They found a small enoteca tucked between two shuttered storefronts, its door open, shelves crowded with bottles and wheels of cheese wrapped in paper and twine. Outside, a couple of tables spilled onto the sidewalk. Someone had strung lights overhead, and the glow was soft and comforting.
They ordered a glass of red each and a plate of local cheeses, the owner explaining each one with reverence and very exuberant gestures before leaving them alone.
“I think he feels strongly about the cheese,” Sloane said. “So don’t you take any wild cheese stances while we’re here. You willlose.”
“No, I wouldn’t. I’m confident he wakes up in the morning, decides it’s going to be another cheesefest of a day, and celebrates it in his kitchen. Probably with cheese. And then declares proudly, there’ll be more cheese later. It’s his work. It’s his life. He’s a cheeseman.”
“Monger.”
“That’s a weird word.”
Sloane raised her glass. “To more cheese.” She took a bite of the hard Grana Padano and grinned. “And to your first day.”
Reese took a sip, then studied her. “First of all, this wine is amazing. Very grapey. That’s a technical wine tasting term. Write it down.”
“Oh, immediately. I learn so much from you.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, and Sloane caught Reese studying her.
“You might be overthinking again.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“Only to me,” Reese said gently. “You don’t have to have it all figured out.”
“I know.” Sloane smiled, small but real. “But I like knowing you’re here while I don’t.”
Reese reached across the table and laced their fingers together. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The words landed quietly.
Sloane felt it then, that sense of wholeness again, familiar and warm, like something clicking into place. Monza had accelerated everything, yes, as Monza always did. But sitting there, wine between them, cheese for days, the night unfolding at its own pace, she realized something else too.
Some things didn’t need speed.
Some things just needed time and the right person to hold your hand through town.
CHAPTER 20
THE DANCING DOTS
F1 was everything Reese had hoped it would be. It was fast, exacting, dazzling. It was relentless.
It moved like a small city that never slept, governed by its own rules and rhythms. The days blurred together in a flurry of events and schedules, with little give. The energy from the fans was electric, and the culture was like nothing she’d ever been a part of before. F1 was a huge fucking deal, and Reese now lived in that world.
The only problem was that she wasn’t exactlyparticipating.
As a reserve driver, her role lived on the outskirts. Reese was visible without being essential. She was presented to sponsors, ushered through fan events, left smiling for cameras, while the two actual drivers disappeared into strategy briefings and closed-door sessions. Reese became the face they could spare. The one who shook hands, answered questions, and posed beside the car for photos. In other words, the work no one else had time for.
She took it in stride. Publicly, at least.
Privately, she worked like someone trying to earn oxygen. Every spare minute went into her body and her brain—brutal workouts that left her shaking, hours logged in the simulatoruntil the track burned itself into muscle memory, reaction drills that pushed her reflexes to their limits. She trained for heat and altitude, practiced in the Laurens car during the precious, tightly controlled sessions she was granted, and treated each lap like an audition that never really ended.
If they were watching, she wanted them to see everything.
Between races, her relationship with Sloane slipped into the long-distance category, which Reese quickly discovered she hated. What they had built in close quarters didn’t translate cleanly across oceans and time zones. They lived now in the thin space of texts and voice notes, missed calls, and FaceTime conversations snatched when their schedules briefly overlapped.
Sloane had kept her client roster and returned to consulting during the week, filling the gap left by the academy with work that demanded just as much of her. Even at home, she was pulling long hours, bouncing between meetings and deadlines, her days packed tight.
