Page 66 of Double Apex

She cuts a stern glare at me. “Oh, let’s do wait. Meanwhile half the world’s women are collapsing on fainting couches. There’s already an ‘RIP Cosmin’ hashtag, and it’s not been a half hour.”

I turn to him, combing my fingers through his hair and smoothing his eyebrows. On impulse, I drop a kiss on the tip of his nose. He captures my face with both hands, brushing my lips with his own.

So much for discretion.

I step back so Reece can shoot the video. She taps the screen and nods. Cosmin affects a bright smile.

“Hello, all,” he says. “Thank you for your concern and kind wishes. Owing to the skilled marshals and medical team here at Silverstone, I’m in good nick and looking forward to the GP at Hockenheim in two weeks. Cheers!”

His expression flattens immediately, and he rubs a hand over his face. He’s trembling, and I look at the doctor with a question in my expression.

“He’s fine,” the man assures me. “It’s the adrenaline rush coming down. Causes a drop in blood sugar.”

The nurse hands Cosmin a pouch of glucose gel.

Reece looks up from her phone when I say her name, and I nod sideways toward the hallway in a suggestion for us to go. Clearing my throat, I try for a veneer of professionalism as I walk backward.

“Glad you’re okay,” I tell Cosmin.

“I will see you at home, draga mea. Te iubesc.”

He knows full well that Reece just heard him say he loves me. As I turn away, a private smile creeps over my lips. My heart lifts, feeling for the first time as if this is real. I always seem to forget: the anticipation of a thing you’re dreading is far worse than the reality once it actually happens.

Reece is silent as we make our way to the exit.

I’m both elated and terrified, wondering what will happen now that the cat’s out of the bag.

20

ENGLAND

PHAEDRA

By the end of the race, the #RIPCosmin hashtag has slacked off, owing to the video Reece posted. But a particularly nasty group of sexist dickwads—the type who bitch on social media about how “annoying” it is to hear a woman’s voice in the broadcasted race comms—have begun promoting exactly the type of hashtag I feared:

#CryingEngineersBeLike

Followed by—yep, I guessed it!—jokes about my period, or that I’m out of chocolate, or I just watchedTitanic, or broke a heel on my Louboutins.

Awesome.

Cosmin is under observation for the rest of the day because he did technically lose consciousness. When he asserts thathe’s fine and insists on leaving, he’s given a warning by the race stewards. Personally, I’m glad they threatened him into staying.

Hours after the race, I get a text from Klaus asking me to go to one of the paddock meeting rooms. My stomach is doing the un-fun type of cartwheels, and as I make my way down the hall, I tell myself it’s probably fine—maybe he just wants to have a little chat. A friendly ol’ chin-wag where he puts an arm around me and calls me Schatzi and boops my nose with a warning to keep my shit together better in the future.

This goes straight out the window when I’m met with grave looks on either side of the table—Klaus and Reece—and a monitor that appears to be set up for a video call I’m praying won’t be my dad.

“Take a seat,” Reece says, flicking a wave at the empty chair.

It’s late and I’m exhausted—most team members are passing the twelve-hour mark for being at the track. I drag the chair out and sit, fingers twisting in my lap beneath the table.

“I hope that screen isn’t about to be filled with Mo’s face,” I say. “He doesn’t need this bullshit. I get that a poorly timed show of emotion isn’t ideal in our business, but—”

“We have spoken with Edward already,” Klaus cuts in, getting straight to the point. “I feel it might be wise for you to step aside for the remainder of the season.”

A bitter note of laughter escapes like a messy hiccup as the news gut-punches me. “It ‘might be’? As in this is a suggestion?” I shrug. “Yeah, okay—declined.”

“Stronger than a suggestion, Schatzi,” he clarifies, his voice low and soft.

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