Page 60 of Formula Chance

She waves her hand at the laptop. “And that’s what I’m trying to do… figure out how I fucked up the timing.”

“You didn’t fuck up.”

Her amber eyes narrow and I can see she wants to argue, so I cut off the words by laying a hard kiss on her. “You want to stay here and get lost in your data because it makes you feel better, then by all means, I’ll give my parents your regrets. But please learn to give yourself a break.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, face slackening with apology. “I just… I can’t let this go. Please tell your mum and dad I’m sorry and I’ll see them at another race.”

They’ll be disappointed, but I’m not about to make her feel guilty about it. My parents are retired, my father having made quite a bit of money in the motorsport world, so they’ll come to many of my races.

“Okay,” I say, leaning down to kiss her again, softer this time. “I’ll be out late with them, so I’ll stay in my room tonight.”

Bex’s attention is already back on her laptop screen, and she waves an impatient hand at me. “Yeah, sure… that’s fine.”

Chuckling at her dedication and ferocity to break it all down into something she can make sense of, I turn around and let myself out of her room. I doubt she even heard the door shutting when I left, so immersed in her world of numbers, equations and formulas.

There was a time in our past relationship that would have really pissed me off—choosing her work over free time with me. And though I’m disappointed to not have her company tonight, I’m okay with it. I think watching Bex work her ass off to be the best brings me as much joy as hanging out with her, because I’m watching her dreams come true in real time.

♦

Dinner with myparents is at a cozy restaurant tucked in one of Melbourne’s laneways. The kind of place Bex would’ve loved—warm lighting, small tables, the smell of garlic and herbs wafting through the air. Instead, it’s just me, my dad and my mom, seated at a corner table.

“Maybe we should bring her something to eat,” my mom suggests. She’s been fretting about Bex since we sat down.

“She’ll have ordered room service,” I say as I cut into my steak.

“We can bring her dessert,” she suggests.

I put my utensils down, cover my mom’s hand with my own, and give her a look that she would often give me as a parent. “Mom… she’s fine. She wants to be left alone, and she will not be happy if we bother her.”

My mom sighs and I go back to my steak, sliding a look across the table at my dad who’s smirking. “I just want to see her and give that girl a hug.”

“Come to the Suzuka race. You can see her then. Or come to Guildford for another visit.”

“We can’t,” Mom huffs, cutting into her jumbo scallop with her fork. “Your dad has to be back in Indianapolis for a symposium and I’ve got some commitments with my church.”

“We’ll come to Suzuka,” my dad says, and my mom’s face brightens. “I’ll make it work.”

Because my father was a highly skilled mechanic and engineer in American open-wheel racing, he still does consulting and mentoring work to “keep his mind busy.” He’s usually flying here and there, but he has the freedom to take whatever work he wants.

“She’s upset about the failed undercut?” my dad guesses. I hadn’t told them the depth of Bex’s distress following the race, merely telling them she was working on post-race data. But my dad knows racing and strategy, and he can fit the pieces together.

“Yeah… she’s taking Matthieu’s poor finish hard, and he was pretty rough on her. The strategy was solid… just bad timing.”

“Rough on her how?” my mom asks, her voice hard because she always loved Bex and doesn’t want to see her hurt.

“Screaming at her after the race. We kind of got into it.”

Both of my parents freeze. “Got into it how?” my dad asks.

“He said some disrespectful things about me and Bex being together. My fist found its way to his face.”

“Nash!” My mom exclaims in horror, but my dad beams approval.

“Never did like that driver,” my dad mutters. “Total jackwad.”

My mom touches her neck nervously. “Will you get in trouble? For hitting him?”

“Didn’t get called on it by Luca, so I’m guessing not. But I don’t care. I’d punch that fu—” My mom’s eyebrows raise with censure. “I mean, I’d punch that jerk again in the same scenario.”

---