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)
“They’re good. Mamma’s still running the kitchen like a military operation, Papà’s working on another batch of his ‘famous’ arrabiata.” She smiles into her wineglass like it’s a secret. “He’s turned it into a three-day process, and he guards it like it’s classified. If you try to peek in the pot before he says it’s ready, you risk losing a hand. They’ll want to see you, of course.”
That’s where things turn green. A bolt of jealousy toward Carlos hits hard and it has nothing to do with the fact that he might have designs on Francesca and everything to do with the fact that he’s more in her inner circle than I am.
Carlos laughs. “I remember you bringing it to the paddock once in FI2. Whole hospitality tent smelled like heaven.”
Her eyes go distant with fondness. “That was after Monza. He said the only thing better than a home win was feeding the people who made it happen.”
My molars grind. It’s not the question about her parents that has me riled. It’s that Carlos knew to ask. That he’s seen her life in soft focus—parents, kitchens, red sauce in the paddock—while mine’s always been shot in high contrast, every flaw lit up until it burns.
I stab a piece of bread and drag it through oil. “How’s prep at Union Jack?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.
“Good,” Carlos says easily. “Sim work this morning. Chassis tweaks.”
He and Francesca banter back and forth, a friendly teasing. It’s all fluff, not too deep.
Our mains arrive, steam ghosting from the plates. Francesca splits her pasta with Carlos without asking, like they’ve done it a hundred times, and once again, there is an ugly sensation that tugs low in my gut. I cut my veal too precisely and listen to them trade an old Bahrain story that ends with her snorting into her napkin.
I am not jealous, I tell myself.
Carlos pours himself another inch of wine, then tips the bottle toward me. “Sure you won’t?”
“Positive.”
He studies me over the rim of his glass, eyes bright with something that isn’t unkind. “You’re terrible at this, you know.”
“At what?” I keep my fork moving.
“Pretending.” His smile edges wry. “Every time she laughs, you look like you’ve been handed pole and a penalty on the same sheet of paper.”
Francesca goes very still beside me. The restaurant hums on—cutlery, low talk, a waiter’s baritone apology from somewhere near the door.
I set my fork down, slow. “That so.”
“Relax,” he says, amusement in his tone. “I’m not interested in her in that way.”
“She can speak for herself,” I say.
“I can,” Francesca murmurs, a warning threaded through the words.
Carlos leans back, palms up. “Look, mate. I’ve got enough drama with my own team’s management to last me a career. Francesca’s my friend. The kind I’d take a penalty for. The kind I don’t screw over. I can tell you’re… whatever it is you are about her. It’s none of my business until it hurts her. Then it’s my business.”
It’s a threat but rather than pissing me off, I like that he’s protective of her.
I hold his gaze a beat. “Noted.”
Carlos nods like some unspoken box has been ticked. The tension in the air loosens a fraction, and the conversation stumbles before catching its rhythm again.
“So,” Carlos says, spearing the last olive, “tires for Silvercrest. Think we’re in for graining, or just the usual complaining?”
I shrug. “Bit of both, depending on who’s talking.”
Francesca smirks. “Which means mostly you.”
That earns her a look, but it’s Carlos who chuckles and leans forward. “Speaking of complaining, did I ever tell you about the time I fainted in the simulator?”
Francesca’s eyes widen. “No. What?!”
He grins, sheepish. “Long session, no breakfast, and it was a little too warm. I came out of a hairpin, blacked out, and when I woke up, they were all crowded around me. It was embarrassing.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Bet the telemetry looked impressive.”
“Oh, yeah,” Carlos says, laughing now. “Apparently, I had the cleanest lap of my life right before I passed out. Still get reminded of it anytime I say the car feels heavy.”
Francesca presses a hand over her mouth, laughing so hard her shoulders shake. “Please tell me someone got video.”
“Of course,” he says with mock despair. “Gets resurrected in the group chat whenever I need humbling.”
Her laugh turns into a wheeze, tears shining in her eyes. Against my better judgment, the corner of my mouth twitches. “Careful, Accardi—you’re going to make people think we enjoy each other’s company.”
She bumps my knee under the table, still grinning. “We don’t?”
I glance at Carlos, then back to her. “Maybe a little.”
“Those are some big feelings you’ve got pouring out,” Carlos deadpans, and we all laugh.
It shouldn’t be this easy to like him. It annoys me that it is.
By dessert—three spoons, one ridiculous slice of lemon tart—we’re fully back in neutral. We talk mostly about racing, but every once in a while, Carlos and Francesca talk family—funny stories that make my heart both full and empty at the same time. Truly happy that they have wonderful families, but always the grim reminder that I don’t.