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 read that they called Matthieu Laurent back to take my spot on the grid. If he performs well in Monaco this week, it may not matter if I want to go back. They could give him the spot permanently.
That stung in its own way, seeing how easily I could be replaced, but mostly—it was a relief. Because I can’t do it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Ronan has called a few times but I’m not answering. Same for his texts. I know he’s talked to my mamma, but she’s staying strangely silent on the matter of my love life. She attempted to talk to me about it once. Told me not to shut him out and to please not let fear decide my future. I told her, “If I can barely survive losing Carlos, what would it do to me to lose Ronan?”
She had no answer and for now, they just hold space with me. They don’t push, but I see the worry in their eyes. And still I sit here, in the garden behind the villa, staring at the hills and feeling like I’m floating outside my own body. My biggest concern is what to eat for lunch today and maybe how long I might nap. It’s a far cry from the pressurized world of Formula International.
“Francesca.”
My entire body goes rigid, that rumbling British accent that has caused me to melt on more than one occasion.
I turn around and see Ronan standing on the patio, just outside our great room. My eyes drink him in as if parched, and he’s never looked more handsome in black denim with a lightweight gray sweater.
He looks so out of place against the soft Italian morning that for a second, I think I’ve conjured him out of thin air.
I’m frozen. “What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t answer right away, looking out over the scenery. But then those blue eyes come back to me, and they’re filled with censure. “You’re impossible, you know?”
“So I’ve been told,” I mutter.
He holds out his hands as if he can’t decipher the answer. “What’s a man supposed to do when you won’t answer his calls or texts?”
I blink. “So… you flew here to talk to me?”
“Seems like it,” he drawls.
“But,” I say, pondering the implications as I realize what day it is. “You shouldn’t be here. Monaco is in three days. You have free practice tomorrow.”
“Monaco can wait.” He crosses the patio toward me, the sun catching in his hair, his stride purposeful and unyielding. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
“You’re insane.” My voice cracks, heat flooding my face. “You’re supposed to be preparing for the race.”
An event that could potentially kill him, and I shudder at the thought.
“I told Crown Velocity if I’m not back by tomorrow morning, I’m not racing.” He stops a foot from me, eyes roaming over my face like he’s trying to figure me out. “So, unless you want Harley Patrick to have an aneurysm, putting this sport down one very capable woman, you’re going to have to pack your bags and come back with me.”
I gasp at his manipulation. “Are you crazy?”
“Maybe a little,” he says softly, rubbing a hand over his neck.
For a moment, we stare at each other. It hurts how much I want to reach for him, but I don’t. Can’t.
He breaks the silence. “What are you doing, Francesca?”
I look around wildly, because… I’m just standing here.
“You’re running from boogeymen,” he continues. “Phantoms that aren’t real.”
“Carlos dying was real,” I exclaim, incensed he’d make light of it.
“That’s right,” he says with a nod. “But we grieve, we process, and we move on. This isn’t news to you. You know how dangerous this sport is. You know it’s a risk. Hell, you put yourself in that danger every time you get out on the track, so I ask again… what are you doing? This is probably the most un-Francesca-like thing I’ve ever seen.”
For one wild and insane moment, I honestly have no clue what I’m doing. All the reasons that brought me here have been shredded by his logic. Yes, I know the risks and I have always voluntarily submitted to them.
“It’s different,” I say in a small voice.
“No, it’s not. It is what it is. Now I ask again, what are you doing?”
I huff out my frustration. “I’m protecting myself, okay?” The words rip out of me, ragged.
Ronan frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, if it hurt this bad to lose Carlos, I won’t survive losing you.”
He blinks in surprise, taking a stunned step forward with arms open.
I shake my head and step back. “Don’t you get it? If I keep racing, if I keep loving you, it’s only a matter of time before I’m back in that hospital corridor, watching someone tell me you’re gone.”
His jaw works, eyes blazing. “I know you think I don’t get it, but I do. I carry that same fear when it comes to you.”