BARCELONA, SPAIN
The Valencia Ball is a big deal in the Formula 1 world. Valencia, a global makeup and skincare brand, is one of the top sponsors of the sport, not to mention an individual sponsor for at least half the drivers on the grid.
Every team is invited, and more than that, the drivers are expected to be here. I’ve attended this particular event twice before: Once as Mia’s date, back when she was a reserve driver for Waytrek, and last year, as Luca’s date.
It was our first official outing as a couple. Looking back, I cringe at my total lack of self-respect. Why didn’t I care that he had cast me to the side for over a year before that night? I guess because I was just happy to be included and have an invite to the party my friends would all be talking about the next day.
Luca made a huge deal about avoiding his dad last year.
Ironically, I’m making a concerted effort to avoid both him and his father now.
I’ve worked to keep my distance from Alaric since I woke up in his arms in Japan. And I’ve done a decent job. I dropped off his fidgets with Quinn ahead of the practice sessions at Suzuka, then I made it through the entire race weekend without running into him.
We didn’t bump into each other in China, and I haven’t seen him since arriving in Spain. If I’m lucky, I won’t break that streak tonight.
If we encountered one another, I don’t think I could hold back completely from reacting, no matter the setting. Alaric sees me in a way no one ever has before. The affinity I have for him has grown into somuch more. I’m starting to crave his attention, the desire he inspires extending beyond attraction.
I’m in too deep. And I’ve already learned my lesson on limerence. I cannot get carried away when the man has made his boundaries abundantly clear.
“Do you want a drink?” Mia asks as we make our way across the enormous ballroom. We’re doing a lap, taking in the crowd, and casually searching for our friends. Lucky for me, this year’s ball is being held in the hotel where our team is staying for the week, so it took no time at all to get from my room to the event.
Granata has proven at each stop that they don’t skimp on the accommodations.
“For sure. I’m not driving.” I wink at my bestie, then stifle a giggle.
Corny jokes about driving hit different for those of us whose lives revolve around motorsport.
With a roll of her eyes, she loops her arm in mine and pulls me to the bar.
“Oh, there’s Saint and Kenj.” I nod at where the guys are hovering a couple dozen yards from here. “It looks like they’ve got a table.”
“Anyone else with them?” my best friend asks, waving at the bartender hustling behind the counter.
I scan the area surrounding them and come up empty. Everyone in the Even Better Eleven will be here tonight, as confirmed by the group chat. But the drivers all have varying levels of responsibility at these kinds of events. They’re expected to speak to management, schmooze with sponsors, and smile for every picture and video their social media teams deem necessary. There’s a very good chance we won’t all be together at once.
“Doesn’t look like it.” A relieved breath eases out of me. I’d love to make it through the night without even having to look at the back of Luca’s stupid head. Unfortunately, if I hang out with the other drivers, the risk of bumping into him goes way up. I should keep tabs on Silas and Marisol so I have a backup plan. “Are you looking for anyone in particular?”
Though she doesn’t answer, her cheeks flush slightly, accentuating her perfect contour.
“Mia.” I nudge her with my elbow.
She keeps her gaze set on the bartender, refusing to look at me.
My attention is locked on her. She’s legit blushing now, the apples of her cheeks matching her gorgeous pale pink dress.
“What are we having, ladies?” the bartender asks as he approaches, saving my best friend from my scrutiny. For now.
I order a gin and tonic, and Mia asks for seltzer in a lowball glass with a lime. She’s been doing that for years—ordering a seltzer but requesting that it look like alcohol so others don’t rag on her for not drinking. She takes her nutrition seriously and sticks to an extremely strict diet.
As the bartender gets to work, Mia still doesn’t look my way, but she clears her throat. “If I tell you something, do you promise you won’t tease me? Or mention anything to Shelbs?”
“Pinky promise,” I vow.
She side-eyes me once more, glossy lips pressed together like she’s still considering how much she wants to share.
“I’ve been… talking to Prince lately.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from outwardly reacting.
