14 Montréal

14

MONTRéAL

EARLY JUNE

PHAEDRA

Along with a photo of my grandmother’s earrings, I emailed Natalia this message last night:

You win, Nat. I fucked him before Silverstone.

I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. There’s no excuse. I miss my best friend. I promise I’m not saying this to be manipulative, but my dad is sick, and I’m scared. Please call me. I want to apologize in person. (And give you the earrings—they’re yours, fair and square.)

Cosmin had to fly to Bucharest again a few days ago, and whatever the reason was, it had him in a bad mood. He flew in to Montréal yesterday and was completely wiped out after a seventeen-hour flight with a layover in London. When I saw him, I told him it wasn’t a good idea to meet up for a shag.

“You need sleep way more,” I said. “You look like death warmed over, and frankly, I’m not damaging my product.”

The comment was meant to be lighthearted. But the look he gave me—patting my cheek with a weary smile and closing the door of his room, leaving me awkwardly standing in the hallway—held a bitterness that didn’t seem entirely owing to lack of sex.

The next day, members of the team—Cosmin, Jakob, and a handful of engineers including myself—all do the track walk. The on-foot lap is a Thursday-of-race-week tradition, ninety scheduled minutes allowing drivers and their immediate team to discuss circuit features and changes, track surface, and other small details in a relaxed, hands-on way.

I’ve been nervous about seeming chummy with Cosmin ever since we decided to throw caution to the wind and become clandestine fuck buddies. I study the track with a serious scowl, hands stuffed in the pockets of my team blacks, and allow Engineering Director Lars to walk between Cos and me as we stride around the course.

At the Ponte de la Concorde corner, Jo?o Valle passes us, riding a kick scooter. Owing to the tangle at the Monaco GP between Cosmin and Valle, there are still hard feelings. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Valle hadn’t later caught wind of Cosmin’s radio outburst.

When the “halfwit daddy’s boy” comment made it to Valle, several witnesses said he shot back something in Portuguese that roughly translates to “fuck that motherless nephew of a Balkan thug,” and… yeah. Not pretty. It hasn’t escaped my notice that the thing Cosmin hates most is being mentioned in the same breath as his uncle.

Public apologies were exchanged and we all jetted off to the next continent, but today is the first time the two have been near each other since a grudging handshake in Monte Carlo.

Lars and I glance at Cos, watching for a reaction when Valle wends around us, showing off by doing a tailwhip like some middle schooler.

An impish smile perks up on Cosmin’s face. “Playtime for you, Jo?o?” he calls out. “Quite jolly on your little toy. But racing is a man’s game.”

My shoulders stiffen when Valle makes a U-turn and heads back. He’s stupidly good looking, and being absurdly wealthy—the eldest son of Brazilian sugar money—doesn’t hurt his prospects in any sphere. He’s a mediocre driver whose finest asset is the fat checks Papa Valle writes to Harrier. Jo?o’s girlfriend is an Italian model who towers over him at nearly six feet. The kid leads a charmed life and is so frivolous that he makes devil-may-care Cosmin look as grim as a mortician by comparison.

“Are we going to have words, Ardelean?” Valle asks.

“ No ,” I immediately reply for him.

“There have been words enough,” Cosmin says. “We both know what happened in Monaco.”

Valle’s angel face is sullen in a way that would be a sexy pout if I found short, pretty-boy billionaires attractive. “It was a suspension issue,” he grits out, his tan, muscular hands strangling the scooter handles. “Responding to adverse situations is your job. Or do you expect only a smooth path? Maybe fairies fly before your car and sprinkle the way with rose petals?”

Cosmin combs a hand through his hair and even in this moment of tension, I remember the feel of it last week when I was riding him and tangled my fingers in it when I came. I hope I’m not blushing.

“Are you offering?” Cosmin returns. “I’ll get you a little pink basket.”

“You’re careless,” Valle warns.

“And you’re boring. Car?-te.” Cosmin dismisses him with a flip of his hand.

He so often murmurs in Romanian mid-fuck that just the sound of it gets me wet now, and my nostrils flare as I huff out a sharp sigh, annoyed at my own weakness.

Lars glances at me—I think he assumes I’m about to say something about how the “suspension issue” excuse is bullshit. The crash was entirely the fault of Valle being a dipshit with no feel for his car.

“Yes, you are so cool,” Valle sneers. “Estás a meter água.” He kicks off to ride away.

“Give my regards to your girlfriend,” Cosmin calls after him, and my stomach drops.

Rumor has it Valle’s not the only man on the grid to have scaled that leggy peak—she and Cosmin supposedly had a one-nighter last year at Monza.

Valle’s foot drops to the asphalt with a bark of shoe rubber and I’m sure there’s going to be a fight.

“Jesus wept, Ardelean,” I hiss. “Lay off before we have—”

Lars puts a hand on my arm, which frankly pisses me off, because not much makes me stabbier than men shushing me.

In my periphery I see Valle ride off, going for the moral high ground, or maybe mentally having acknowledged that Cos is eight inches taller and could paste him.

I yank my arm away, and my eyes go back and forth between Lars and Cosmin. “I was trying to prevent a scene,” I snap.

“And now you are creating one,” Cosmin replies smoothly.

“Excuse me?”

“Rein in the temper,” Lars states, his eyes flicking past me to where a group from Team Coraggio are drawing near. “Hide your feelings and let’s get back to work.”

I’m already seething when the barb Cosmin throws out next becomes the last straw.

“Miss Morgan is well practiced in hiding her feelings—she can be bloodless.” His eyes shift from Lars to me when he adds, “But she is selective in applying this skill.”

A chilly smile flits over his features before he continues his saunter down the track.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Bloodless? Is this selfish shitbag pouting, calling me cold or emotionless or something because I didn’t put out last night? He can’t seriously be offended that I joked about him being a product, can he?

With everything I’m going through, I’m appalled he’d be so self-absorbed. And borderline name-calling me in front of another team member? What a prick!

I hate him a million times more than I did months ago.

The Coraggio people have caught up, passing us with a critical side-eye. I know open bickering between members of any team becomes potent fuel for paddock gossip. But in my head, a haze of fury obscures every thought other than how I’m going to make it hurt the most when I tell Cosmin this shit is so over .

Ardelean is ruining my day. In the background during everything I do—the meeting, running analytics, the press conference—it beats in my head like distant drums: How. Fucking. Dare. He.

I’m dealing with so much already with the Mo situation, and Cosmin knows it. His piling on is the emotional equivalent of throwing someone a bowling ball when they’re drowning. Over the course of the day, my nice, solid, satisfying anger disintegrates into bewildered hurt.

Klaus is walking into the paddock’s dining room as I’m walking out with my food, and when he drapes an arm over my shoulders, I’m almost shocked—it’s the first time he’s been affectionate with me in weeks.

“How are you holding up, Schatzi?”

I swallow a bite of sesame noodles. “Hey, stranger. Thought I’d lost you.”

He rumbles out a chuckle and follows me to an outside table where I sit and stab at my meal, sending him a nervous glance.

“I’ve always been here,” he assures me, reclining into a chair.

“Have you?” I take a bite. “It’s not like I need a nightly tuck in and bedtime story,” I mumble around the food, “but you’ve been so, um, businesslike .”

He sweeps a glance around us to see who’s sitting nearby before lowering his voice and saying, “The situation with Edward is very difficult for me. I’m not handling it well, and perhaps it has made me distant.”

He and Mo are best work-friends, and he’s also the only person who calls my father Edward. Mo calls Klaus “Klausy,” and occasionally “K-Dog,” which is such boomer hilarity that I can’t even.

“Understandable,” I say nonchalantly.

I’m tempted to add, It also has plenty to do with my apparent-ex-best-friend Natalia , but this isn’t the place to get into that topic, or Mo’s cancer, which still isn’t public knowledge. For that matter, I need a sense of where Klaus’s head is on a possible Emerald acquisition.

“Wanna get dinner tonight?” I offer. “We should probably chat.”

“I have a prior commitment.” His dark eyes skate away.

I can’t resist baiting him. “Ooh, is that a blush, Herr Franke? You generally have no problem owning the parade of F1 fangirls rolling through your bed like chocolates on an I Love Lucy assembly line, so I can’t imagine why you look sheepish. Something you wanna tell me?”

One dark eyebrow lifts, and it’s all we need: he knows I know, and in the space of just a few heartbeats, our connection links up again, crackling to life like an open comm channel.

“Dinner tomorrow instead?” he suggests with a smile.

I shrug as if the relief isn’t killing me. “Sure, cool.”

He reaches across the table for my hand. I pause mid-chew, then lay my fingers over his palm, tentative as a child surrendering a shoplifted item.

“I want you to be happy,” he tells me, looking into my eyes in a way so significant-feeling that it freaks me out. I don’t mean romantic—Klaus has never gone there, period. It just seems he’s trying to tell me something indirectly.

I poke at a sesame seed in my molar, brow furrowing as I study his lean, handsome face and glittering eyes. My stomach drops as a horrible thought occurs to me: Is it too late? Is the deal done, and Mo hasn’t told me?

“What do you mean?” I manage, my nose prickling with the threat of tears. “Are you firing me?”

His open-hearted laugh—something I haven’t heard in a while—is the best sound, and my shoulders relax as I crack a smile to mirror his.

“Ah, Schatzi. No. ” He closes one eye and shakes a finger at me. “You’re a pessimist. Kind words are not always the sugar hiding a bitter pill.”