“I get it. He’s your father.”
“Don’t I know it,” he mutters dejectedly as he climbs out of bed and pads into the bathroom, leaving the door open. A second later I hear him peeing.
I button my jeans then grab my shirt and shrug it on. Christ, I hate seeing him like this. He deserves so much better. He deserves someone in his life who supports him unconditionally. Who cares about his feelings. Who makes him a priority. And fuck if I don’t want to be that person.
It’s a new sensation for me, this willingness to entangle my life with someone else’s. It’s thrilling. And terrifying. And I’m not exactly sure what to do with it. This was supposed to be casual. A little bit of fun on the side. Falling for him wasn’t part of the deal. But that hasn’t stopped me from coming down with a major case of the feels.
It isn’t his fault he’s irresistible, sweet and funny and kind and so perfectly my opposite in every way. And it isn’t my fault I couldn’t resist him. It just—is. We didn’t make any promises. We don’t have any expectations.
I’ve got two choices. One, stop whatever it is we’re doing now. Or two, ride the wave and hope that I don’t get in any deeper than I already am.
“Do you want me to stay?” I ask when he comes back into the room. To hell with the risk. I pick door number two. If he needs me, then this is where I want—no, need—to be. “We can go over our race strategy before we meet with the rest of the team. Or just lie here in our underwear, watch Brazilian television, and try to guess what they’re saying. Unless you’ve been holding out on me and you speak Portuguese.”
That earns me a ghost of a smile, and my heart swells. I feel like the Grinch in that Christmas cartoon, where his heart explodes out of the little box in his chest.
It’s not like Grady doesn’t smile. He smiles more than any person I’ve ever met. But that’s the public Grady. The face he presents to the world.
I’ve gotten to know the private Grady. The one who never thinks he’s enough. Who worries what others think of him. Who suffers in silence, pretending nothing is wrong. The fact that he lets me see that side of him and that I can coax even a small smile from him when he’s at his most vulnerable —well, that’s what has me all post-epiphany Grinchy.
He crosses to his open suitcase, pulls out a pair of black nylon shorts, and steps into them. “I appreciate the offer, but you were right. I should hit the gym. I’m not going to let my father mess with my routine.”
I’m on him faster than Jasper overtaking Cristian in Abu Dhabi, smothering him in the biggest, tightest hug. “I am so fucking proud of you.”
He squeezes back. “Thanks. Even though I haven’t done anything to be proud of.”
“Yes, you have.” I run my fingers through his hair, loving the way the velvety soft strands feel as they slide between my fingertips. “You’re focusing on the race, doing what you have to do to prepare despite your father’s attempt to throw you off your game.”
“Thanks,” he says again, his cheeks flushing in that adorable way that makes me want to ravage him.
I lower my head, intending to drop a light kiss on his lips before leaving. But one kiss turns into two, turns into three, turns into four. And there’s nothing light about them. These are deep, drugging kisses that make my head spin and my cock, which had calmed considerably thanks to thoughts of Grady’s douchebag of a dad, start to stiffen again.
The first kiss takes him by surprise, but by the second one he’s as into it as I am, clutching my shoulders and kissing me back, moaning into my mouth like a porn star. He kisses like he drives—reckless but controlled, with complete concentration. His lips are full and soft against mine, and he tastes like an intoxicating mix of sweet syrup, strong coffee, and spicy sausage.
It takes every ounce of willpower I have to force myself to pull away from him and take a breath. “Have a good workout. I’ll see you at the track.”
“Not fair,” he moans, pointing to the bulge in his boxer briefs. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
I chuckle and give him one last kiss before stuffing my feet into my sneakers and heading for the door. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
The rest of the morning is pretty routine. I manage to make it back to my room without arousing suspicion and shower off the smell of sex before going to the paddock. Grady shows up after his workout, also freshly showered and with a broad, happy-go-lucky, surfer boy smile on his face, showing none of the melancholy from earlier.
The team meeting goes off without a hitch, everyone on the same page with our strategy for today’s race. Grady’s starting in P8—not his best, but far from his worst—and our goal is to have him finish in the points again, hopefully even higher than last time.
After the meeting, Grady and I keep our distance from each other. We’ve found it’s easier this way. Helps maintain a certain level of professionalism. Besides, he’s got fans to greet and a playlist he likes to listen to to pump himself up before climbing into the car. And I have to run through the final checks and do one last run though the data with my engineering team.
The next time we talk it’s over the headset. He’s out on the track for his formation lap, and I’m perched on the pit wall with Jacques, Elodie, Bernie, and some of the team’s other top staff, including our sporting director, trackside engineering director, and technical director.
Not all the race engineers sit out here. Enzo Pantani, René’s race engineer, prefers to work from the garage, where it’s quieter and easier to have face-to-face conversations with the other engineers working on René’s car. That’s where I stay, too, for practice and qualifying. But I’m old school. When it’s race time, I like to be out here, where the action is. Where I can feel the wind and hear the roar of the engines and smell the heady mix of gasoline, motor oil, and rubber.
“How are the track conditions?” I say into the headset. The wind is gusting and it’s starting to drizzle. So much for sunny São Paulo.
“Not too bad,” Grady’s voice crackles in my ear. “A little wet, but not too much spray.”
People think the biggest problem with racing on a wet track is grip, but it’s not. It’s visibility. If it’s wet enough, the spray thrown up by the cars creates so much fine, gray mist that it's almost impossible to see, never mind race safely.
“Good. The forecast says it’s going to clear by lights out, so hopefully this is as bad as it gets.”
But it’s not, because, as usual, the fucking forecasters are wrong. I don’t know any other job where you can fuck up so much and not get your ass fired. The rain is still falling, not hard enough to cancel the race but enough to make things difficult for the drivers.