! What?—is Italian and prefers to eat the food of her people.
They’re already there, tucked into a corner two-top that’s become a three-top with an extra chair and a squeeze. Carlos laughs at something she says and tips his head, eyes crinkling. He’s good-looking in a wholesome way—clean lines, easy smile, exactly the sort of man mothers like and sponsors trust. Ask anyone and they’ll tell you, Carlos is their best friend. He’s the nice guy of the circuit, has no enemies. No scandals, no sharp edges, and admittedly, I’ve always liked him.
Until he nearly touched Francesca’s ass.
Speaking of that woman, I take a moment to study her. Her hair is down in silky waves and she’s in a thin sweater that makes her look like sin. She glances up and sees me, eyes lighting with joy. That provokes a reaction, making me breathless. The way her mouth lifts—quick, involuntary—is a dopamine hit, something I could get used to.
“Barnes,” Carlos greets, rising to shake my hand. Firm grip, steady eyes. “Good of you to join.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, and it comes out drier than intended.
We settle in our chairs and Francesca nudges a wine list in my direction, but I wave it off. “I’m good with water.”
“Discipline,” Carlos says, amused.
“Got a race coming up,” I correct. “Or did you forget?”
Carlos chuckles and raises his wineglass to me in a mock toast. “I didn’t forget, but one glass never hurt anyone.”
That’s probably true but really, I’m not much of a wine drinker.
The waiter arrives with a small carafe of olive oil so fragrant I want to consume it all. He sets it down with a basket of bread that gives a hollow, promising knock when I tap the crust. He rattles off the specials and because he’s Italian, Francesca carries on a short conversation with him. Her accent is beautiful and she’s so genuinely outgoing, people light up around her. I do believe I could listen to her talk for hours, having no clue what she’s saying. Ultimately, she orders pasta and a blush sauce, Carlos goes for grilled sea bass with lemon, and I pick the veal piccata.
“How was pit stop practice this week?” Carlos asks, tearing into a piece of bread and dragging it through the olive oil like he’s starving.
Francesca perks up instantly. “Better than last week. No one tripped over the air hose, and Nash managed not to knock the front jack man on his ass, so I’d call that a win.”
Carlos chuckles, then tips his chin toward me. “And you, Barnes? Anyone on Crown try to set fire to the garage yet?”
“Not this week,” I say, tearing my own piece of bread. “But there’s still time before Silvercrest.”
They both laugh, and Carlos leans back, glass of wine in hand. “That new curb in Sector 2 is a bit nasty if you’re not paying attention. I bit it in the sim a few times this week.”
Francesca smirks. “Nasty’s one word for it. You take it wrong and you’ll be on highlight reels for all the wrong reasons.”
Carlos grins, glancing between us. “So, which one of you is going to be the first idiot to test it?”
“I’ll let her go first,” I say smoothly. “Ladies’ privilege.”
“Coward,” she fires back, and there’s enough warmth in it to soften Carlos’s smile.
He takes a sip of wine, still looking amused. “See, this is why dinner with drivers is always entertaining. You lot can’t help turning everything into a competition—even imaginary crashes.”
Francesca rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “We can’t help it. It’s in the job description.”
I find myself almost smiling too, because it’s not me versus him. It’s all of us in on the joke.
Then Carlos says, “How are your mamma and papà? I assume they’re coming to the race.”
That perks my attention. It never dawned on me that Francesca’s parents would be here. I sort of assumed I’d have her all to myself until… well, until whatever this is ran its course or settled in. If her parents are going to stay with her, that means I’m not in her bed.