Page 7 of Start Your Engines

I throw my hands in the air and rock back on my chair. “Niki, I’ve always been clear with women that I’m not the settling-down type.”

“I don’t care. Give me the promise we made as teenagers. Promise me you’ll protect her and that you won’t try anything with her.”

The door opens, and Senna stares at me, her eyebrow cocked. “I heard Connor laughing. Are you two done? I’ve got balls to bust, and I’ll be starting with yours, Connor fucking Dane.”

Why does that sound so appealing?

“Promise me, Connor.”

I look between the woman I have messy feelings for and her big brother. Senna hates me, and I can’t let my thoughts about her own me again. This will be fine.

“Sure. Whatever,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “But I’m not going to make this easy for anyone.”

I glance at Senna, who says in a way that has me pressing those nails deeper into my hands as my belly coils, “You want trouble, Dane? Bring it on, because I’m all in.”

CHAPTER 3

Senna

“Come in,”I holler as the knock hits my door again.

“Please don’t be Dane. Please don’t be Dane,” I hiss like a mantra.

Anxiety tightens in my chest.

I’ve avoided Connor for a week, although he’s hung around my office, cracking his knuckles and huffing loudly. Ignoring his attempts to intimidate me or piss me off has become my Olympic sport, and the casualties have included my worn socks from my nervous tapping and the work trousers I’ve put a hole in from my relentless picking.

A grey-haired man with questionable dress sense pokes his head through the door.

“Uncle Ralf.” My face breaks into a beaming smile, and I run to my mentor. He embraces me, and for a moment, I still as safety and comfort overwhelm me.

“Little Boss,” he replies in his gentle German accent.

“You don’t have to call me that,” I say, gazing up at him.

“Senna, that’s been your nickname since you were four years old and bossing your brother and me around like the independent little thing you were. I will keep calling you that even after you retire.”

“Like you?”

“Like me,” he says with a grin.

I pull away, and I point at the chair. “Take a seat.”

“Still bossy, then,” he teases.

I offer a wry smile to the man my dad employed as a driver in the heyday of the Coulter Racing team. Once I have time to request them, photos of some of his many wins will adorn the walls of my office.

I settle in my seat. “Is this a flying visit, or are you back to advise the team like you used to?”

I lean towards him. Although Ralf has lost his love of racing and, some say, his edge, he is still the best man I know.

“I’m afraid I’ll be on a plane to the Caribbean in about four hours with Myles, but I got a feeling you might need me.” He relaxes in his chair. His belly, a sign of his happy retirement travelling the world with his husband Myles, tests the buttons of his neon pink and green Hawaiian shirt. While my dad calls daily to discuss progress, Ralf proves there’s life after racing.

“Dad phoned you, didn’t he?” My stomach drops.

Ralf shakes his head, which makes his bushy eyebrows resemble dancing feather boas. “Niki did.”

I pick at the bottom of my team shirt. The top half strains against my chest almost as much as Uncle Ralf’s strains against his belly. I wish I could blame happy living, but it’s because there are so few females working at Coulters that they don’t make a female-cut shirt. I need time to change that, too.

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