“Where are you living these days? I hope you didn’t have to come too far.”
“No, sir. I’m living in London. I moved in with an old friend from high school.”
“You like it here?”
I nod earnestly. “Yeah, so much. I love London. And I was living with my parents in Albuquerque before that for a while, during rehab, which was... not ideal.”
That might be a bit too honest, but luckily Tom laughs, revealing very white, straight teeth. I looked up his net worth on Google, and it said he’s worth six hundredmilliondollars.
“I can certainly relate to that,” he says. “I lived with my parents for five years when I was trying to get my first company off the ground. ‘Not ideal’ is a mild way to put it.” He pushes his chair back. “Would you like an espresso? I’ve only had four so far today, so I’m struggling.”
“Oh—sure, thanks.”
There’s a Nespresso machine on the other side of the office, and I watch as he makes two espressos.
“How did your rehab go?” he asks. “You must have been in physio for quite some time.”
I nod. “It was good. I mean, it was hard, and it took a while. But it went well. The rehab team cleared me to race again about a month and a half ago.”
“Have you done any racing since?”
I swallow. “No, sir. I reached out to a few F2 teams...” Nope, that’s not true. “All of them, actually.”
“Porteo didn’t want you back?”
I wince slightly at his bluntness. “No,” I answer honestly. “Which... you know, I get it. I was really injured, and I was off for so long—”
“They’re idiots,” Tom says.
I stare at him. “Sorry?”
“They’re idiots,” he repeats, handing me an espresso. He sits down across from me and takes a sip of espresso, watching me through sharp blue eyes. “You were by far the best driver in F2 last year. They should have taken you back.”
My cheeks are warm. “Oh. I mean, it was mostly my fault, though. I didn’t keep in touch with them at all after the crash—”
“That’s not your job,” Tom says dismissively. “Clayton’s younger sister died very suddenly three seasons ago. Terrible tragedy. It wasn’t hisjobto tell us he needed time off. It was our job to support him through his grief and recovery.” He takes another sip of espresso. “The same thing goes for the rest of our staff. Drivers are valued in this company, but not more so than everyone else.”
I smile faintly. “I like that.”
Tom nods briskly. “Good. Now, there are still things we’ll have to work through. You’ll need to be cleared by our team here—the physios and doctors, and our psychotherapists—”
“I—sorry, cleared for what?” My heart is skittering.
“To join the team,” he says, as though it’s obvious. “We alreadyhave a reserve driver for this season, Farin Leblanc, but we can bring you in as a test driver. And I’ll tell you in confidence, it’s likely our reserve spot will be open next season.”
I feel kind of jittery and unstable, like I’ve drunk my espresso too quickly. Also sort of like I might cry, which would be humiliating. “Is Farin... going somewhere?” I manage.
“He is likely to receive a very exciting opportunity,” Tom says vaguely. “One we would fully support him in.”
“That’s nice,” I say stupidly.
Tom watches me for a moment. “I’ve surprised you.”
“Uh—yeah, a little.” I let out a nervous laugh. “I guess I’m just... I mean, don’t you need to, like, interview me, or something?”
“Interviews,” Tom says, “are a useless social construct. Anyone with half a brain is going to give the right answers and say the right things. Do you know how I like to select employees?”
“Um—no, sir.”
