“I swear to God Matteo, I will push you out of this moving car,” I threatened in a whisper, reaching for my phone again. Much to my dismay, he was unfazed by my threats, if notentertained by them. It had been like this since I arrived on track at the beginning of the season. I knew he did it to annoy me, I knew my reaction was what he was fishing for, but I couldn’t help it.
Matteo DeLuca got under my skin.
“Take a break, enjoy the view.” He raised a brow.
“I’m going to a work event. I’mactivelyworking, DeLuca.” I glared and he glared back, half-heartedly.
“I was there when your father said to relax and enjoy.” He crossed his arms, trapping my phone.
“Moretti’s don’t relax.”
“What a shame. You should really try it sometime. Hugely positive feedback from those that do.”
I only rolled my eyes and crossed my arms, leaning back in the seat, purposely pushing my chest out. The low-cut front did wonders for me, and I was not above being petty. I knew for a fact he was maintaining eye contact a little too much since the moment I’d walked into the lobby. Leave it to him to be all straight-laced and polite when I was the one who wanted a rise out of him. My boobs looked amazing; it was rude not to look.
“What do you have to do for work tonight?” he asked, tone softer. This stupid man and his stupid ability to read my emotions. Lucia had mentioned it was one of her favorite aspects of her brother: how he gave everyone his full attention, noticed little details and seemed to commit them to memory, but I couldn’t stand it. Lucia’s laugh floated through the back of the car. She looked stunning in a light pink satin gown, a stark contrast to my black one and exactly so very us.
“I promised some of the marketing team I would help take photos and content tonight,” I told Matteo, squeezing my arms together. His eyes faltered, glancing down for only a second, before snapping back up to my eyes.
Mission accomplished.
He swallowed hard, his eyes glued to my own again. His annoying pretty eyes that seemed to twinkle under the dim lights in the back of the limo. I hated them.
“I’ll give it back…” he started, and I sat up straighter. “If, and only if you have a drink with me,” he smirked, revealing his stupid dimples.
“In your dreams, DeLuca.” I scoffed and rolled my eyes. He met me with just as stubborn of a look before sliding my phone under his left thigh, knowing I wouldn’t reach for it. Reminding me of the same cocky attitude that had annoyed me from the very first day we had met.
The morning I had met Matteo was everyone’s first day back for preseason testing. I remembered how sticky it was, how the blouse I had specifically picked out for the day felt like it was plastered to me, and how my nerves were ricocheting around inside of me like a pinball machine. First days had always made me slightly sick to my stomach. I woke up too early, before my alarm even rang through the hotel room. I re-ironed my shirt twice, despite ironing it the night before. I triple checked that I brought a pair of backup shoes, that my laptop was stored in my bag, with the wall charger and a portable one just in case. I went over every scenario or version of things that could happen and preemptively mitigated it. I made a list. I crossed off each item as I put it in my large leather bag. I was ready to face the day and make a good first impression.
Throwing on my mask to perform all day as my work self left my cheeks tired from smiles and feeling touched out from handshakes and unsolicited awkward side hugs. There were too many chances to say the wrong thing and have someone decide who I was before I even opened my mouth. But I knew this dance well, growing up in an important family that had been running a Formula One team for decades came with many events, and many important first impressions.
So, I spent the entire morning doing what I did best: performing. Polite, professional, and put together. I greeted everyone with the kind of warmth people expected from a Moretti, a charm I had perfected over the years.
Inside, though, my nerves were coiled so tight I could barely breathe. Only the Moretti Racing drivers were left to say hi to.
Carlos was easy. I knew him well already. He gave me a thumbs up and a grin that said ‘You’ve got this.’ I didn’t entirely feel like it, but it was nice to pretend.
What felt like the biggest meeting was with the other driver. The new one. Fresh off his rookie year and apparently already everyone’s favorite golden boy.
I’d seen his face on enough screens to know what to expect—cocky smile, messy curls, that ‘I don’t take anything seriously’ energy that made sponsors drool. Still, knowing didn’t prepare me for him in person.
He walked in like he owned the place, sunglasses pushed up on his head, sun-kissed and smiling like the world had never told him no.
“Matteo,” he said, offering a hand. “You must be the famous daughter.”
I blinked. “Nicola, nice to meet you.”
His grin widened, like I’d said something amusing, it made my nerves fray. “Right.” He dragged out the word, like he was already fitting me into some mental box. Then his gaze flicked down my outfit—cream trousers, silk blouse, and my standard heels. I was unfortunately not blessed vertically and hated feeling small, especially in a business setting. Two things were a must: my armor of red lips and high heels. I watched his expression shift, the spark of mischief landing before he opened his mouth.
“Careful where you step, or you might get dirty. We wouldn’t want that for the new paddock princess.”
The words hit like a slap dressed up as a joke.
Everyone around us laughed—quick, easy, like he’d said something harmless. I forced a smile, the kind I used for sponsors and distant relatives. The mask slipped over me automatically.
“Oh, don’t worry,” I said lightly, “I’m used to steering clear of messy things.”
That earned me a few chuckles of my own, but it didn’t matter. The nickname had already landed.
