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“Oh?”
“It looks so freeing, so refreshing. The teams, they always seem so bold and brave.” I nodded in agreement at her words. I understood what she meant. Formula 1 might have the fastest race cars on earth, and that was scary in itself, but racing Rally took a different type of bravery – bravery that I wasn’t sure I truly possessed. Georgia definitely did – her fearlessness was remarkable.
Georgia nodded, as if she was contemplating something, but couldn’t find the right words. It was weird seeing her like this, walking around my apartment wearingmyshirt, drinking a glass ofmywine. It felt domestic, and I liked it.
Truth is, I liked it a lot.
“I heard you got to have quite a bit of fun in America,” I said, thinking back to some of the clips I had watched of Georgia driving monster cars and other off-roading trucks. “Those monster trucks looked pretty scary. Henri told me you once won one of the races, much to the chagrin of the other drivers.” Georgia smiled that beautiful big smile, clearly thinking back to her time in America.
“Sometimes I miss it, you know, the comfort of knowing what to expect. The comfort of knowing the team, the car, the crowd… the journalists. There were no surprises in Indy Car.” Georgia said the last part quietly as she stared off into the distance; for a moment, she looked as if she had forgotten where she was. “In Indy Car, I was just a champion. I wasn’t a meal to be sold.”
“I get that,” I replied, walking over with the bottle of wine, refilling her glass, and nodding for her to take a seat on the sofa. The mac and cheese was in the oven, and we had some time before it was finished.
“But you’ve done incredible in Formula 1. You look so comfortable in the car, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was easily your third year in the sport. A real natural.”
She smiled an appreciative smile at me and then joked, “Say that to all the girls, Rossi?”
“Just the pretty ones,” I said with a wink.
After a few more moments, I pulled out the piece of paper that Matteo had given to me all those weeks ago – the one full of ‘getting to know you’ questions. I waved the piece of paper a little and then opened it, clearing my throat slightly.
“Matteo said we’ll be interviewed by BBC next week, figured we should get a few more questions in?”
Georgia’s body posture tightened up a bit when she heard the word BBC, but she nodded in response. We needed to be on point when it came to the interview, needed to be ready for all of the crazy questions they were going to throw our way. The film crew had told the teams they intended to do a more in-depth episode about dating while being on the grid. They had several drivers and their girlfriends or wives lined up, but Georgia and I were top of their list for the episode. We were pigs perfectly wrapped up for the slaughter with nowhere to go as far as I was concerned.
“What is your favorite book?”
Georgia scrunched her eyebrows for a minute, clearly pondering her answer. I’d heard from Henri that Georgia was an avid reader – reading no less than 2-3 books a month, which I thought was fairly impressive.
“I read ‘Fish That Ate the Whale’ back when I lived in the U.S. It was a phenomenal biography about an American immigrant; his perseverance was remarkable.”
“Maybe I should read it.”
She smiled at that but didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure if I should be slightly insulted. It was no secret that I didn’t read much. I had basically told the press as much through an F1 article I did years ago, back in 2018, before I knew better than to tell everyone all of the stupid thoughts that crossed my mind. Reading had sort of seemed stupid back then. I was more of a music person, but now, as I had gotten older, I had begun to read more during our travels. It was usually engineering books or race strategy these days. The more I knew about the car, the better chance I had to beat Henri.
Georgia signaled for me to hand her the piece of paper, which I did.
“What kind of music do you listen to?” she asked. “I notice you have a lot of records in your spare bedroom.”
“I like a good mix of things,” I said honestly. “I don’t really have a favorite band, but recently, I’ve enjoyed the American group Bon Iver after seeing them in London. Beach House is pretty good, too; saw them at a festival back in France.” She quirked her eyebrows at me, clearly a bit surprised at my answer. I motioned for her to answer the question.
“Didn’t expect party boy Luca Rossi to have a secret love of indie music,” she laughed.
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me,” I quipped back, a smile on my face. I loved the surprise in her voice. She always had this stuck-up air about her – it’s like she felt as though she already knew me, so it was nice to surprise her.
“A man of mystery, apparently…” she joked. “I’ve been loving the Lumineers recently, but my true love will always be with Mika. His music in both French and English is incredible. Happy Ending has to be one of the most beautiful songs ever written.” We sat in silence for a bit, me not wanting to disturb her thinking and her deeply lost in thought.
“Well,” I started, breaking the silence, “there is something I wanted to ask you. Something the press might ask…”
“Go on.” I chuckled nervously.
“So I know you and Éliott dated for a few weeks, but nothing public.” She nodded, clearly not sure where I was going with this. “Has there been anyone else? Anyone in America? Figured they might ask…” I added the last part rather pathetically. The BBC probably wasn’t rude enough to ask us about our past dating history, but still, I had to try and save face.
Georgia shifted a bit uncomfortably in her seat before taking another big sip of wine – likely contemplating what she was going to say, or at least what lie she was going to craft. Henri had mentioned another boyfriend, and I couldn’t help but let my curiosity get the better of me. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but this cat had nine lives, and I was willing to take the risk.
“There was a guy in America – Anthony. Race car driver for NASCAR.” She took a pause, and I expected her to say something else, but she didn’t, instead electing to take another sip –gulp– of her wine. I wanted to press her for more but stopped myself, remembering something my mother used to tell me. ‘Sometimes, it’s easier to get answers by answering something yourself.’
“Has anyone managed to actually woo F1’s most eligible bachelor?” she asked with a grin.
