Page 18 of Formula Dreams
Stepping inside, the lobby exudes both power and sophistication in the form of marble floors laced with veins of pale violet, plush gray sofas, and two display bays framing a silver-and-purple race car lit from below.Trophies and driver helmets rest on glass shelves beneath backlit walls, each piece curated and polished—not cluttered.
The eastern side of the massive lobby is floor-to-ceiling glass that overlooks the developmental engineering department.Inside, technicians busily code and analyze telemetry on new innovations in the all-out effort to build a better and faster car.
“Good morning, Ms.Accardi,” the receptionist says from behind a wide, curved desk at the far end of the lobby.She’s a young British woman wearing a sleek charcoal-gray suit with a subtle purple Titans pin at the lapel.She taps her screen and nods.“You’re expected upstairs.Conference room two.”
“Grazie,” I say with a smile as I flash my credentials at the scanner mounted to the side of her desk.The sensor chimes and a turnstile admits me into the inner sanctum.Beyond the checkpoint, the real work of Titans Racing hums around me.
Since I’m a bit early, I decide on caffeine as a bolster and head toward the break room.I pass a row of glass-walled offices on my left where some of the upper-level executives work.Through another set of glass panels on the right, I catch a glimpse of the garage below.Mechanics in branded coveralls swarm over a stripped-down chassis like surgeons, tools glinting under bright task lighting.If I had a choice of working in an office or a garage, I’d take the latter every day of the week.
I adjust the strap on my shoulder bag and turn down a hallway.The décor shifts slightly here—less clinical, more comfortable.Pale wood paneling.Titans’ signature white-and-violet branding woven into art and upholstery.Framed campaign shots and magazine spreads line the walls, a history of Excalibur Racing through the years, with the last few showcasing Nash Sinclair and his debut with Titans Racing.I study one particularly great shot of him throwing a rooster tail of gravel during track time at Silvercrest.I should be intimidated by Nash as he’s one of the best this sport has ever seen, but he’s been so welcoming that I’m grateful to have him on my team.
I round the last corner toward the break room and slow my steps when I see two very familiar bodies tangled in a goodbye kiss.
Nash and Bex.
Her arms are looped around his neck and Nash cups her face like she’s delicate as they smile at each other.It’s sweet—if you’re into nauseatingly cute.
I clear my throat loudly.“Should I come back in ten minutes with a bucket of ice water?”
Bex laughs without letting go.“Don’t be jealous.You’ll find your tall, delicious snack eventually.”
“Is that what we’re calling Nash now?”I say, tossing my bag onto the nearest counter.“A snack?”
“A full-course meal,” Nash mutters, landing a playful slap on Bex’s butt.In turn, she pats his chest like he’s earned a gold star.
“I have to run,” she announces, grabbing her water bottle from the table.“But I’ll see you later for lunch, handsome.”She leans in for a final peck, then winks at me as she heads for the door.“Good luck today, Francesca.I hear you’re about to be partnered with the equivalent of human sandpaper.”
She can only be talking about Ronan Barnes since Lex Hamilton is one of the very nice guys.
I raise a brow.“Is that official?”
“Nope.”She grins, calling out over her shoulder.“Just gossip.But I guess you’ll find out soon enough.”
I turn to Nash.“I am not looking forward to working with Barnes.”
Nash chuckles, landing a playful punch to my upper arm.“Come on, Accardi.You’re tough as nails.You can totally handle that pompous windbag.”
I almost choke on my laughter, especially since Nash is the kind of guy who seems above petty insults.I follow him out of the break room and we head down the hall to the conference room.
A long, high-gloss white lacquer table stretches the length of the space, surrounded by ergonomic gray leather chairs with titanium-finish bases that look as expensive as they probably are.Embedded power strips and touchscreens are flush with the tabletop—everything minimalist, everything wired.
On one wall is a massive video screen, currently displaying the Titans’ logo in a slow-moving animation that cycles through soft pulses of white and deep violet.Backlit shelves line the shorter wall behind the head of the table and hold framed photos of podium moments, championship helmets, and a gleaming replica of last year’s car.
At the far end of the room, easels are set up with black silk shrouds covering them.A full tea service is set out.We’re the first to arrive, so Nash and I take seats on the opposite side of the table.
“So,” I say, nodding toward the easels that I assume hold renderings of the marketing campaign.“What do you think about this idea?”
He shrugs.“It’s goofy, but whatever.Brienne says it’s good press and it’s obviously good money, so…”
“I’ve never done one of these,” I admit.“Commercial shoots.Scripted ads.I guess that’s how you know you’ve made it to the top, although I hope my performance doesn’t send me back down to FI2.”
“Just be yourself,” Nash says with a chuckle.“You’ve got the whole charming Italian rookie takes-no-shit thing down already.They’ll eat it up.”
I’m not sure if that’s a compliment, but I take it as one.
The door opens and Lex Hamilton walks in, smiling like he owns the place, which is hilarious given he’s on Titans turf.He moves with the relaxed ease of someone who’s been doing this for a decade and still loves every second of it.
He takes a seat across from us.“Ready to be exploited for corporate gain?”
