Page 92 of Hot Lap
Reece rests his hands on the Halo and thinks about how she's going to react and how honest it will be. How her view of this world brings a perspective he's needed. "Approximately seventeen point two million."
Maiken's eyes go wide and she snatches her hands off the car. "What? Are you fucking kidding me?"
The garage crew erupts with laughter, and Reece, too, is laughing his ass off. He loves this about her. This honesty in how she reacts to everything in his world.
"No! No. You're so full of shit, Reece Pritchard."
The mechanics and now the engineers and Luca are all laughing, as delighted as he is with her amazing perspective.
"Seriously! I'm not lying, Mai. The average cost of an F1 car is sixteen mil."
"And you crash these things?"
"Not on purpose."
She cracks up, and Reece falls a little more in love with this woman.
"You are fucking crazier than I thought, RP." She raises her hands, fingers splayed, and casts a look around the garage. "All of you. Bat-shit fucking crazy."
God help him.
Somehow Maiken fits here, with him, like she was always meant to.
For the first time in longer than he can remember, Reece laughs without caring who's watching. Yet even in the middle of all this fun, the thought punches through his brain and right into his heart:
I'm in deep.
If after all of this — the way she looks at him, the way she listens to everything he says like he's some fucking genius, the way she sorts out every broken piece of him without even trying — if after all of that, Mai decides to walk away...
It's not going to be like before. Not like Peony.
That had been a bump in the road.
This?
This will be the shunt he might not walk away from.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
QATAR GRAN PRIX | SUNDAY | RACE DAY
People are watching me.
I feel it the second I step out of the team transport and into the evening air at the circuit. Eyes skim over me like I’m a curiosity or a threat, or maybe both.
Good. I’m not here to blend in.
My jumpsuit is vintage ’70s denim with a tube top and snug in all the right places. Over my shoulders, I’ve knotted one of the pashminas Branca bought for me — cranberry-red, tails tied behind my back to turn it into a soft, drapey little jacket. It flutters every time I walk.
My shoes are brown leather lace-up oxfords with a serious stacked heel. The kind of heel that says, “Yes, I can run in these or I can stomp your nuts into the pavement.”
Hair? Full Farrah Fawcett fantasy. Wings feathered and flipped, bouncing with every step. Makeup? Smokey eyes, pale shimmer lips, bronzer dusted exactly where it counts. I’ve never been kissed by the sun, but today I’m cosplaying like it’s my religion.
I look like I walked out of a Polaroid from 1978 and into a billion-dollar sport that doesn’t know what to do with me.
So, yeah, let them look.
Reece is waiting for me just inside the paddock gate. His gaze tracks me from head to toe, slow and appreciative, but not possessive. “You do realize this isn’t NASCAR, right, Mrs. Pritchard?” He takes my hand, neither subtle nor hesitant as he threads his fingers through mine. His message to everyone watching is clear:This is not a PR stunt. This is my wife and, no, she’s not a fucking distraction.
