I help her with the helmet, adjusting the straps, my fingers brushing her jaw. Her skin’s so soft I have to resist running my thumb across her cheek. I slide into my seat and she’s gripping the door handle before I’ve even started the engine.
“Relax,” I tell her, settling in and beginning my pre-drive checks. “I’m very good at this.”
“What about Barcelona?” she asks, referencing my crash.
I laugh. “Oh come on, that was in the rain with some idiot taking me out. Today is a completely clear track with just us. No idiots allowed.”
“If you say so,” she says, but her grip on the door handle doesn’t loosen even slightly. “Just remember if I die here, I’m haunting you forever. And I will be an extremely annoying ghost.”
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” I say, firing up the engine.
I keep the first lap reasonable—fast enough to be exciting, but not so fast that she never wants to get in a car with me again. Through the first real corner her hand shoots out to grab my arm as the g-forces push her hard into the seat.
“Oh my god!” she shouts over the engine noise. “This is insane!”
By the second lap she’s relaxed enough to enjoy it, her head turning to watch the track fly by. So on the third lap I really go for it, climbing past 150 miles per hour on the main straight and drifting through the corners with more aggression than Giovanni would probably approve of.
“JACK!” she screams, but she’s laughing too, and the sound makes something warm settle in my chest.
When we pull back into the garage, she fumbles with the harness and yanks off her helmet. Her hair is everywhere, her face flushed, eyes bright with adrenaline.
“That was the most terrifying fun thing I’ve ever experienced!” she says, still breathless.
“So not too scary?” I ask.
“Oh,incrediblyscary,” she admits, trying to fix her hair. “But also… I kind of want to do it again.”
“Anytime,” I say, and I mean it.
We take photos after that for Instagram—some by the car, some in the cockpit with Lark sitting in the driver’s seat. When she suggests including the crew, they crowd in enthusiastically.It’s supposed to be for the narrative we’re building, but I keep catching myself just watching her interact with everyone, the way she makes people smile without even trying.
“Food?” I ask once we’ve wrapped up. “There’s a good place nearby that does amazing burgers.”
“Yes,” she says immediately, emphatically. “Adrenaline makes me absolutely starving.”
We walk out to the parking area and I gesture toward my bike. “We can take the motorcycle if you want.”
She looks at it, then back at me. “I’ve had enough excitement for one day. Let’s take my car.”
“Sure,” I say, then pause. “Uh, mind if I drive?”
“You just spent four hours driving at ridiculous speeds,” she points out, eyebrows raised. “Aren’t you sick of it by now?”
“I never get sick of driving,” I say. “Plus I’m terrible at being a passenger.”
She stops walking and looks at me, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Wait, are youscaredof being a passenger?”
“Not scared,” I say, feeling my face heat slightly. “I just strongly prefer being in control of the car.”
She chuckles. “Jack Midnight, who drives two hundred miles per hour for a living, can’t handle being a passenger?” She’s absolutely delighted by this discovery, eyes sparkling with amusement. “This is amazing. You have a completely normal person fear! You’re human!”
“It’s not a fear?—”
“It’stotallya fear!” she interrupts, laughing, and I can’t help but grin at the sound. She has the best laugh, genuine and unrestrained and infectious.
“Okay fine, it’s a fear,” I admit. “But when I’m in Formula One, I’m racing with nineteen of the best drivers in the world in cars built with millions of dollars of safety tech. Out on regular roads? Anyone who managed to pass a driving test is out theretexting, eating, doing who knows what. So… not being in control is basically my personal nightmare.”
“Yeah, yeah, that makes sense.” She laughs. “Lucky for you I hate driving anyway, so this works out perfectly.”
