Page 130 of Hot Lap
Maiken fake-gasps. “Are you saying I’m the more photogenic Pritchard?”
Reece nudges her knee under the table. “Never been a question, has it?”
His phone buzzes. Then again. Then again. DMs. Mentions. Texts.
He ignores them and looks at her — this wild, smart, gorgeous woman in his team’s hospitality unit, winning over the world one high-speed thrill at a time.
God, does he love her for it.
They’re winding down. The post-practice buzz is softening into fatigue and wrap-up chatter, and the hospitality unit hums with contentment. Maiken’s curled into the corner of the booth, sipping a lemon soda and still scrolling through hot lap reactions with a smug little smile that’s doing something dangerous to Reece’s self-control.
He taps the table twice. “Helmet’s still in the garage.”
“I’ll grab it.” Ona shifts like she means to stand.
He shakes his head. “No, you’ve been running since six a.m. Sit. I’ll be back in five.”
He heads out of the building and crosses the paddock, nodding at a few staffers on the way, and steps into the garage. The air still smells like hot rubber and a good day. A couple of the mechanics are bantering as they straighten the space, leaving everything ready for tomorrow.
His number one mechanic, Miguel, daps him up as he passes. “Mega job today, boss.”
“That’s down to you lot.” Reece pulls his helmet backpack off the shelf where he stores it and slings it over his shoulder.
“Gonna dial it in again tomorrow?” another mechanic asks.
“Too right.” Reece strides back across the garage. He’s looking forward to making love to his wife and getting a good rest. P3 and qualies are tomorrow. Tonight? Everything feels easy, like the day’s been dipped in gold.
Until he steps back out to the paddock and looks up to see the last person he expected or wanted to encounter. His steps falter, muscle memory kicking in as he braces for impact.
She’s standing there, just outside the main thoroughfare, arms crossed, gaze on him. Platinum blonde. Polished. Still favoring designer neutrals and the kind of heels made for headlines.
Peony Jones-Musgrove.
His stomach drops and his hand tightens on the bag strap. Not because he's still hurt, but because her presence feels like donning old skin that no longer fits.
What the fuck is she doing here?
She smiles and it’s not warm or kind. Just... sharp. “Reece.”
His name on her lips sounds like it always has, expensive and empty. She’s standing in front of Nitro’s hospitality unit like she owns the place, wearing designer sunglasses and a smug little smile that hasn’t changed since the day she shredded what was left of his trust.
He doesn’t pause, answer, or even give her a second glance. He just strides past like she doesn’t exist.
Really, he wishes she didn’t.
Peony straightens. “Reece, c’mon.”
Before she can keep going, Petra opens the door and steps out of the building.
Her gaze lands on his ex, cool and lethal as always. She must’ve seen Peony from inside. “Piss off, scrub.” Her voice is sugar-laced acid. “You’re the reject no one wants to see.”
Peony bristles. “This is none of your?—”
“Save it. You had your shot. Go poison someone else’s pit lane.”
Reece doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. Petra’s got this, and she’s never pretended to like Peony.
He finds Maiken where he left her, lounging opposite Ona and still scrolling through her phone. She looks up and smiles, then studies him a second longer. Her expression shifts, and he knows that she knows some shit went down.
