I giggle. I’m about to reply, but he beats me to it:
I’m still bloody pissed off about that.
I know he is. Caleb didn’t make the podium, but he still scored a lot of points. His car didn’t have pace in qualifying in Spain, so he started in fifth. Caleb fought his way up to third and was challenging Mason for second before he dropped back and then lost third place to Xavier—who pushed him and pushed him until Caleb backed off and Xavier got past him.
And when I say Xavier moved past him, I mean he barely moved past him without colliding.
But if you look at Caleb’s growth trajectory from this season to last season? Fourth is a brilliant finish. Almost on the podium.
But I’ll never forget what Caleb told me when I said that. “Almost is not enough in Formula 1.”
That comment hit me. That’s how cutthroat this business is.
Yet Caleb loves it.
I still think he did an incredible job. But for how Caleb has performed so far this season?
He’s disappointed in this result. Which is insane.
I text him back:
You had a great race. The car didn’t have pace all weekend, you know that. You aren’t going to win every battle on the track. Xavier got this one. You’ll get the better of him next time you go wheel-to-wheel. I’m relieved you didn’t let that end up with the car in a wall. Like so relieved. Can I say relieved again? Yes, I told you this yesterday. But I’m telling you again. Youjudged it correctly. And I’m so proud of you for your drive, for getting the most out of that car, and for finishing in the points.
I continue to move up in the line for screening, and Caleb texts me back:
I’m so glad you’re my girl.
I suck in a breath. Caleb called me HIS GIRL.
Another reply drops in:
I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep until I know you’ve landed in London. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow. And welcome you home.
Just like that, my gut screams at me that I’m doing the right thing. Despite the fallout that will eventually happen, finding a man like Caleb is just like getting an opportunity at a dream job.
You have to take the chance.
I stare straight ahead to the area where people are walking to their gates. On the other side of this security checkpoint, my new life is about to begin with a flight to London.
Because there’s a new job waiting for me across the pond.
And so is a man I very well might fall in love with.
Chapter Twenty-Four
This is a bit disappointing.
It’s Tuesday afternoon, and I’m riding in the back of an Uber from Heathrow to my new flat in White City—the area of London where a lot of TV networks have studios and offices, including The Downforce Network. I’ve been provided with a studio apartment in the neighborhood, so it will be convenient for work. I love that, and it’s exciting to be living in the hub of network TV.
What’s not exciting, however, is the view outside my window.
I was hoping to see landmarks. St. Paul’s. The Shard. Tower Bridge. I’ve never been to London before—my abroad travel has been limited to the Caribbean prior to my trip to Italy—and I was so excited to see all the things as soon as I got off the plane.
But what am I seeing? Grass. Houses. Office buildings.
And strangely enough, lots of car showrooms.
So dull. And not exactly like driving by Trafalgar Square.