I can’t work for Granata. Can I? While I grew up in the periphery of motorsports, I don’t have any viable skills to contribute to an F1 team. I’m not a mechanic or an engineer. I drove karts a little when I was a kid, but it didn’t last long. I was too impulsive and impatient.
Still.
There’s a quiet voice telling me that maybe I should do it.
If I worked for Granata, I could travel all over the world with my friends as planned. My housing situation would be resolved, and I could continue running A-Tizket A-Tasket. I’ve already researched the best way to ship orders and restock my supplies throughout the season.
Is it foolish not to accept the help this man is offering? His son is the one who created so much of the mess I’m wading through now. Knowing Luca, there’s a solid chance he’ll never return my calls or repay even a fraction of the thousands he owes me.
Worst-case scenario is that he ghosts me completely and I never hear from him again.
As it is, I’m looking at a future where I’m saddled with debt and essentially homeless. I have to be out of my apartment by Sunday. That means I have less than forty-eight hours to make a plan. Yet here I am, unable to even force myself to pull out of this driveway.
Tears well in my eyes once again.
God, I’m so sick of crying.
A hard knock on my window startles me, my body instinctively surging forward. I shriek when I hit my forehead on the flipped-down visor.
Ow.
Blinking away tears, I turn to the source of the commotion.
Alaric is standing at my door, bent at the waist and peering through the window.
With a hand to my chest, I will my heart rate to settle and push the button to lower the window.
As I turn to face him, he winces.
Then he shocks me into stillness, moving closer and reaching through the open window, stroking the side of my face.
His touch lingers; I can’t help but lean in.
“Are you all right?” he murmurs, tenderness coating the question as he surveys me. Brows knitted in concern, he brushes his thumb over my temple.
My face fits perfectly in his big hand.
Energy hums between us, nearly vibrating where we’re connected. Warmth washes over me and a tingling sensation follows. Lightness curls around me, granting me permission to fully exhale.
Like this, with Alaric’s hand on my face, I feel seen. More significantly, I feel safe.
“Evangeline?”
“Hmm?” I mutter.
“Are you all right?” he asks. “You hit your head. You can’t deny it this time—I saw it.”
Embarrassment extinguishes all the pleasant sensations, and I pull back, breaking our connection. “I’m fine,” I squeak. Shit. My delayed response had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with his proximity. But I can’t tell him that.
“You’re still here,” he remarks.
Putting the car in park, I blow out a deep breath and regard him.
The sun is high in the sky, casting a halo that illuminates him from behind.
Anticipatory regret douses my insides as I assess the man who holdssignificant power in this situation. I hate being beholden to anyone. And I still need Luca to apologize, god dammit.
But I think I need this.
