Page 9 of Formula Dreams
My father raises an eyebrow.“And what was he doing?”
Carlos shrugs, grinning.“Apparently trying to loosen a bee from his helmet.”
Alessio chokes on his wine.
“I’m dead serious,” Carlos says, laughing.“He’s swatting at his visor, driving like he’s drunk.”
“Did he crash?”my mother asks, calmly dabbing her lips with her napkin.
“No.But he did spin out in Turn 9 and blamed it on ‘aggressive turbulence.’”
My mom laughs—soft, amused, shaking her head.“Aggressive turbulence,” she repeats and winks at me.“I’ll be using that next time your father burns garlic.”
“You try sautéing while three people are calling about shipment delays,” Luca mutters, but his smile betrays him.
The laughter tapers off and Carlos glances at me, more measured now.“Speaking of turbulence—how’s the media circus treating you?”
I swirl the last sip of wine in my glass.“Depends on the hour.”
My mother’s expression tightens slightly, but she doesn’t speak.She never does—at least not first.She waits.
“It’s relentless,” I admit.“And not about the driving, of course.It’s about my face, my hair, my emotional state.They asked if I thought I’d get ‘too overwhelmed’ during the race.One woman asked what shade of lipstick I wear on race days.”
Carlos winces.“Seriously?”
Alessio snorts.“Should’ve told her you wear engine grease.”
“I almost told her I tint my lips with the blood of my enemies,” I say.Carlos laughs again, but softer this time.
“I’m fine,” I add, because I feel my mother’s worry practically vibrating across the table.“It’s annoying, but it’s not new.They’ll get bored eventually.”
Mamma reaches over and pats my hand.“Let them talk.You’re an Accardi and you don’t care what people think or say.You just keep driving.”
I nod, because that’s exactly what I plan to do.
But first, the bathroom.I rise from my chair.“I need to use the restroom.Mamma… will you order me a fizzy water when the waiter comes back?”
“Of course,” she says and then turns to Carlos.“So… are you dating anyone special?”
I roll my eyes because I can hear the machination in my dear mother’s question, confident Carlos can hold his own.I weave through the tables and into the bar area where the restrooms are located.It’s separated by an open archway and a few tall potted plants that do nothing to muffle the sound of clinking glasses and low music.I spot a familiar face before I even round the corner.
Ronan Barnes.
He’s in a black button-up, sleeves rolled, and casually leaning against the bar with a beer in hand.His posture is loose and his bearing superior, like the world has never once told him no.Two women hang near him, both tall, both laughing like they’ve just heard the cleverest joke on the planet.
He doesn’t see me at first and I’m grateful for it.I haven’t seen him since qualifying ended today and even though I vowed to give him a piece of my mind after he impeded my flying lap, I’ve reconciled it’s not worth it.The race stewards declared no penalty was warranted so I have to let it go.
I duck, passing directly behind the bar, heading for the hallway markedToiletsin both Japanese and English.But curiosity gets the better of me and I sneak a peek his way, only to find him staring at me.
Great.
One of the women says something to him, her hand on his arm to get his attention.It doesn’t provoke a result though, and instead his steady blue eyes burn into mine.
I ignore him, turning toward the restroom, and only once I’m inside with the door closed do I realize that my heart is thudding.I try to analyze why that is, and by the time I’m drying my hands, I’m no closer to the truth.Surely, it’s because I’ve got a beef with him over how he impeded me and I’m anticipating blowback since we reported it.
That must be it.
I leave the bathroom, eyes averted with the intent to ignore Barnes, but I’m brought up short by a muscular frame right in my way.I almost run into the man, an apology on my lips when I realize it’s Ronan.
