Page 76 of Speed Crush

Not fully.

Because even though he stood up for me, even though he said it loud enough for the world to hear—I still hear that one question echo.

Is she just a phase?

And the worst part? A tiny voice inside me wonders if they’re right.

Noah glances over at me. Just a second. Just enough to see the tightness in my jaw, the flicker of doubt I haven’t managed to hide.

He faces forward again—but raises his voice, even though no one’s asked.

“For the record,” he says clearly, his tone like steel wrapped in velvet, “she’s not a phase. She’s the realest thing I’ve got going.”

A few heads turn. More cameras click.

And then he squeezes my hand again before sliding his arm up around my shoulders, pulling me in against his side. Protective. Assured.

We walk away as one—shoulders brushing, steps synced. And he doesn't look back. Not once.

We don’t stop until we’re back into the building, the doors close behind us.

Later that afternoon, while Noah’s out on the test track and locked into real-time data feedback with the engineers, I take myself on a short tour of the nearby town.

A cup of macchiato and a warm slice of focaccia from a tiny corner café, a quick pass through the boutiques tucked under stone arches, and just enough time wandering narrow cobblestone streets to fall a little more in love with this part of Italy.

I pick up a small tin of Italian lavender candies for mom and a stitched leather keychain with a tiny, embossed racecar for dad. It feels good to carry a piece of this place home to them.

I was impressed watching Noah earlier. There’s nothing quite like seeing a man behind the wheel—focused, fast, utterly in control. The vibrations from the engine still echo in my body. I don’t know how he does it, staying composed with that much power thrumming under him.

Before I could embarrass myself by lingering longer at the track just to watch him, I told him I was going to explore a little. He’d smiled, nodded, and gave me a kiss, before shifting into driver mode.

By the time I return to the hotel, I’m still buzzing from Noah’s touch, the way he stood up for me in front of the cameras, and the low, vibrating thrill of watching him behind the wheel. A hot shower is the only thing that might settle me.

I peel off my jeans, take my time under the water, then wrap myself in a towel—still damp and air-drying—just in time to hear the soft click of the suite door.

Noah, done with training, just getting in. His voice floats in from the other room—low, serious, but gentle. Meant for someone else.

“No, the money’s already in. You just focus on the training.” he says. “And tell him not to worry about gear. He’s covered.”

There’s a pause. Then: “I don’t care about credit. Just get him on the track.”

I freeze, towel clutched at my chest.

“This isn’t a publicity stunt,” he says, quieter now. “Just make sure he gets the shot. The world doesn’t need to know my name’s on it.”

He ends the call.

I don’t move. Not yet.

Because something inside me is shifting. Melting. Breaking apart in the most dangerous way.

Sounds like Noah is sponsoring another driver quietly. Without asking for anything in return.

I step closer to the bedroom door just as he appears in the hallway, tucking his phone into his back pocket.

His hair is damp—he must’ve showered at HQ—and his fitted team shirt hugs his chest and shoulders like it was tailored to him an hour ago.

He stops short when he sees me.

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