Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

Charlie

I'm not hiding from Anton.

At least, I'm telling myself I'm not.

Of course, in the last twenty-four hours, since leaving his motor home in the Paddock, I've been…nowhere near where Anton would likely be pre-race.

Given it is race weekend and we're all essentially meant to be onsite and on-call from yesterday onward, it's been a tad tricky.

I'm not hiding from him though. I'm not.

I'm trying to convince myself two people can't fall for each other within an hour or so of finally meeting, especially when said two people were adamant they basically despised each other before that.

My engineer's brain refuses to accept it's even conceivable.

The problem is my heart, my soul, heck, every part of me except my engineer's brain says it's not only conceivable but that it's happened. My engineer's brain likes solving problems, but on this one… Well, it's thrown its hands up in confused disbelief.

So I haven't gone anywhere near where the drivers might be, sticking to the monitor banks and data systems in the Equis garage.

Despite all the side-eye looks and raised eyebrows and—in Sergio's case—asking me outright what's going on with Anton and me, everyone on the team is focused on the practice sessions.

The practice sessions.

My pulse quickens. The modifications we made to Anton's and Nigel's cars have exceeded my expectations, especially Anton's. I don't know if he argued against them yesterday afternoon after we…after I left his motor home. I have no clue if he even returned to Equis's Paddock HQ. As far as I am aware, he was seen talking with RPR's Australian driver, Ricky Daniels, and Martin Verhoeven from Barnett Racing, and then… Well, after that, I refused to focus on anything but the cars. I worked through the night, slept—at least, tried to—somewhere between two a.m. and six a.m. this morning, and returned to the garage at seven.

Did my heart kick into overdrive at the sight of the white roses in the water jug on my station in the garage? Yes. Did my stomach flutter and my breath catch at the thought Anton had brought them here for me? Yes, and yes.

Did I linger on them?

No. I had to focus on the cars and not the confusion that was Anton.

Work. The cars. Making them faster. That was my mission. Is my mission. Nothing else.

You're not fooling yourself. You know that, right?

Scowling, I drill my attention down on the data coming in from Anton's and Nigel's cars. The Monaco street circuit is narrow and nasty, and over-taking opportunities are almost non-existent. The cars have to get in front and stay there.

And with only two and a half minutes left on P3, both cars are driving like a slick dream. Anton has consistently clocked the fastest times, making it look easy. As long as nothing changes or goes wrong in the Qualifiers tomorrow, I think Anton and Nigel will destroy the competition.

I can't wait to see Anton's smile when he finishes P3.

Wait. I'm not thinking about him. I'm focussing on the car. I'm only interested in the data. I'm?—

"What the fuck have you done?"

I let out a startled yelp at Dad's snarl, jerking around to watch him storm through the garage toward me.

My team, in fact, everyone in there with me, shrinks away from him, nervous gazes darting everywhere. The owner of Equis rarely makes an appearance at any Grand Prix, let alone in the garage or pitlane. As far as Dad's concerned, this close to the track is too loud, overcrowded, and beneath him. Some team owners are involved with the logistics, team moral, and daily running. Dad merely provides the money. And the investors.

But here he is, bearing down on me.

Furious.

"What?" I blink. "I improved the cars." I throw a confused look around those in the garage with me. They all look stunned. Frowning, I return my attention to Dad. "Have you seen the data from the practice sessions? Or even watched the cars out at the track?"

Dad's glower darkens and he stops before me, invading my personal space. I have to crick my neck to look up at him. "You stupid little cow," he hisses. "I didn't want the cars fixed. Especially Anton's."

An invisible vise wraps around my chest. Ice crawls over my skin, up into my hair, over my scalp. Followed instantly by itchy heat. "What?" I whisper. I can't believe what he's saying. I have to be mishearing him, right?

His eyes slit, and he brings his head down closer to mine. "He's old," he says, voice barely louder than a breath. And on that breath, whisky. A lot of whisky. "He's tired. A has-been. One more loss and his contract was done."

"What?" My stomach sinks. Oh God, Anton. No.

"What the fuck?" Sergio mutters behind me. He's heard it as well. S hit . This is not good. Dad will have us both fired. I'll be gone. Sergio will be gone. Anton…

No.

Straightening, I shake my head. "You can't do that."

Can he?

He snorts, eyes like chips of cold glass. "Thanks to you, it will be harder, but I'm sure I can convince the board." His lip curls. "What did I ever do to get cursed with a daughter like?—"

" Hey !" Anton steps between us. " Enough ."

I gasp. He's still wearing his racing gear, and his hair is damp with perspiration and matted to his head. Pressure indents from his balaclava mar his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He must have only just got out of his car? Why is he here?

"Hey!" he says again, pressing a hand to Dad's chest. " Don't talk to Charlotte like that!"

"Oh, cazzo," Sergio whispers.

Dad puffs up his chest and drops a snide look at Anton's hand. "Remove that, Laurant. Now."

Anton doesn't. Instead, he steps closer to my father, back straight, shoulders square. "I don't kowtow to bullies," he states, voice smooth, calm, and utterly devoid of trepidation. "Not anymore. And I won't let you speak to Charlotte in such a way. I don't care who you are."

A sneer twists Dad's lip. "So the rumours are true?" He slides his sneer to me. " Him ? Really?"

"Yes." Fury shears through me, and I step forward, even as Anton holds out his arm. "Him. All day, every day. Forever. That's what love is, Dad. Not that you'd know."

Anton grows still.

I grow still. Oh God. Did I… Did I just say the L word?

Turning his head, Anton casts me a look I can't read over his shoulder. And then he smiles, and my heart soars. "Ma seule amor."

"My only love," I reply, my lips curling.

Dad snorts. "This sickens me. You both sicken me. This whole team sickens me. A bunch of weak excuses. It's not even worth the tax write-off."

Anton turns back to him. I see his shoulders bunch. Tension coils his body. Oh no, if he punches Dad, Dad will?—

"Enough," Sergio growls, and—face set—he pushes past both of us and smashes his fist into Dad's jaw.

"Merde!" Anton bursts out.

"Shit," I echo, gaping at first my father, stumbling backward and blinking like he's even more intoxicated than he is, and then at Sergio. "Serg?"

Shaking his hand, Sergio turns to Anton. "I hate bullies as well," he mutters.

"Serg," I say again, stunned.

He grunts. "What's he going to do? Fire me? I let him cheat off me in Maths all the way through school. He's not going to fire me."

I blink. I knew Dad and Sergio had some kind of history, but… Wow.

Sergio directs a scowl at Anton. "Just so you know, I'll do the same to you if you hurt Charlie. Do you understand?"

Anton slides his arm around my waist, smiling at me as he pulls me to his side. "I will never hurt her."

A ribbon of concentrated joy unfurls through me, and I smile back at him. "I know you won't."

"Excuse me?" Dad blusters. "I've just been punched."

I flick him a glance—just one—and he snaps his mouth shut.

Turns out, my father actually does know when to shut up. He looks at us, at Sergio, at the rest of the team. No one drops their gaze. The disgust and contempt is clear.

God, I love them.

Almost as much as I love?—

Fingers pressed gently under my chin, Anton turns my face to his, an emotion shining in his eyes I have no problems deciphering. It seems I'm not just a numbers person, after all. "Je t'aime, Charlotte Madigan," he murmurs, touching his forehead to mine.

My lips curl, and I tangle my hands in his hair. "I love you back, Anton Laurant."

He kisses me.

Damn, does he know how to kiss.