“What?”
But he’s already moving, pulling me through the crowd with him. We dodge around a cluster of surprised fans, weavebetween two security guards who look completely confused about what’s happening, and then we’re sprinting through the paddock area like we’re in some kind of action movie chase scene.
My sneakers slap against the hot pavement, and I’m laughing. I can’t help it. The absurdity of running away from paparazzi in broad daylight, Jack’s hand tight and sure around mine, the way people are literally diving out of our way with shocked expressions. It’s insane. It’s completely ridiculous.
It’s the most fun I’ve had in years.
“This is crazy!” I shout, stumbling slightly over my own feet, and Jack’s grip on my hand keeps me upright and moving.
“I know!” he shouts back, and he’s grinning like an absolute lunatic, his eyes bright with adrenaline. “Keep up, Reyes!”
We cut through a narrow gap between two team trailers, and I can hear the paparazzi behind us, shouting, cameras still clicking away, but we’re faster. Jack knows exactly where he’s going, leading me through the maze of the paddock.
We burst out into the parking area, and there’s his motorcycle, black and chrome in the Miami sun like it’s been waiting for us.
“Jack!” someone shouts from behind us, way closer than I expected.
“Put it on!” he says urgently, tossing me a helmet.
I jam the helmet on, fumbling with the strap because my hands are shaking from adrenaline and breathless laughter. Jack swings his leg over the bike with ease, and I climb on behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist.
I can feel his heart pounding through his shirt. Or maybe that’s mine. Maybe it’s both of us, hearts racing together.
“Hold tight,” he says over his shoulder, his voice rough with excitement, and then the engine roars to life with that gorgeous, throaty sound.
We peel out of the parking spot with a squeal of tires, and I hold on tighter as he accelerates hard. The wind whips past us, hot and fast, and I can hear him laugh, feel it vibrate through his entire body, and I’m laughing too.
The world blurs into speed and sound and pure sensation. Jack weaves through Miami streets with the kind of speed that should probably terrify me but instead makes me feel completely, utterly alive.
Buildings fly past in streaks of color, palm trees bend in our wake, glimpses of glittering water appear between structures. The sun is hot on my bare arms, the wind pulls at my clothes and hair, and I can feel him shift and move as he leans into turns with perfect control.
I glance back once and see a car trying to follow us. Paparazzi, determined. But Jack spots them in his mirrors. He takes a sudden sharp right down a side street, then a quick left, then another right, weaving through traffic until I lose track of where we are completely.
We’re flying down quieter residential streets now, cutting through neighborhoods with tree-lined sidewalks, until finally he pulls onto a road that runs along the water. The engine noise drops from a roar to a purr as he slows, then stops at a small overlook. Just a strip of concrete with a low wall and a view of the bay stretching out blue and glittering under the afternoon sun.
He kills the engine.
My heart is still pounding, adrenaline singing through my veins like electricity, and I start laughing. I can’t help it. The sound bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest, uncontrollable and genuine.
“That was insane,” I say, pulling off my helmet. “Absolutely insane. We just ran away from paparazzi like we robbed a bank.”
“Welcome to my world,” Jack says, taking off his own helmet and running a hand through his hair. When he turns to look at me over his shoulder, he’s still grinning. That devastating smile that makes my pulse kick up another notch. He swings off the bike.
“Come on,” he says, offering me his hand. “I want to show you around. I’ve found some great spots over the years that aren’t on the tourist maps.”
I take his hand, letting him help me off the bike, and my legs are still shaky. From the adrenaline rush, obviously. Not from being pressed against him for the last fifteen minutes. Definitely not that.
“Lead the way, Midnight,” I tell him, and his smile gets even wider.
The rest of the day unfolds like a dream I don’t want to wake up from.
Jack takes me to his favorite spots—the places he’s discovered over the years racing in Miami. A tiny Cuban restaurant tucked into a neighborhood where all the signs are in Spanish and the woman behind the counter greets him like family.
The ropa vieja is the best I’ve ever had, falling apart on my fork, and the tostones are perfect. We eat until we’re stuffed, and Jack tells me about finding this place his first year with Ferrari, nineteen and alone and wandering through Miami. Nineteen-year-old Jack, alone in a strange city, finding these little pockets of warmth and holding onto them.
Outside, the heat hits us again after the air-conditioned restaurant. Jack checks his phone, then grins at me with thatlook that means he’s got something planned. “Okay, next stop. But we need the bike for this one.”
We walk back to where he parked the motorcycle, and I climb on behind him, already getting used to the way we fit together. He takes us through Miami streets I don’t recognize, past neighborhoods that shift from commercial to residential and back again, until finally the buildings start to open up and everything is covered in color.
