‘What thehelldo you mean that it’s been delayed?’
He checked the knot of his towel and rested his forearms on the railing, taking in his logistics manager’s report. Essentially, a large shipment of car parts, including crucial tyres, specialised tools and performance equipment, had been caught up in a blockade by striking truck drivers in France and its arrival would be delayed by several days. Taz gripped the bridge of his nose. The equipment was needed by his mechanical team so they could start fine-tuning the car set-up and getting it ready for the demanding street circuit.
‘With the strike still ongoing, no one can tell me when the backlog will begin to move.’
Taz thought fast. They had duplicates of everything they needed at the De Rossi headquarters and research centre in the UK. He gave his manager the go-ahead to hire a cargo plane and ordered him to move heaven and earth to get the parts to Monaco as soon as humanly possible.
Shit.He killed the call and banged the edge of his palm against the railing, frustrated and annoyed.
Dealing with delays wasn’t something new, it was part of the logistical circus that came with moving a huge F1 team from one glittering city to another, but tonight Taz felt rattled. The kind of rattled he hadn’t felt in years. Control was his oxygen. He thrived on it, needed it, but lately? It was slipping through his fingers, slick and treacherous like oil on a wet track.
Since Shanghai, his life had become an impossible tightrope walk above a thousand-foot chasm without safety ropes. So much changed—and quickly. He’d lost his temper, been sidelined by injury, acquired a fake girlfriend and somehow found a real lover. And yesterday, sitting in his doctor’s office, they’d finally cut away the cast on his hand.
‘It’s been five weeks, and you’ve healed well. Technically you could race,’ his doctor cautiously told him, ‘but I wouldn’t recommend it.’
But Taz needed to be behind the wheel. Saturday couldn’t come fast enough.
He’d kept the news to himself, unable to tell Millie, his race engineers or the team. The Taz he used to be would’ve already announced his triumphant return to the world he ruled, enjoying the attention and standing in the spotlight. But the man he was today, staring at the late-afternoon sun dipping under the horizon, was different. Over the past few weeks since he’d gotten closer to Millie, he felt like he’d become softer, more vulnerable, like some of his armour had fallen away. He didn’t like feeling exposed.
He pushed his hand through his hair, wishing he could blow off the ball, but he was the guest of honour. It was yet another PR circus, designed to soften his image, make him a little more human, a little less controversial. But his idea of having Millie at his side had been a genius one. Sure, a nice girlfriend helped his image but, with her there, he was less impatient, a lot more tolerant, less abrasive. Nicer to be around.
All good things. But what wasn’t good was that Millie knew Alex wasn’t the saint everyone believed him to be. He’d given her no details, but if he did, he knew she’d understand and empathise. But telling her required an enormous amount of trust, more than he could give. If nobody but him knew of Alex’s secret, then it was forever safe. If he told Millie everything about that night, he’d feel utterly vulnerable, exposed and completely dismantled. He’d regret that he’d told her and worry she’d let the information about Alex slip, and those initial niggles of worry would swell to full-blown anxiety.
The sound of soft footsteps pulled him from his thoughts, and Millie’s cool hand settled on his bare back.
Her freshly washed hair tumbled over her shoulders in damp waves, catching the fading light. She wore a skimpy vest and a pair of soft cotton shorts, her bare feet silent on the stone tiles.
For a moment, the chaos quieted. The noise in his head dulled.
‘Problem?’ she asked.
He nodded and explained, enjoying her hand on his bare back. ‘It sounds like you found a solution,’ she stated. ‘Now, what’s really worrying you?’
How did she find the crack, the gap, in his carefully constructed emotional fence? When had she developed the ability to blow past his shields and look into the raw, unspoken, unacknowledged parts of him? Goddamn, he hated it.
Taz shrugged, the movement sharp and dismissive. But before he could move away, she gripped his wrist.
‘Tazio.’ Her using his full name was her way of challenging him, saying that she wasn’t going to be brushed off. He wanted to push her away, to keep her at arm’s length, but couldn’t.
Her eyes met his, as much inquisitive as sympathetic. ‘Don’t shut me out.’
He planted his feet, his back rigid, his chest tight. ‘Why do you have to push?’ he demanded.
Her fingers tightened ever so slightly on his arm. ‘It was a simple question, Taz. A way for me to remind you that I’m here and ready to listen.’
The words hit him harder than they should have. Because they both knew she wasn’t talking about the delayed shipment or him racing on Saturday. She was talking about all of it—the walls, the shields, the secrets buried deep. She was offering him the one thing he’d never allowed anyone: the chance to be seen, truly seen, for everything he was.
Taz opened his mouth, then closed it, unsure what to say. How did he explain that he was beyond fixing?
But he needed to regain lost ground, so he latched on to an easy out.
He raked his hair off his forehead. ‘What do you want me to tell you? My standings in the championship are slipping, my lead is eroding. My mechanics are anxious because their parts aren’t here, and that’s stressful. I also have to make nice at a ball when I should be working on race strategy.’
‘Why are you so determined to win a fourth championship? Is it because Alex didn’t?’
So sharp. She saw too much, and as a person who’d spent his entire life hiding his emotions, her ability to peek over his walls terrified him.
‘Partly.’
