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The session comes to an end, and another six cars are knocked out. Now the tension is at a high, as the top-ten shootout is about to begin for the best positions on the grid for tomorrow’s grand prix.

Once again, as soon as Mason arrives back to the garage, a group of mechanics surrounds the car and move it back into the bay, quickly going to work. The same process is repeated for Caleb. Now we wait for the final session.

Come on, Mason, you can take a place in the top three, I think.

Everyone heads back out. None of the previous times matter. The only thing that matters is what happens on the track right now. Each driver will take two flyers. On his first flying lap, Mason comes across in fourth. Xavier is still P1, as he has been in each session. Caleb is second again this time. When Mason comes back in, the team puts on brand-new soft tyres for this run. Caleb is already back out, but Mason is still waiting in the garage. UGH, this is so stressful! I watch the clock. This is such a time balance because you want to be able to catch a slipstream of cars in front of you, where you can gain speed, but you don’t want to wait too long, either.

I watch as the mechanics remain crouched around the car, hands on the tyre blankets, ready to whip them off and send Mason out as soon as they are given the signal. I glance at the clock again. He needs to go. He needs to go now to have enough time to complete the lap. As it is, he will finish after the clock expires.

Finally, the mechanics jump into action. The tyre blankets are quickly removed and the mechanic serving as the car controller waves Mason out. He tears out of the garage with about three minutes left to complete his lap, engine roaring and tyres squealing.

My heart is thumping as I shift my attention to what is going on back on the track. Xavier races across the line and puts down a time of 1:18.857. Caleb comes in just under Xavier. Romeo is flying on the track now, the Italian crowd is going crazy as he picks up speed. He crosses the line ahead of Caleb, bumping him down to third.

But there’s one more car on the track. Mason’s.

I swear I’m holding my breath as he drives. It’s a fast lap, and OH MY GOD, he’s gained on Xavier! How is he doing this?

Everyone in the garage is yelling. Mason is attacking, attacking, attacking. He goes through the Curva Alboreto and now he’s racing for the finish line.

Come on, Mason! Come on, come on, come on!

Mason’s silver-and-black car shoots across the line. His time is 1:18:795.

And he has knocked Xavier off the pole by .062 seconds.

Chapter Nineteen

I take the keycard Mason slipped to me earlier in the day and pause outside of his hotel room door. The coast is clear. I quickly unlock the door and slip inside, finding Mason sprawled out on the sofa in his room.

“P1!” I cry excitedly as he rises to his feet. I run and throw myself into his arms, so I can celebrate with him the way I wanted to all afternoon. I hook my legs around his waist and lock my arms around his neck. He laughs and puts one arm around my back, and the other underneath my bum.

“P1, baby,” he says.

I frame his face in my hands. “I’m so damn proud of you.” I give him a big kiss, and then Mason sets me down on the floor.

“I’m happy with it. First pole at Monza.”

“First of many.”

“Gotta bring it home tomorrow, though,” he says, putting his hands on my hips.

“You will.”

He sinks back down onto the sofa, and I take the seat next to him. I see that Jacques has already dropped off his dinner—grilled salmon, sweet potato, and a big salad. Mason ordered my dinner through room service, and it’s waiting on the table as well. And I feel a bit guilty that he’s had to sit here staring at my lasagne and glass of red wine.

“If you were dating a sweet woman, I’d bet she’d eat grilled fish with you,” I tease, picking up my cutlery.

“You’re probably right. Should I go find one?” Mason counters.

“I think you’d rather have me eating lasagne next to you than any other girl eating grilled fish with you.”

“You,” he says, picking up his takeaway container and fork, “would be correct.”

“I don’t know if I can eat anyway. I’m still buzzing from the quali session. That was brilliant. I don’t know how you did it.”

Mason looks at me. “To be honest? I don’t know how I did it, either.”

I chuckle at that and tuck into my lasagne. A groan of pleasure escapes my lips, because there is something about eating lasagne in Italy that is a supreme experience.