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)
I’ve heard it a hundred times. Nash glances at me sideways, but I just smile and move closer to the mic. “Every driver on this grid feels pressure to perform. The stopwatch doesn’t care about gender, nationality or how many seasons you’ve been here. It only cares how fast you are. My job is to be fast. The rest takes care of itself.”
Before the moderator can move on, another voice cuts in. “But do you think sponsors expect something different from you because of the publicity factor?”
“I think sponsors expect professionalism and results,” I say. “And I give them both. Everything else is only noise.”
Nash chuckles into his mic. “And for the record, she’s not just giving them results—she’s one of the most technically consistent drivers out there right now. I’ve seen the telemetry.”
There’s a ripple of interest, a few more hands shooting up.
“Francesca, what do you say to critics who claim you were brought in for diversity over merit?”
I tense but keep my response even. “I say watch the lap times. If anyone still thinks I’m here for any reason other than skill, they’re welcome to meet me out on the track.”
That gets a few smiles and Nash leans toward me just enough for the mics to pick it up. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”
I bite back a laugh, but inside, I’m steady. Same questions, same answers, but each time I give them, I feel myself taking more ownership of the space.
♦
After the presser, I meet with Bex and the strategy team, bouncing suggestions and ideas before our next free practice. We finish with about an hour before FP2 and I wonder what to do with myself.
I unlock my phone and check my messages, my pulse skittering to see one from Ronan. Want to take a short walk?
It was sent about five minutes ago, so I quickly shoot one back. You want to walk around the paddock? Together? Won’t people talk?
The three dots blink, indicating he’s responding. I think we can take a walk side by side and not molest each other. Nothing to see but two friendly drivers who bonded over a commercial shoot.
He’s got a good point. Absolutely, I text back, and two minutes later I’m stepping out into the paddock to meet him.
He’s leaning against the railing outside my garage, fire suit still hanging around his waist, same as mine. He has the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth when he sees me. “What a surprise meeting you here,” he drawls.
He falls into step beside me and we walk down garage alley, sidestepping various crew members, reporters, media personalities and VIP guests with paddock access. It’s like walking around an amusement park but with so many people on a mission to get somewhere, no one seems to pay attention to two rival drivers taking a walk.
I smirk at him. “What a surprise. You texted me.”
“Adds drama to the moment,” he says. “Besides, I thought you could use a break from the adoring masses.”
“I think that’s you, Barnes. I’m just here for the free espresso in the hospitality tent.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, glancing at me from the corner of his eye. “And here I thought you were finally warming up to my company.”
“Don’t push it,” I tease.
Our shoulders brush as we sidestep a cameraman, and I catch the flicker of amusement in Ronan’s eyes. For a minute, it’s easy—two drivers on neutral ground, sharing a rare sliver of normal before the circus swallows us again.
“You okay for FP2?” he asks, casual but with a genuine thread of concern running under it.
“Worried about me, Barnes?” I arch an eyebrow, playing it off, even though he makes me feel seen and understood.
He snorts, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Worried about everyone else on the track. You always beware the rookies—they’ve got the most to prove.”
I exhale a short laugh, but it fades into honesty before I can stop it. “I’m definitely feeling the pressure.” The admission would normally be embarrassing, but I trust Ronan not to weaponize it.
His gaze holds mine for a long beat. “Just do what you do best, and you’ll be fine,” he says, confidence lacing his words. Then, without missing a step, “By the way, any chance you’ve got some of that incredible ragù left?”
I stop dead, the bustling hum of the noise of the paddock filling the space between us. He slows too, glancing back at me with mock innocence. My brain catches onto the fact that we didn’t make any plans after he left my place last night—and that while he’d handled my parents’ surprise arrival like a pro, I know it must’ve thrown him off.
“Want to come over to eat?” I hazard, studying his face.
“I mean… if there’s ragù,” he hedges, eyes twinkling with that mischievous glint.
“My mamma’s cooking tonight,” I warn, walking again. “And whatever she makes will be better than anything I could ever do. You sure you want to sign up for another night with my parents? They might get nosy about… us.”