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)
Francesca pulls up the text and there’s a link to an Instagram post. It’s a clear photo taken from today. I remember the moment well—it’s after Francesca handled my mum and I reached out… took her hand before she could walk away. It’s unmistakable—our arms outstretched, fingers just slipping free from each other, and Christ… the look on my face. I look utterly besotted. Upon reflection, that’s how I felt in that moment.
The caption reads: Enemies to lovers? #SilvercrestSpotted
For a second, I can only stare. Then a low, incredulous laugh escapes me. “Guess we’re trending.”
Francesca’s head snaps up. “Aren’t you upset?”
“Are you?” I counter.
She shakes her head, beautiful golden locks falling over her shoulders. “No, but you’re the one who wanted to keep it secret.”
“I didn’t want it to be a distraction, and frankly, this will be a distraction. But it’s out there now so the best we can do is keep our heads down until after the race.”
Her eyes narrow. “But you’re truly not upset?”
“I’m not,” I reply, pleased with my growth and maturity. “But I expect we’re going to get hammered in the press. We need a stock answer both of us can use.”
Francesca puts her finger to her chin, eyes upward as if she’s thinking hard. A smile breaks free and she grins. “How about you say, ‘Francesca Accardi is the best formula race car driver I’ve ever seen and that photo was just me yearning to be like her.’”
I laugh, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her close. “Not going to hear me say that in a million years because no matter how much I like you, I’m still going to beat you on the track.”
“Bring it,” she challenges and then kisses me so thoroughly, I know that if she did beat me, I wouldn’t even be mad about it.
CHAPTER 24
Francesca
By the time I roll down pit lane and cut the engine, my jaw aches from how hard I’ve been clenching it. I yank off my gloves, rip my helmet free, and shove it at one of the crew who takes it with wide eyes. My pulse is still thrumming in my throat when Bex leans over the car, already braced for my mood.
“That’s P14, Francesca,” Bex says calmly. “We’re out.”
I already know it but hearing it from my race engineer drives the sting home. That red flag ruined everything.
After a great Q1 run, I was so confident going into Q2. I was poised to make the top ten for the final round. It was right there in my grasp as I was having the best lap time. But that’s only as good as your ability to finish the lap before the clock runs out and if a red flag pauses the session, sometimes you lose the momentum you had.
One of the rookies ahead of me—God, I think it was Mendoza—lost the rear coming through the chicane and spun it straight into the barrier. His car’s wedged at an angle with carbon fiber scattered like shrapnel, and that’s an automatic red flag. No exceptions. The marshals need the track clear and safe before anyone else can run, so every car has to pit immediately. Completed lap times are recorded and laps still in progress are scrubbed.
Which would’ve been fine if I’d already gotten a decent lap in. But I hadn’t. I’d been holding back, waiting for space, nursing my tires until the last possible moment so I could put in one big, perfect flyer. And I was seconds away from completing it when the flag went up. Session suspended.
Once race control restarted the session, I just couldn’t seem to get that speed back. My earlier lap, scrappy with traffic, was good, but not anywhere near quick enough. So that’s it. I’m stuck in P14 and won’t be starting in the top ten at Silvercrest.
It’s brutal how little control you really have sometimes. One guy crashes, and half the grid pays the price.
When I exit the car, it hits me all at once. P14. Mid-pack purgatory and not how I envisioned things would go. I know my talent. I know my skill. I thought with the right car, I could come in and hit podiums right away, but it’s just not happening.
The big screen at the front of the garage confirms what Bex said. My number blinks red on the cutoff line, Carlos sitting three places ahead in P11. He got caught up in the red flag backlog too. Nash made it easily into Q3 at P2 behind Lex at P1. And I can’t help the smile that breaks through the haze. No matter how frustrated I am with my performance, a pop of joy bubbles throughout as I see Ronan’s name glowing near the top—P4, right behind Reid Hemsworth.
“You had traffic in the esses,” Bex adds, softer now, coming up behind me. “It compromised the whole run. Nothing you could’ve done.”