“Yeah,” he admits, looking at the gleaming car with unmistakable longing in his eyes. “Racing’s always been the one thing that made complete sense to me. Everything else gets complicated, but racing is pure. I think I go a bit stir-crazy without it.”
“I can imagine,” I say softly. “I get the same way about music sometimes. When I go too long without playing or writing, I feel like I’m missing a fundamental part of myself. Like a limb.”
“Exactly,” Jack says.
A photographer approaches, interrupting our moment. “Jack, could we get a few shots of you with the vehicles for the press package? Your girlfriend too, of course.”
“Sure,” Jack says easily, his public persona sliding back into place. “Lark, you up for a few photos?”
“Lead the way,” I smile, slipping back into our roles.
The photographer positions us carefully by the vehicle, Jack standing slightly behind me with his arm around my waist. I try to look natural and comfortable, like I’m used to beingphotographed at fancy corporate events with my race car driver boyfriend.
“Beautiful,” the photographer says, snapping several shots. “Very natural together.”
The party continues into the evening, and I’m surprised I’m enjoying myself. Most of the Callahan whiskey crew and racing sponsors are passionate about their work. Their enthusiasm is infectious—I’m drawn into conversations about engine designs and whisky aging that I never thought could be interesting. By the time Jack suggests leaving, I’m not as eager to escape as expected.
In the elevator, Jack loosens his collar with relief, undoing the top button. The movement draws my attention to his throat, and I have to look away.
“You were amazing tonight,” he says, leaning against the mirrored wall.
“Years of bartending—I can talk to anyone about anything,” I reply, adjusting my dress strap that’s been digging in all night. “Honestly, it was more interesting than expected. You might turn me into an F1 fan.”
His eyes light up, a smile spreading across his face. “Perfect. Secret mission accomplished. By next race, you’ll be debating tire strategy.”
“Let’s not get carried away,” I laugh, bumping his shoulder. “I have approximately a million things to learn first.”
The elevator doors open, and we step out into the marble-floored lobby. We head toward the valet stand, where Jack gives them both our tickets. While we wait I take in the Seattle skyline visible across Lake Washington, lit up against the darkening sky like a postcard. I’m so rarely away from Dark River apart from some concerts in Seattle over the years, but it’s fun to be somewhere different, somewhere alive with energy and possibility.
Jack glances at me. His eyes scan our surroundings briefly to make sure no one’s in earshot before continuing quietly. “Thanks for coming tonight. I think this whole thing is going to work out great for both of us.”
I smile, leaning against one of the decorative marble pillars. “I think so, too.”
The valet pulls up with my Honda, and Jack walks me to the driver’s side, his eyes immediately going to the duct tape holding my side mirror together.
“Okay, you absolutely have to let me fix this for you,” he says, tapping the mirror gently with one finger. “This is offensive to cars everywhere.”
“Hey, it’s been holding up just fine with my expert tape job,” I say defensively, unlocking the door. “Though I’m never one to turn down a free service, so if you’re offering to put those mechanic skills to actual use, feel free to take a crack at it.”
Jack smiles, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll stop by your apartment sometime this week. Just text me when you’re free and I’ll bring my tools. It’ll take twenty minutes, tops.”
“Sounds good,” I laugh, opening the door. “Goodnight, Jack.”
“Goodnight, Lark,” he replies.
As I drive home through the quiet streets, the lights of Seattle twinkling in my rearview mirror, I find myself smiling. The night was absolutely nothing like I expected. Less awkward, more enjoyable, and Jack… well, Jack was surprisingly good company.
Maybe this fake relationship won’t be as complicated as I thought. Maybe it will even be fun.
CHAPTER 9
JACK
Pacific Raceways outside Seattle is already busy with activity when I arrive at seven in the morning. Ferrari has the track booked for the entire day to test their 488 Challenge Evo cars that they use for their high-end Corse Clienti program.
There’s a full crew here, engineers with laptops, mechanics with tool carts, data guys hovering over screens, plus someone from marketing with an expensive camera who keeps asking me to “look contemplative” while staring at tires. The morning air smells like racing—rubber, fuel, hot metal. The smell that means I’m home. Everything else fades to background noise.
Giovanni, the Ferrari tech they sent along for this test, is already plugging his laptop into the car’s diagnostic systems when I arrive. He’s one of those guys who loves data and gets visibly excited about tire temperature variations.
