Page 124 of Knot So Fast
The photographer, whoever they are, is just another shadow trying to distract from what really matters. And shadows only have power if you let them linger in your peripheral vision, drawing focus from the road ahead.
I pocket my phone and head back to the data room, ready to spend the next three hours analyzing telemetry until my eyes bleed. Because that's what it takes to compete at this level—absolute focus, complete dedication, and the ability to ignore the noise whether it comes from haters online, complicated ex-boyfriends, or creepy photographers.
The shadows can linger all they want.
I've got bigger things to worry about.
Like how to find those extra two-tenths through Copse without ending up in the barrier.
Like how to manage tire temperatures over a full race distance.
Like how to prove that an Omega belongs here not just as a diversity requirement but as a genuine competitor.
I vow not to linger on it because there are bigger fish in the sea of competition.
ROMANTIC INTERLUDES
~LACHLAN~
"Now, what do we have here?" Auren's voice carries that particular blend of surprise and delight that makes all the planning worth it.
My grin is big and proud because I was able to set all this up despite our insane schedule—the candles flicker on the rooftop private sector against the infinite pool that decorates the outdoor restaurant, now ours for the evening. Barcelona spreads out below us like a carpet of lights, the Sagrada Familia illuminated in the distance, the Mediterranean a dark mirror reflecting the moon.
The restaurant normally books months in advance, but being a four-time Formula One champion opens doors that stay closed to mere mortals. A few calls, a signing session for the owner's son, and suddenly the entire rooftop is ours from sunset to whenever we decide to leave.
"You've been working hard these last couple of days," I tease, taking in how the candlelight plays across her features. "And it's time to be a little romantic before we're back to being all business tomorrow."
She laughs, the sound bright against the evening air. The red dress she's wearing drapes perfectly around her figure—not too formal, not too casual, just the right amount of elegance with a hint of danger. The fabric catches the light when she moves, shifting from crimson to burgundy to something deeper that makes me think of expensive wine and poor decisions.
I usher her to the table I've had specially set up near the pool's edge, pulling out her chair with a flourish that makes her roll her eyes even as she smiles. I wait until she's settled before taking the seat opposite her, though it goes against my usual preference.
"You know I normally like to sit next to my partners," I tell her, adjusting my napkin with unnecessary precision. "Makes me feel more intimate than across, which feels more authoritative. Like we're having a business meeting instead of a date."
"Well," she says, raising the glass of champagne that's already been poured, "technically this is a business dinner. We are discussing race strategy, aren't we?"
"Absolutely," I agree with mock seriousness. "Very professional. Nothing personal about this at all."
The waiter appears with the first course—some architectural construction involving foam and flowers that probably has a name longer than a German compound word. We eat stupidly perfect food that neither of us really tastes, too caught up in conversation about everything except what's actually on our plates.
"Three sponsors," she says eventually, stabbing at what might be fish or possibly transformed vegetable matter. "Three sponsors gone in two days. That's got to be some kind of record."
I knew this would come up. It's been the elephant in the garage all week—the steady drip of corporate partners decidingthat an Omega on the team is too controversial for their brand image.
"They're cowards," I say simply. "PetroMax, Digit-All, and Sovereign Banking. All of them deciding to bail at the idea of you being partnered with me, thinking the first race was a fluke."
"A fluke," she repeats, her voice flat. "Because obviously, I just accidentally drove from twenty-third to second. Whoops, my bad, didn't mean to be fast."
"Which is exactly why I thought this would be a good way to cheer you up," I gesture at our surroundings. "Forget about scared money men who can't see talent when it's burning rubber in their faces."
She sighs, but there's a smile playing at her lips. "You know what? I'm actually happy my parents offered Katie's services. That woman has done a damn good job blocking everything off. I haven't seen a single death threat in three days."
"That's... a depressingly low bar for success."
"Welcome to being an Omega in professional sports," she says with a shrug that's trying too hard to be casual.
Then her expression shifts slightly, becoming more thoughtful. "Though I did get a photo of me leaving my apartment. Which was odd."
I sit up straighter, immediately on alert. "What do you mean? Show me the picture."
