Page 82 of Formula Dreams
I roll throughthe private entrance at Silvercrest, windows down on the Aston.A few fans crowd the barricades, Union Jack flags waving along with homemade posters with my number scrawled across them.The security team waves me into the lot, my FI credential flashing on the dash.Car doors slam around me as other drivers arrive, one after another.It’s the same circus every race day—the walk-in through cameras, journalists shouting questions, fans thrusting programs and caps to sign.
I do my duty—sign a few autographs, offer a nod, pose for a selfie—but it’s mechanical.A polished smile here, a Sharpie scrawl there.The “rock star” treatment doesn’t touch me the way it used to.A pair of girls in miniskirts squeal my name from behind the barrier, makeup caked thick, eyes lit with possibility.I don’t glance twice.They’re not Francesca.
We didn’t see each other last night, both locked down with team meetings and sponsor dinners.I’d gone to bed restless, annoyed at the silence, itching for just a few minutes with her.And now, walking through the paddock with cameras at my back, I weigh whether it’s worth the uproar if I seek her out.A Crown Velocity driver strolling into the Titans garage… it’ll set tongues wagging, guaranteed.But I find myself not giving a damn.
I duck my head and slip past a cluster of journalists, flash my credentials at security, and keep walking until I spot Nash coming out of the garage.“Have you seen Francesca?”
He gives me a once-over, brows lifted.“Yeah.Having breakfast in the hospitality suite.”Then, with a faint smirk: “You’re a brave man.”
I pause.“Why’s that?”
Nash folds his arms, grin crooked.“Because I saw the photo.You know… the one of you two holding hands in the paddock.Half the internet’s already convinced there’s something going on.”
I arch a brow, replying dryly.“Maybe they’re right.”
His smile fades and he becomes sharper, more protective.“So, there is?”
I don’t back down.“There is.”
For a second, he studies me, the easy humor gone from his expression.Then he leans in a fraction, voice low and edged.“Listen, Barnes.She’s my teammate, my friend, and she’s worked too damn hard to get here.If you screw with her—if you so much as bruise her heart—I’ll run you down on the track myself.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.“You’ll run me down?That a threat?”
“Not a threat,” he says, straightening, eyes steady.“A promise.”
I meet his gaze head-on, the amusement still tugging at my mouth.“You’d have to catch me first and I doubt you can, but relax, mate.I’d never hurt her.”
My tone must convince him, because his stance eases, the edge softening into a smirk.“Good.Then we won’t have a problem.”
“Glad we cleared that up,” I reply, and without waiting for more, I head toward the stairs, my pulse picking up with every step.
Every set of eyes follows me, some curious, some flat-out gawking.Titans’ colors everywhere, and me in Crown gear—it’s enemy territory.Still, I push on, and when I step into the suite, I see her.
Francesca’s head is bent, hair shining under the overhead lights, fork poised above her plate.The sight of her is a gut punch.I want to stride across the room, pull her out of that chair, and kiss the hell out of her right here in front of everyone.Let them all choke on it.But it’s race day and we’re supposed to stay focused.
She looks up and startles, then her whole face blooms into joy.I feel it through my entire body.
I drop into the seat beside her, the chair creaking faintly under my weight, and without asking, reach over to snag a strip of bacon off her plate.The salt and grease hit my tongue as I lean back, smirking.
“Enemy territory,” she teases, shaking her head, her words low but playful.
“Worth the risk.”I chew slowly, savoring it because it’s hers, not mine, and watch the corners of her mouth twitch as she fights back a smile.It’s like I’ve been holding my breath since yesterday and only now remembered how to let it out.
“I’m glad you came by,” she says softly, a note of sincerity slipping through the banter.Her lashes lower for a beat, like she’s almost shy to admit it.“I missed you last night.”
Her words are everything and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face, easy and unguarded.“Same.”
“How’d you sleep?”she asks, concern in her eyes.
My voice roughens, betraying me a bit.“I slept all right but had a run-in with Vivienne this morning.”
Her expression flares instantly, her brow knitting.I know that look—it’s protective, the way someone would look if they wanted to shield you from a storm.
Before she can dig, I wave it off.“I remembered what you said—about letting it go.So I did.I didn’t try to fight, just walked away.”I shrug.“Might be the only way to survive her.”
She sets her fork down.“You’ll figure it out,” she says, eyes steady on mine.There’s no hesitation, no doubt.“Whatever that looks like, and I’ll back you.”
The anxiety caused by my mum that’s lived in my body for as long as I can remember loosens, just a fraction, enough to make me swallow against it.God, I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that.Not from a teammate, not from anyone in the paddock—but from Francesca.
