Page 70 of Overtake
“Christ, Petra. I already said you don’t need anyone’s help proving you belong on track. But you seem to think I’m a fucking idiot.”
She stops abruptly at the intersection of two service roads, where the path splits toward a maintenance building. The area’s well-lit but sheltered, circuit lights distant enough to make the space feel private.
She faces him, and the anger in her eyes is sexy as hell. “I think F1’s reigning champion should race his fucking arse off instead of lifting off the gas for the DEI hire.”
“I didn’t.”
“Sector 3. You had more to give.”
“I gave what I needed to.” He steps closer. This is so damned dangerous, but when did danger ever stop him? Or her? “You’re so sure, Petra? You know me that well?”
“Yes.” Challenge blazes in her eyes. “I know exactly what you’re going to do?—”
He shoves his hands into her hair and pulls her mouth to his. This kiss was inevitable, something they’ve been racing toward for days, weeks, maybe even years.
Time stops, restarts, and brings them together, like G-forces when they’re flying through a perfect corner. She fists his shirt and pulls him closer. He deepens the kiss, tasting her lips and her tongue.
They finally break apart, breathing as hard as after any qualifying lap, and she finishes her sentence.
“…on the track.” Petra shakes her head, a nervous little movement he’s never seen before. She glances around, probably looking for Rodrigo. Not that the guy will intrude. The man excels at being present without being noticeable. “Nico, this… is…”
“Complicated?”
“Idiotic.” She takes a half-step back, putting distance between them. “The teams, the championships, the FIA.”
“Politics and points?” He starts to reach for her again, but her expression stops him. “That’s what you’re worried about?”
“Politics and points and media and sponsors and fans and all of it.” She crosses her arms, a barrier between them. “We’re not supposed to.”
“What? Want this?”
“Trust this.” Her voice gets sharper, but there’s confusion there too. “How do I know I can trust this? How do I know you’re not playing some long game here?”
The accusation hits him like a shunt into a barrier. He’s not sure if he’s hurt, angry, or understanding. All, probably. “Petra, you know me better than that.”
“I know you’re a world champion fighting for a fifth title, and I’m the biggest threat you face.” Her laugh is bitter. “What better way to throw me off my game than to make me think—” She stops.
“What?”
“That this means something.” Vulnerability crosses her face before she locks it down. “When it’s probably just strategy.”
He wants to tell her she’s wrong, that this has been building for years, that he’s wanted her since they were teenagers. But the hurt in her eyes stops him. Papáwarned him to be careful. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Wouldn’t you?” She shakes her head. “I’ve got everything to lose here, Nico. My first real shot at the championship, and I’m supposed to trust that the man standing between me and history isn’t trying to get inside my head? That you didn’t start this game back in Singapore?”
“Singapore? No. I was trying to prevent you from losing that shot.”
She rolls her eyes, and it’s such a classic Petra response. “Christ, Nico. I’d thought it through and I was willing to accept the consequences.”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
“Oh, please. Protecting the hysterical woman from herself?”
“¡Dios mío! Petra. I want you on track. I want to beat you in a fair fucking race. You could’ve messed that all up.”
“Fantastic. I already have a dad, thanks. I don’t need another one. Or a savior. Or a nanny.”
Nico huffs and looks up at the starry sky. She’s as irritating as she is amazing. When his gaze finds her again, her frustration matches his. He leans close. “There’s a big fucking difference between twoteamsfighting and twoteammatesfighting. One involves the FIA and looks for a scapegoat. The other is left to the teams to resolve.”
