Page 158 of First in Line

We don’t have a choice.

“And this is the garage,” I say proudly.

Evie looks around the space. It looks messy, with spare parts and cables running everywhere, but it’s actually extremely organized. An hour and a half before lights out, the garage is buzzing with efficient energy. It almost looks like a ballet, everyone knowing exactly what they need to do—mechanics, technicians, and engineers alike.

They’re all in branded uniforms, black and gold. Somewhere nearby, an engine roars to life, loud enough to vibrate through the ground beneath us before abruptly dying again. Overhead, a helicopter passes low enough that the sound briefly drowns out the music echoing from the grandstands, but not the team’s radio feed that sometimes crackles on the speakers around us.

Today is the Dutch Grand Prix race, and Evie will be watching it from the Altron pit. I’ve scored her a special guest pass, and she’ll get to experience the race from within. We arrived four hours ago, and after some time together, I had to leave her to proceed with my duties. Interviews, meet and greets, driver parade, lunch in the drivers’ room… But now is thetwenty-minute window I get to myself before each race. I usually use it to disappear and get a quick, revitalizing nap.

We were able to spend nearly three weeks in Tuscany thanks to the gap between races. I eventually had to travel for a few days, twice, and she settled into the home office to work a few hours a day. But we still got to spend a lot of time together, bonding.

That’s probably why she accepted my offer to do this today. Bringing her here makes us official. By the end of the day, the entire Altron team will know I’m seeing someone. And it won’t be long until word spreads. So, she isn’t just getting a VIP experience. She’s allowing our relationship to become public knowledge. And I’m ecstatic about it.

I love this woman with my entire fucking being, and I want the whole fucking world to know she’s mine and I’m hers.

My car is right there, low, perfect, angry-looking, and all carbon black, gold accents, and sponsor logos. At least ten people are working on her, doing the final checkups before the race, ensuring nothing is out of place or loose.

“It’s so low,” Evie murmurs. “And from up close like this, it looks… scary.”

“You should hear her roar. The walls tremble.”

“Did you name her?”

I nod. “The team actually plays along. We call her Freya. It means ‘noble lady’ in Old Norse. Well, technically, it’s Freya 12. But we keep it short.”

She watches the engineers and strategists lined up at the data stations. “How many people work on just your car?”

“Directly? Maybe twenty during a weekend. Over a season? Hundreds.”

“Jesus …”

“If someone sees Jackson,” a feminine voice calls through the team’s radios, “tell him PR is looking for him. Urgently.”

“PR always needs me,” I explain to Evie. “I’m their bread and butter.”

A mechanic passes by us and says, “PR needs you, man.”

“Yeah, I have ears, Alan.”

“You!” someone shouts from afar, and when I look, I see it’s meant for me. Ah shit. Benji, the chief mechanic, is mad at me again.

He approaches us like an angry bull, but I don’t flinch, used to his harmless temper.

“Evie,” I say when he’s with us, “this is Benji. Senior mechanic. He’s the one who screams at everyone when they touch my setup.”

“That’s because your setup is a nightmare,” Benji says.

“It wins races.”

“It gives me hypertension.”

Evie’s polite smile fades at his unfortunate choice of words, and I reach for her lower back to graze it compassionately.

“Do you know how long it took us to get the car ready, per your requests?” Benji asks. “And then you send a text an hour ago, changing your mind?”

“Today is warmer than they announced. Gotta adapt.”

He lets out a breath through his nose, resembling a bull even more, and storms off like he came.