His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “You seem to know an awful lot about my love life, Ric.”
I shake my head, my sadness growing as consuming as my anger. “No, son. As it turns out, I don’t. She said you’d been together for over two years. Is that true? She lives less than an hour from the house, Luca.”
His gaze hardens. “What’s with the sudden interest in my personal life? You’ve never cared about anyone I’ve dated before.”
I smack the table, the sound echoing through the quiet space. “I’ve never met anyone you’ve dated before.”
Awareness sparks to life inside him. Like he sees through the cool, calm exterior I project to the world. I’m tired of being the bigger man, attempting to coax my son into doing the right thing. Evangeline deserves so much more than how he’s treated her.
“She said you owe her money.”
“Jesus Christ,” he grouses, running a hand through his hair. “Not you, too. That girl has been a gold digger since day one.”
I grimace. Doubtful. I may not know much about the woman, but it was clear immediately that she’s proud of her business and seems to genuinely enjoy her work. She refused to take money from me for repayment. Hell, she was reluctant to even accept the job with Granata.
I’m not interested in arguing any further. This encounter has gone even more disastrously than I could have predicted. I want to get on with my day.
“Take care of it, Luca.”
With a smirk, he lifts both hands and shakes his head. “There’s nothing to take care of,” he says. “She won’t chirp. I made sure I was never photographed with her in public. So the media won’t know or care about our split. None of it will affect your precious reputation or the comeback tour of the Golden Boy of Granata.”
My gut churns. That’s not what I meant. I meant he needs to take care ofher—to apologize, and to pay her back.
Maybe it shouldn’t surprise me that making amends with her isn’t even on his to-do list, but it does. His apathy toward the whole situation makes me ashamed to be his father.
Sophie, his mother, reminds me often that he’s still young. That he’s learning. He’s led a charmed life.
While I believe it isn’t possible to truly spoil a child, I do feel as if Luca is stuck in some late-stage rebellion, and the tension between us is exaggerated by the demands of the sport we both love.
Nothing I do lands well. I never make any headway with him. At this point my hope is that he’ll eventually drop the narrative that competing on track means we need to be at odds with each other in our personal lives.
For most of his life, we were close. Throughout his childhood and adolescence, racing was our thing, but our connection ran deeper than that. I loved my son. Istilllove my son. When he joined the grid, though, everything shifted. He’s had a chip on his shoulder for years. His perpetual grudge runs deep. I’ve long accepted that despite introducing him to the sport we both love so much, he’d prefer if I wasn’t around in a professional capacity.
We’ve both worked too hard to give up on our dreams. So for now, our relationship bears the brunt of the tension.
I shake my head, exhausted by the constant cycle of misunderstanding between us. But there’s one thing he needs to know before we part ways today. “She works for me now,” I tell him. “At Granata. You’ll be seeing her around the paddock, I’m sure.”
That menacing smirk is back, along with sharp judgment behind his eyes.
“I saw her at dinner last night, so I figured she’d weaseled her way back into Formula 1. Just didn’t think you’d be her next free ride.”
“Show some respect,” I growl, my temperature rising.
He licks his lips, clocking my defensiveness. “You sure you know what you’re doing with her, Ric?”
I don’t give him the satisfaction of responding. Luca is a master at getting into the heads of his competition. I can practically feel his need to get under my skin bubbling up now.
Dropping my arms, I school my expression, essentially surrendering. Like so many times before, I failed at what I hoped to accomplish with him today.
“I’m sorry this wasn’t a more productive conversation.” I offer him a feeble smile.
He zeroes in on me, no doubt trying to puzzle out why I’m changing tack.
The answer is simple: I’m done. I can’t go down this path with him right now. If he’s dead set on being a little shit and trying to get under my skin, I’m going to opt out completely.
“Listen,” he says with faux sincerity. “We may be in competition mode, but it’s only fair to warn you. That girl’s amess. Don’t underestimate how much baggage and drama she brings to any situation. Evan’s hot, but she’s sloppy as hell. And I’m not talking about the fun kind of sloppy, ya know?” He breaks into the smarmiest of smiles.
No, I don’t know. How could he even have those kinds of thoughts about another person?
