Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

Anton

I poured my heart out to her, but she left all the same. And yet, a part of me suspected she would. I saw the questions in her eyes, the confusion. She wasn't prepared for what has happened between us. Perhaps that is why she left?

She left because you're weak. What woman wants a pathetic failure like ? —

"Shut up, Père," I snarl. "Enough."

The voice cuts dead in my head, and an intense wave of relief washes over me. I close my eyes and let out a shaky laugh.

Charlotte's gone, but I know in my heart it's not because she thought I was weak. Not with what she said to me. Perhaps she didn't feel our connection like I did? But finally, after all these years, my fucking father's voice is silenced in my head.

I silenced it. Because Charlotte knows me.

The bully is gone.

Now, I can focus on winning the Monaco Grand Prix. And Charlotte.

Getting dressed, I flick the bed a quick look. I want to wake up every morning with Charlotte in it. I hope, given time, that that can become a reality. I've lost my heart to her. One day, if I am lucky, she might lose hers to me.

Glancing at the bouquet of white roses still on the dining table, the ones Google said were the official Yorkshire flower, I swallow. I'd organised them before the meeting, had been late to it in doing so. I'd intended to give them to her after it to apologise for being…for being me, a grand gesture. I'd hoped she would have accepted them and my ensuing dinner invitation.

Instead, we'd…

I hurry out of my motor home. The race. I need to focus on the race.

I'm halfway to the Equis Paddock HQ, my chest tight, trying not to look for Charlotte, when my name is called behind me.

Turning, I watch Ricky Daniels from RPR and Martin Verhoeven striding toward me. Both are dressed in their racing gear. Ricky is grinning in typical Ricky style. "Laurant," he says as they catch up with me. Mirth dances in his eyes. "Win a bet for me, mate."

I pause, frowning. I like both men. Yes, we're rivals on the track, but we're not enemies off it. Some of the marketing and media stunts we drivers are expected to do would be excruciating if not for some of the other drivers.

"What bet?" I ask.

He throws another grin at Verhoeven. "The Dutchman here tells me you've pissed off Equis's new aerodynamicist already and she's about to quit, but Dovnik said he saw the two of you making out like teenagers only an hour ago outside your motor home. I bet him Dovnik was right."

An invisible fist clenches my heart. Diaulos Racing's area of the Paddock is next to Equis. Logan Dovnik must have seen us. Which means everyone will know now.

Dovnik isn't a gossip, but not much happens in the F1 community on race weekends without it quickly becoming general knowledge.

"Barnett will take her," Verhoeven stated. "Whether she kissed Laurant or not."

Jealousy—tight and dark and hot—slices through me. "Charlotte Madigan isn't going anywhere."

Verhoeven lifts a blonde eyebrow.

Ricky laughs, shaking his head. "Oh mate, I know that tone."

The invisible fist clenching my heart twists. A tight pressure grips my temples. I narrow my eyes at the Australian. "What tone?"

Ricky laughs again, his gaze direct. "Mate, you can't fight what's in your heart. Don't even try."

Verhoeven frowns at Ricky before looking at me. I want to squirm. Why do I feel like a bug pinned to a board? "Love?" His frown deepens, and he snorts. "Then I shall watch you cross the line long after I've finished. Love is a distraction."

My breath catches. Love? It's not possible. Not so quickly.

Why not?

Ricky smacks Verhoeven's chest with the back of his hand. "Hey, mate. Don't knock it until you've tried it. Look at me. Kicked your butt in Miami, didn't I?"

Verhoeven sighs. "You had a lucky pitstop."

With another laugh, Ricky turns back to me. "He's just pissed because he now owes me twenty bucks."

Verhoeven grunts, scowling at me and shaking his head. "I preferred it when you were chasing Charlotte Madigan away, Laurant. Now I've lost a bet to Daniels. He will remind me of this for months."

"Hell yeah, I will," Ricky agrees, grin stretching wide. "Anyways, we've got that Pictionary thing we all need to do for the marketing department in ten minutes." He dips his head at my jeans. "You need to get your racing kit on, mate. Otherwise, Jaqueline is going to kick your arse."

Fuck. At the mention of the F1's Social Media manager, I remember what all the drivers are scheduled to do at four today: a drawing challenge conducted in teams for the social media accounts.

Verhoeven snorts again, giving me a sideways look. "Let's hope Laurant is just as distracted drawing as well."

Ricky gives him a curious frown. "Why's that?"

Verhoeven's face splits in a rare smile. "He's on your team, Daniels."

"Ah, fuck," Ricky mutters. He raises his eyebrows at me. "No time for love, Laurant. Not until after we kick everyone's arse at Pictionary, at least. After that…" He shrugs, grinning. "Don't waste time, I say. Life's too short."

The invisible fist clenches my heart tighter.

In our profession, he could be right.

So what do I do about it?

Win. Every practice. Every qualifier. Every race.

And when I do, let everyone know it's because of Charlotte Madigan.

It's a start.