And now, the small note of hope in Grace’s voice and the knowledge she hadn’t given Blane an all-access pass to my life—he’d just helped himself to it—pulls at something I’d rather it didn’t.She makes me want to please her, fulfill her every wish and need.
Fuck.
Blane senses my hesitation, and like a vulture descending on its prey, he moves in.“Something tells me you could make it work either way.”
Mom sets a plate in front of me and pats my shoulder.“Wouldn’t hurt to show them around, honey.Good for you to get out of your own head.”
I stare at the pancakes, contemplating how best to say no even as yes bubbles on my tongue.Every sensible part of me knows that not going there is the best response.
But then Grace smiles—small, uncertain, like she’s not quite sure she’s allowed to want this—and something in me gives way despite every warning bell going off in my head.
“Fine.”I grip the fork a little tighter than necessary.“We’ll go.”
Blane claps.“Amazing.Gracie, go get changed.Maddox, eat up.”
Grace laughs under her breath, bright and unguarded, and it does something to my chest I wasn’t prepared for.
Maybe this is a mistake.Maybe it’s the beginning of something I can’t stop.Maybe it’s both.
I do a few chores around the house first, basically stalling and hoping someone needs me somewhere.No such luck.
Then we pile into my truck.Grace sits in the passenger seat, window cracked, hair catching the afternoon light.Blane’s in the back, holding court about shot lists and natural lighting and “capturing the essence of a fading legend,” which earns him a long shut-the-fuck-up look in the rearview mirror.
Grace scowls at him over her shoulder.“Stop poking the bear.”
“He likes it.”Blane hooks his thumb at me.
I absolutely do not.
But when Grace turns back to me, smiling like she’s trying to soften the edges, like she’s quietly on my side even when she has no reason to be, something shifts in my chest, tender and uninvited.It’s the kind of feeling I recognize too well and have spent years learning to speed on past.
Apparently, I’ve forgotten how.
Chapter19
Maddox
The old Winslow Speedway isn’t much to look at anymore, but the asphalt still pulsates with the dreaminess of better days and the intoxicating buzz of freedom.
I used to come here as a kid, sit in the stands with Dad, and dream about taking the turns faster than physics allowed.Back then, on race days, this place drew crowds from as far as Bozeman and Great Falls, the bleachers packed, the air thick with exhaust and noise.
Now, there are no officials, no timing towers, no crews working the pit wall, only the track itself, solid and maintained, the asphalt repaved two summers ago on my dime.
On a clear day, you can still see where the old sponsor boards used to hang along the back straight, their brackets rusting quietly into the fencing.It’s not Monza, the historic Grand Prix circuit in Italy.It never was.But standing at the edge of the pit lane with the fading light glinting off the metal barriers, the nostalgia pulls tight in a way I don’t bother fighting.
This place has its own kind of pull that I’ve never been able to explain to anyone who didn’t grow up with it.I have a small team who I employ to manage the track, but no one is here today.It’s Sunday, and there are no events planned.
Blane bounces like a sugar-fueled kid as he sets up his tripod outside of the garage.“This is perfect.Light’s killer.”
Grace moves slowly along the garage wall, taking in the cars.A ‘69 Camaro Z/28 in arctic white that I’ve been restoring for the better part of a year.Beside it is a Porsche 911 RSR in Gulf blue that I picked up at auction and haven’t had the heart or time to get my hands on yet.
Outside the garage, she stops at the Lancia last—I’d just driven it out onto the track—and runs her fingers lightly along the roofline like she’s reading something in the metal.
“This is where you started?”
“Pretty much.”I slide my hands into my jacket pockets.“Before sponsorships.Before Europe.Just me, a rusted Honda, and a prayer that the brakes would hold.”
She laughs softly, the sound curling through the cooling air.“And here I thought you were born behind the wheel.”