He smiles. “Tell me everything, please.”
I clear my throat, gather my courage, and start to explain. I hand him the laptop, directing him to scroll between screens and tabs, outlining the blueprints of the algorithm, the parts already completed, the formulas I’m using, and the data I’ve gathered and converted. I talk for nearly half an hour, explaining the problem I’m stuck on with human emotion and error. Oddly, it feelsniceto explain my work to someone who’s listening. Ilya’s shown interest, but it’s been vague and offhanded at best.
Frank doesn’t just listen; he asks questions, reads everything on my computer, and seems deeply interested in what I’m building.
“You’re weighing these variables too evenly,” he says, nodding at the laptop with narrowed eyes. “Tyre degradation and fuel load don’t carry the same predictive value. You need to weigh them independently or your output is going to be muddy. Also,” he points to the screen, “these two inputs are redundant—combine them into a single composite variable.” He clicks over to another tab, pauses, and taps the screen where my incomplete emotion variables sit. “This is… integral, but overcomplicated. Figure out how to measure the aggregate. One well-built composite variable will give you more predictive power than fifty granular ones.”
My eyebrows rise. “You know data?”
“Certainly. I built a company off analytics.” Before I can ask more, Frank twists in his seat and waves someone over. “Connor, would you happen to remember the times Asher and Elio had at last season’s qualifiers?”
Connor replies without hesitation, reeling off a list of times, and Frank types the numbers into my model. He beams at the results before meeting my eyes. “Don’t forget to incorporate qualifying data, not just race-day data. You’re relying too heavily on race-day results; everything that leads up to it is equally as important.” He hands my laptop back to me. “How long have you been working on this?”
I clear my throat. “I built the theoretical framework last year for my thesis. I started building the practical framework about two months ago, and began tailoring it to the team after the first race.”
Frank’s eyebrows raise. “You’ve done this in less than amonth?”
“I’m fresh out of grad school, so I’m used to all-nighters.”
“Well done.”
A waiter approaches us, asking if we’d like refreshments.
“An old fashioned for me, please, and as for the young lady… a coffee, black.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and my brows furrow. “How’d you guess my order?”
“No guessing involved.” Frank smiles. “A little birdy mentioned it to me. She’s actually told me quite a lot about you.”
It only takes me a moment to pinpoint who thatlittle birdymust be, since only one person on the team knows how I take my coffee. “You know Amanda?”
“I should hope so. She’s my daughter.”
My head jerks back an inch. Amanda is one of the sponsor’s daughter? How didn’t I know about this?
I recall what she said the last time we spoke, about Elio not being able to fire her if he wanted to.No wonder.If her father’s pouring money into her boss’s career, I imagine that’d make it quite difficult to get rid of her. I didn’t pinpoint her as a nepo hire—she doesn’t conduct herself with the arrogance I’ve come to expect from them.
The waiter returns with our drinks. Frank clinks his glass against my mug. “Keep me apprised on your algorithm, and do let me know if you need any help. It looks quite promising.” He downs his drink in a single gulp, sets the glass on the table, and strolls away.
My eyes fall back on my computer. Frank gave me more valuable suggestions in the span of a few minutes than I’ve gotten from any team members inweeks.
Well, shit.
Chapter Thirteen
Victoria
Asher finishes the race in P22 and gets lapped twice. Elio scrapes by to P16, but only just. I stay in the sponsor lounge for about an hour after the race finishes, which should be enough time for most people to clear out. My aim is to avoid Asher at all costs.
The one thing I forget is my shitty streak of luck and that the universe loves a good joke, because no sooner do I traverse the hallway outside the lounge than do I run smack-dab into Asher.
And I mean literally. I practically faceplant into his track shirt. The impact jars me back, and I nearly fall on my ass andtrulymake a fool out of myself, but then hot fingers wrap around my arm, saving me from complete humiliation.
The world around me seems to pause for a breath as a spark ofsomethingtravels between Asher and me. This is the first skin to skin contact we’ve ever had, and it’s… alarming, to say the least. Energy snaps the air taut. My breath catches in my throat.
Asher’s brows furrow for a fraction of a second… then he releases me as if I’m on fire. “So she’s incapable of following directionsandclumsy.”
“And he’s an assholeand…” I trail off as I glance up at him. Sweat plasters his dark hair to his forehead, and his eyes burn with simmering blue fire. He looksdevastatinglyattractive.
