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 moment the old instinct kicks in—the urge to snap, to rake her across the coals for everything she’s cost me. But Francesca’s words cut through, steady in my head from our walk the other night. You can’t fix her, Ronan… at some point, you’ve got to let go. Stop letting her take so much from you.
So, I don’t fight. I don’t explain. I just nod once. “Rest, then.”
Her gaze drifts away, already bored, already gone. I open the door and step into the cool morning air. As I cross the gravel drive toward my car, a strange clarity settles in. Maybe I won’t come back here after the race. Maybe I’m done letting these walls and the woman inside them bleed me dry.
But today isn’t about her. It’s about Silvercrest. The race is the only thing that matters right now.
♦
I roll through the private entrance at Silvercrest, windows down on the Aston. A few fans crowd the barricades, Union Jack flags waving along with homemade posters with my number scrawled across them. The security team waves me into the lot, my FI credential flashing on the dash. Car doors slam around me as other drivers arrive, one after another. It’s the same circus every race day—the walk-in through cameras, journalists shouting questions, fans thrusting programs and caps to sign.
I do my duty—sign a few autographs, offer a nod, pose for a selfie—but it’s mechanical. A polished smile here, a Sharpie scrawl there. The “rock star” treatment doesn’t touch me the way it used to. A pair of girls in miniskirts squeal my name from behind the barrier, makeup caked thick, eyes lit with possibility. I don’t glance twice. They’re not Francesca.
We didn’t see each other last night, both locked down with team meetings and sponsor dinners. I’d gone to bed restless, annoyed at the silence, itching for just a few minutes with her. And now, walking through the paddock with cameras at my back, I weigh whether it’s worth the uproar if I seek her out. A Crown Velocity driver strolling into the Titans garage… it’ll set tongues wagging, guaranteed. But I find myself not giving a damn.
I duck my head and slip past a cluster of journalists, flash my credentials at security, and keep walking until I spot Nash coming out of the garage. “Have you seen Francesca?”
He gives me a once-over, brows lifted. “Yeah. Having breakfast in the hospitality suite.” Then, with a faint smirk: “You’re a brave man.”
I pause. “Why’s that?”
Nash folds his arms, grin crooked. “Because I saw the photo. You know… the one of you two holding hands in the paddock. Half the internet’s already convinced there’s something going on.”
I arch a brow, replying dryly. “Maybe they’re right.”
His smile fades and he becomes sharper, more protective. “So, there is?”
I don’t back down. “There is.”
For a second, he studies me, the easy humor gone from his expression. Then he leans in a fraction, voice low and edged. “Listen, Barnes. She’s my teammate, my friend, and she’s worked too damn hard to get here. If you screw with her—if you so much as bruise her heart—I’ll run you down on the track myself.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “You’ll run me down? That a threat?”
“Not a threat,” he says, straightening, eyes steady. “A promise.”
I meet his gaze head-on, the amusement still tugging at my mouth. “You’d have to catch me first and I doubt you can, but relax, mate. I’d never hurt her.”
My tone must convince him, because his stance eases, the edge softening into a smirk. “Good. Then we won’t have a problem.”
“Glad we cleared that up,” I reply, and without waiting for more, I head toward the stairs, my pulse picking up with every step.
Every set of eyes follows me, some curious, some flat-out gawking. Titans’ colors everywhere, and me in Crown gear—it’s enemy territory. Still, I push on, and when I step into the suite, I see her.
Francesca’s head is bent, hair shining under the overhead lights, fork poised above her plate. The sight of her is a gut punch. I want to stride across the room, pull her out of that chair, and kiss the hell out of her right here in front of everyone. Let them all choke on it. But it’s race day and we’re supposed to stay focused.
She looks up and startles, then her whole face blooms into joy. I feel it through my entire body.
I drop into the seat beside her, the chair creaking faintly under my weight, and without asking, reach over to snag a strip of bacon off her plate. The salt and grease hit my tongue as I lean back, smirking.
“Enemy territory,” she teases, shaking her head, her words low but playful.
“Worth the risk.” I chew slowly, savoring it because it’s hers, not mine, and watch the corners of her mouth twitch as she fights back a smile. It’s like I’ve been holding my breath since yesterday and only now remembered how to let it out.