While he’s looking at the camera, I’m not. Instead, I’m smiling down at him.
In that moment, love and pride swamped me. Though much has changed, the one thing that hasn’t is how much I care for him. I’m determined to get through to him today, whatever it takes.
He put space between the two of us once he arrived on the Formula 1 scene. And I let him. Feeling overshadowed by my presence is a major insecurity for him and has been for years, so my hope was that taking a step back until he was settled would give him what he needed to succeed.
I never expected that space between us to become such a permanentchasm. The distance, I see now, allowed hard feelings to fester. We spent too much time apart, resulting in the atrophy of our relationship.
It’s my fault for not stepping in sooner. I should have never allowed him to ice me out so often and so thoroughly.
If I have anything to say about it, that all changes today.
I head toward the paddock club suites, neutral territory that teams and media use for conducting business during the week leading up to the official race events.
A few minutes early, I get settled and go through the mental checklist of things I’d like to discuss.
A disrespectful twenty-five minutes later, Luca charges into the suite, eyes blazing with a pent-up, anxious energy. He doesn’t want to be here. Hell, he probably wasn’t the one who accepted the invite to this meeting.
“Well?” he says, coming to stand at the two-seater table I’ve been holding for nearly half an hour. “Let’s hear it.”
Agitation builds inside me. His brazen rudeness puts me in the awkward position of having to decide whether to call him on it.
He wouldn’t talk to any other colleague or adversary like this, and certainly not a team principal. He pretends we’re not family when we’re on the paddock, yet here he is, disrespecting me and knowing damn well he can get away with because of our familial relation.
“It’s good to see you, Luca. How was your flight?”
The trip from Austin to Australia is a long one, assuming he was in Texas prior to arriving in Melbourne. Though he could have come from Bahrain.
Leaning forward, he grips the edge of the table, his jaw clenched tight. He has the wherewithal to do a quick scan of the suite to confirm we’re alone.
Then he speaks. “Cut the shit, Ric. What do you want?”
Ric.
That single syllable stabs me in the solar plexus. He stopped calling me “Dad” the day he was called up to Formula 1. Even on the rare occasion we’re together without others associated with the sport, he sticks to Ric.
An impenetrable sheath of armor locks in place around me.
For as much as my son likes to pretend we’re barely acquainted, I know him well. If he’s so worked up he can’t even engage in civil conversation, any hope I had of bolstering our connection today is a foolish dream.
Rather than waste his time or any more of mine, I cross my armsover my chest, lean back in my chair, and get to the point. “Tell me about Evangeline Bennett.”
His nostrils flare. “How do you know Evan?”
I arch a brow. “I met her last week. In my driveway. When you sent her over without warning so she could store her couch in my garage.”
Luca’s shoulders sag a fraction, the vitriol rolling off him lessening. He stands upright, then rubs a hand down his face. “I should have run that past you.”
As if that’s his only misstep here.
“You should have had the decency to handle that situation yourself.”
Eyes widening, he guffaws. “It was the start of the season. Margot made the arrangements.”
The aggravation inside me grows. “You had your assistant arrange for movers to take your girlfriend’s belongings to your dad’s house, and you didn’t think to tell either of them about the plans? Or at least have Margot reach out?”
“Ex-girlfriend.” He plants his feet and crosses his arms over his broad chest, mirroring my pose.
“Was she yourex-girlfriend when you started moving her things into my garage?”
