Page 63 of Until You Say Stay
The Miami Motor Speedway is hosting their annual International Motorsport Festival this weekend, a massive celebration with everything from GT racing to drift competitions, vintage exhibitions, and manufacturer showcases. Formula One isn’t racing here, but most teams send representatives, and as a Ferrari driver—albeit currently a reserve driver—with a huge following, I’m contractually obligated to be here.
My manager Thomas sees it as the perfect opportunity to continue my “image rehabilitation” campaign, and he’s right. With Ferrari executives, sponsors, and racing journalists from around the world all in one place, it’s my chance to remind everyone why they should put me back in a race seat instead of keeping me in this reserve driver limbo hell.
Since Barcelona, I’ve been stuck watching from the sidelines while Davis drives my car. He can barely crack the top ten when my old teammate Luca is fighting for podiums in the identical car. But Davis doesn’t throw parties that end up on TMZ or get caught on video with questionable substances. And apparently that matters more to the team than actual racing results.
Or it used to. Ferrari is starting to get restless with his performance. Which is why this weekend matters so much. It’s another chance to show them I’ve matured, that I’m worth the risk again.
I towel off roughly and wrap it low around my waist. When I come out, Lark’s awake, sitting on the edge of the bed scrolling on her phone. Her hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, slightly mussed, and when she looks up, that smile hits me right in the chest like a physical blow.
“Morning,” she says, her voice still rough with sleep in a way that makes me think about other ways to make her voice sound like that. “Shower free?”
I clear my throat, shoving down thoughts that definitely aren’t helping the situation.
“Yep, all yours,” I reply, grabbing a shirt from my bag and trying not to stare at the way her sleep shorts ride up her thighs. “Sleep okay?”
“Yeah, actually. You?” She meets my eyes for a moment before glancing away, a slight flush on her cheeks.
“Great,” I say, but it’s a total fucking lie. I barely slept with her next to me, her scent surrounding me, her warmth just inches away, her everything making it impossible to think about anything else. Most of the night had been a war between my brain and my cock, fighting the urge to roll over, pull her underneath me, and bury my face between her thighs until she forgot every man who came before, especially fucking Brandon. Show her exactly what I thought about that kiss.
But she disappeared back into her apartment. Ran away from me. And it’s probably for the best. She’s way too good for me anyway. As much as I want her, I want more than anything not to hurt her, not to fuck this up like I’ve fucked up so many other things.
We dance around each other getting ready, her in the bathroom, me in the bedroom, careful not to invade each other’s space too much. The whole morning routine feels like a carefully choreographed dance designed to avoid addressing whatever’s building between us.
An hour later, we’re in the car heading to the track. Miami International Speedway is packed despite not being a Grand Prix weekend. The parking attendant recognizes me immediately, waves us through to the VIP section with an enthusiastic thumbs up.
Even though there’s no Formula One race this weekend, the place is buzzing with activity. A GT race series is running, but the paddock area is full of Formula One displays, sponsor booths, and team personnel. It’s a corporate showcase disguised as a racing event, designed to keep sponsors happy and engaged between actual Grand Prix weekends.
The familiar smell of fuel and burning rubber hits me as we walk through the gates, and something settles in my chest. This is my world. This is where I belong, where everything makes sense. For all the corporate bullshit that comes with it, nothing beats this—the energy of a racetrack, the machines, the competition. I’ve missed it more than I want to admit.
“This is incredible!” Lark says, turning in a slow circle as we walk through the paddock. Her eyes are wide, taking everything in, the sleek cars on display, the team hospitality areas, the organized chaos of it all.
“Wait till you see the actual racing,” I tell her, putting my arm around her. Even this casual touch sends heat through me that I have to ignore. “Nothing like hearing all the engines fire up at once.”
“I can’t even imagine,” she says, practically buzzing with excitement that makes me want to show her everything.
I spot Thomas waiting by the entrance of the Ferrari hospitality suite, phone in one hand, expensive coffee in the other, looking as stressed as always. He sees us and walks over immediately.
“Right on time,” he says, checking his watch before extending his hand to Lark. “Thomas Reeves. Jack’s manager. And you must be Lark.”
“Nice to meet you,” Lark says, shaking his hand with a warm smile.
Thomas gives me a quick once-over, professional as always, assessing. “Schedule’s tight today. We have the media pen in fifteen, then the meet and greet, and then Autosport wants an interview.”
“Morning to you too,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Thomas. How are you? I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
Thomas rolls his eyes but his mouth twitches with a suppressed smile. We’ve been working together since I was sixteen, when I first signed with a junior racing team. He knows my shit by now.
“Yeah yeah yeah,” he says, “Look, I’ve got to run, but keep up the good behavior today—lots of eyes watching. And nice to meet you, Lark.”
“We’ll give them a show,” I assure him, placing my hand around Lark again.
Jessica, Thomas’s assistant, appears with a tablet and a stack of badges dangling from lanyards. “Your credentials,” she says, handing them over. “I’ve arranged for Lark to have full access to all areas.”
“Thanks, Jess,” I say, slipping the lanyard over my neck.
The paddock area is buzzing with activity—sponsor displays being set up, media crews filming interviews with drivers and team principals, and GT teams prepping their cars. Lark and Imake our way through it all, stopping frequently to introduce her to people I’ve known for years. Everyone wants to meet her, curious about the woman who’s been all over my Instagram lately.
“Jack!”
