Page 14 of Formula Chance

The logistics and setup team arrived two days ago with all the equipment and cars, and everything is running smoothly as I pass through the garage, which smells of rubber and gasoline. Several of the pit guys nod at me, a few offering fist bumps as I make my way to the staircase that leads up to the operations nerve center. Today the cars will finish being assembled and we’ll focus on strategies in the upcoming meetings. There will be press commitments, and I’m expected to be at those as it’s been announced I’ll be filling Aalto’s slot next race. Tomorrow, the drivers and engineers will do our track walk, which is where we’ll be able to see firsthand the layout and conditions. You can’t get any closer than walking it.

A team meeting is set to start soon, the first of many where all the departments will fully collaborate, focusing just on the Jeddah race. Strategy, tire management, car performance, mechanics, aerodynamics—the engineers will be dissecting every detail, and I’ll be there to offer my knowledge as Luca requested. I know the drill. It’s not like I’ve forgotten how this works, even if my nerves are a little sharper than they used to be.

But first, coffee. A jolt of caffeine sounds like the only way I’ll survive an hour of data and charts being thrown at me after eating such a big lunch. I pivot toward the hospitality suite, already imagining the bitter burn of espresso, and round the corner without slowing down.

That’s when I hit her.

Or she hits me.

I’m not sure which.

The collision is fast and messy, with droplets of cold liquid hitting my face but most of it spraying Bex across the chest.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” she snaps, stepping back and holding a now-empty cup of what I’m guessing was her favorite drink… Diet Coke. She looks down at her shirt, which is completely soaked, along with a folder of papers in her other hand. She shakes the folder, trying to fling the wetness off before glaring at me with rage. “You idiot. Now I’m going to have to go print all that stuff off again and I’ll be late to the meeting.”

It’s true… I can be an asshole sometimes, and while it was probably my fault I ran into her, I’ll never admit it. At least not to this woman.

“Hello to you too,” I say with a lazy smile, brushing at the front of my shirt where a few rogue drops landed. “Careful where you’re walking.”

As expected, her eyes narrow, whiskey-colored orbs flashing fire. “Me? You came barreling around the corner like a damn freight train!”

“Maybe you shouldn’t stand in doorways while holding a full cup of Diet Coke.” I glance at the ruined papers in her folder, my smile broadening. “Or balancing important documents, apparently.”

She stares like she’s weighing the pros and cons of slapping me, then looks down at the mess on her shirt. “These were my notes for the meeting. Do you have any idea how much work—?” She stops, takes a breath and then grits out. “And I don’t have another shirt to wear.”

I spend a moment evaluating the situation, taking immense pleasure in rattling Bex’s normally cool facade. One might think I’m being a dick because of our bad history together. But what’s shocking is that I’m finding an almost affectionate amusement over this mishap. Back in the day, there was a time that had this exact thing happened, we would’ve been laughing our asses off.

A strange longing for that feeling goes through me and before I can even consider the stupidity of my words, I say, “You should have thought about that before you threw your drink at me.”

I wait for it, wanting to know just how hard I can poke this bear.

She erupts, her voice scathing as she yells, “I didn’t throw it, you jackass! You ran into me!”

She’s loud enough to turn heads nearby, and I bite back a smirk. Same old Bexley—always ready to go ten rounds with me, especially when she thinks she’s in the right. Which of course, in this instance, she is.

I lean against the doorway, crossing my arms, and give her a slow once-over. “Well, at least you’re consistent. Blaming me for everything that goes wrong in your life.”

Okay, that wasn’t poking in jest. There was some real meaning in that statement, all the old hurts rushing to the surface and crushing that attempted moment of teasing.

Bex sucks in a breath, her grip tightening on the soaked folder. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re wet.” I nod at her blouse. “You should probably change before the meeting. Oh wait… you don’t have any other clothes here. Bummer.”

Her glare could melt steel. “You’re a horrible human being,” she says so deadly quiet, I almost don’t catch the words. And fuck if that doesn’t strike a chord within me I don’t like. “You’re a child. Nothing’s changed at all with you,” she continues to seethe.

“And you’re still a shrew,” I retort, falling back on old insults.

Bex’s free hand grips into a tight fist, her face screwing up with fury. “Calling that wedding off was the best thing I ever did.”

My chest hollows out, the bitter reminder that she’s the one who threw in the towel on our relationship. I bare my teeth at her. “That’s because… you’re… a… quitter.”

Bexley snarls, her face turning red. “I’m not the one who walked away from the sport,” she says, oh so fucking sweetly.

That was a low blow. “Fuck you.”

“You wish,” she says, batting her eyelashes.

There was a time that’s all I wanted. To fuck her and be with her and love her. It’s hard to even remember what that felt like, although I know it to be true. I have the actual memories, but none as vivid as the one where she threw us away.

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