Page 73 of Formula Freedom
“We’ll be doing the track walk in about an hour,” he says, and I offer a wave as I walk off.
I head straight to Union Jack’s garage where I find Carlos, leaning against one of the workbenches with a half-eaten melon bun in his hand.
“Where’d you get that?” I ask, nodding at the food. I love those things… it’s like a sugar cookie and a cloud had a baby.
He jerks his head over his shoulder at a table in the back with an open box of pastries. “Help yourself.”
I take two and the first bite is delicious as well as horribly bad for me. I wonder if Lara can make these because she’s great at baking and…
Fuck… stop thinking about her for just five minutes, mate.
I search for coffee but don’t see any. I could use another ten cups, but I head back to Carlos who’s watching me, a smirk playing at his lips.
“How are you not jet-lagged?” I ask, wondering how he looks so chipper after the long travel of yesterday.
“I thrive on lack of sleep,” he says, biting into his bun. “But I’m not sure you do. You look like hell.”
“Thanks,” I drawl with an eye roll, but he’s not wrong… sleep has been eluding me. I just didn’t realize it had manifested in my physical appearance.
He glances at me sidelong. “Let me guess. Lara?”
I say nothing. Promise myself I can go five minutes without thinking about her. I take another bite of the melon bun and watch the activity out in the paddock.
Carlos doesn’t let it go though. “When’s she coming?”
A growl of frustration hovers low in my throat and I turn to look at him, pasting a pleasant smile on my face. “She’s not. She’s back in Torquay.”
He responds with a rapid flurry of surprised blinks. “Why’s she in Torquay?”
Taking a deep breath, I let it out and give him as succinct an answer as I can. “Because Lance showed up in Zurich, caught us kissing and we got into it. He called Lara a name, I attacked and we fought.” Carlos whistles through his teeth but I press on without even taking a breath. “Lara felt it was necessary to follow him back to Torquay and settle things face-to-face. I didn’t think that was necessary and I’m a little pissed she went. That’s it in a nutshell and honestly, I don’t want to talk about it. I’d like some blessed time to think about something other than Lara.”
Carlos stares at me, his brown eyes appraising. “That was quite a mouthful.” I expect follow-up questions and even though I said I don’t want to talk about it I will, because he’s a good friend who always offers solid advice.
Instead, he says, “Come on. Let’s go walk around the paddock and try to get under the other drivers’ skins.”
I bust out laughing, thinking that is the best idea I’ve heard in a long time. “Let’s do it.”
We walk the length of the lined garages, weaving in and out of team members and spectators with passes. Everything we need to race—cars, tools, spare parts, even the espresso machine—gets flown in on chartered 747 freighters. It’s an operation that runs like clockwork, coordinated months in advance by an entire logistics division of each racing team. Once it all lands, local transporters—rented rigs painted with team branding—bring the cargo to the track and line it all up in the paddock like we never left Europe.
Crew members in matching gear rush between garages, lugging tires, adjusting equipment and shouting instructions over the hum of generators. There’s the sharp tang of fuel in the air, the metallic clink of tools, the low rumble of an engine firing for testing. We pass drivers giving interviews, sponsors shaking hands, and cameras trying to catch anything that might go viral before the weekend’s over. It’s the kind of crazy that I’ve come to love and I wish Lara were here walking with me.
Fuck… don’t think about her.
Up ahead is a large gaggle of reporters in front of the Titans Racing’s hospitality unit and for the first time, a buzz that doesn’t center on Nash Sinclair.
Through the crowd I get a glimpse of long golden hair cascading in waves and there she is.
Francesca Accardi.
The Italian driver who just came into FI is tall, which makes her easy to see over the reporters gathered around her. She stands with the kind of posture that makes heads turn before you even see her face. Her hair is long and wavy, a rich caramel-blond that catches the light, and her skin has a Mediterranean golden warmth to it. Her eyes are light brown, almost amber in the right light, framed by thick dark lashes and a gaze that’s more calculating than coy. And her mouth—full, sculpted, the kind you’d expect to see on a runway ad for Italian couture. She’s stunning in a way that’s impossible to ignore—striking, poised, almost unreal—but there’s nothing delicate about her. She carries herself like someone who’s earned her place here, not been handed it.
Francesca’s wearing a cream-colored suit tailored perfectly in the European style with wide legs and paired with sky-high heels. She answers questions with an intense expression, but she also looks at ease and in control. Like she knows exactly how many eyes are on her and she doesn’t give a damn.
Carlos and I continue, but we cross paths near the loading ramp and she glances our way—polite, brief—and gives a subtle nod.
I raise a hand in acknowledgment.
“Cool as ice,” Carlos mutters once we’ve passed. “And twice as sharp.”
