Suddenly, he liked the idea that they were so dark he couldn’t see what lay ahead.
He fisted his hands. There was that itchy feeling again—the one he’d only ever felt before a race.
Until.
He felt as though there were only one remedy.
Kiss her.
Now.
Her lips parted.
She’s waiting for you to.
He leaned forward, but before his lips reached hers, he heard the voices of those two Tasmanian devils.
“Uncle Rocco!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ROCCO AND NICO
ROUND 8: RACE 8: MONACO
Rocco sat in the car, waiting for them to signal him onto the grid. The forecast had said no rain, but Rocco had grown skeptical when he watched a large swath of ominous gray clouds drifting this way. They grew darker the closer they got, and sure enough, there was a sudden downpour. So the race had been delayed. They were going to have to start on wet tires, and the teams had quickly gone to work changing them.
He’d been worried about what it would be like in the paddock with Nico after Carnival. But she acted as though nothing had happened. In fact, she’d done so immediately after his nieces had shown up. She was so convincing, he’d begun to wonder if anything actually had happened. Maybe he’d imagined it—all of it.
Had she known what he was about to do in that alleyway? Did she want him to? He thought she did. But she was difficult to read.
Sofia and Beatrice had gotten a big kick out of seeing Nico dressed as Inigo Montoya. Afterward, they’d told him they invited her to come with him during the upcoming three-week break in the racing schedule. He was going to visit his family in the small Italian village where he’d grown up. But she’d told them she couldn’t. She’d made other plans.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Second row,” Dario said. “Good position.”
But not as good as first, Rocco thought.
The two drivers from Blue Jet Lightning were on the first row; he and Clarke were on the second—Clarke at #3 and Rocco at #4. Nico was starting from the fourth row at #7. It was her best starting position yet.
Qualifying was everything in Monaco. It was virtually impossible and a death wish to pass on the tight and twisting narrow circuit that took you through the streets of the principality. Passing a car was usually a guaranteed crash. That’s if you could even manage to find enough space to attempt it.
Where you started the race was nine times out of ten where you finished. Rocco wasn’t in a position to see the podium, let alone win the race.
The rain made it even more difficult.
But Rocco saw the rain as an advantage, one he intended to exploit. Never did a driver’s ability behind the wheel matter more than at Monaco—and in the rain, that truth seemed absolute.
He’d raced here before in the rain and won. Anker and Clarke hadn’t.
Nico gripped the wheel as she sat watching the rain. It was coming down harder now. What had begun as singular drops now looked more like a sheet of water splashed against a gray wall. The streets would be slick, the visibility—poor.
She’d never driven an F1 car in the rain.
At least things seemed okay between her and Rocco. She told herself that was a good thing even though she felt a pang in her heart when she did.
You couldn’t have been thinking there was something there.
And yet she had thought there was a moment. Before his nieces showed up.
