Page 74 of Racing Hearts
Georgia grabbed her wine and wandered into my open-plan living room, taking a moment to review each of my photos and trophies scattered across the wall. I watched her as she traced a finger along one of the framed photos of my dad and me from an old race of his.
I loved watching her here, in my space. Barefoot, wine glass in one hand, wearing my shirt like she’d done it a thousand times before.
It felt easy. Right.
“You know, I saw a clip recently of you racing Monster Trucks the other day. Was that back in the US?”
Georgia smiled that beautiful big smile, nodding. “Sometimes I miss being in America. There was such a comfort in knowing what to expect. A comfort in knowing the team, the car, the crowd, even the journalists. There were no surprises in IndyCar,” she whispered as she stared at the photo of me and my father. “I was just another driver, no different than the boys.”
“But you’ve done incredibly in Formula 1. You look so comfortable in the car, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was easily your third year in the sport. A real natural.”
“Say that to all the girls, Rossi?” she joked.
“Just the pretty ones.”
Her cheeks flushed, the freckles across her nose brightening. She rolled her eyes, but I saw the twitch at the corner of her mouth. The one that meant she was secretly pleased. I refilled her glass before motioning for her to take a seat on the couch next to me. Dinner was in the oven, and we had some time before it was finished.
“By the way, I read that engineering book you recommended me,” I confessed. “Figured if you could use it to beat Henri, then I could too.”
She blinked in surprise. “Oh?”
“I meant what I said at the podcast back in Monza. You really are making me a better racer.”
Georgia’s cheeks turned a deep shade of pink, highlighting the small freckles scattered across her nose. Her blushes always melted my heart, and after each one, I found myself desperately looking for the next one. She looked embarrassed by my praise, but she had no reason to be.
It was all true. At the start of the season, it was impossible to picture myself on the podium again. But now? Now I had another winning trophy to add to my collection.
My dad had spent years trying to get me to focus on racing, and here was Georgia, convincing me to read engineering books after just a few months of getting to know her. That was the big difference between Georgia and my father in their motivations in encouraging me to love racing. My dad wanted to continue living his glory days.
Georgia wanted me to be happy and fulfilled.
“What kind of music do you listen to?” she asked, taking another sip of wine. “I notice you have a lot of records in your spare bedroom.”
“I like a good mix of things,” I said honestly. “I don’t really have a favorite band, but recently, Bon Iver after seeing them in London. Beach House is pretty good, too. Saw them at a festival back in France.”
She quirked her eyebrows, clearly surprised at my answer. “Didn’t expect party boy Luca Rossi to have a secret love of indie music.”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Dubois.”
She thought she had me all figured out, assumed that I didn’t care about art or music or reading. But I was determined to show her a different side of myself.
“A man of mystery, apparently,” she teased. A beat passed, and I saw something shift in her. The humor softened into something more reflective. She leaned forward, fingertips playing with the edge of her wineglass.
“There is something I wanted to ask you, actually.”
Georgia nodded for me to continue.
“Several years ago, I overheard my father offering to be your coach. Why did you turn him down?”
She hesitated, her expression unreadable. “I wondered if you knew about that. Honestly? It was tempting. Your dad’s a legend. But I didn’t want to owe anyone my career. In IndyCar, people said I only got ahead because of Anthony’s family. I wasn’t about to start my F1 chapter with people saying I rode in on Michael Rossi’s last name.”
I nodded, understanding exactly what she meant. A luxury I didn’t have, but would have loved. “You wanted it clean.”
“I wanted it to bemine,” she said quietly. “And mine alone. Whether the reputation was failure or success, I’d own it.”
“You’ve definitely earned your place here through your own talent and hard work.”
Georgia smiled gratefully before taking another sip of wine. “You know, I was going to tell you during our dinnerthatnight, but you never showed.”
