Here we are again. I guess it’s true what they say. No rest for the weary.
I shift my legs to one side, trying to avoid any accidental knee-to-knee—or worse, thigh-to-thigh—contact. “Nico Hilliard’s an ass for asking that same question, but it’s okay for you to grill me?”
He looks taken aback for a second, then licks a smidge of whipped cream off his lip, leans back, and smiles, popping twin dimples. Goddamn dimples. And not just one. Two. As if he needed a double dose of cuteness to up his attractiveness quotient even higher.
The universe must fucking hate me.
“Nico isn’t putting his life in your hands,” he points out. “I am.”
Okay, I’ll give him that one. “Fair. But I thought you weren’t worried about that. At least, that’s what you told Nico.”
“I’m not concerned. But that doesn’t mean I’m not curious.”
“Would you believe me if I said I missed having grease under my fingernails?”
“No.” He laughs.
“How about if I said things were too quiet without the constant drone of 1.6 liter four-stroke turbocharged engines?”
“That’s probably closer to the truth. But I’ll get the full story out of you sooner or later. I’m very persuasive.”
I’ll bet he is. I don’t even want to think about all the persuasive tools he has at his disposal. Like those damn dimples. And his dark eyelashes, perfect for some seductive batting. Like seriously, are those natural? Or does he use mascara?
Not that I care one way or the other. I just want to know. He’s not the only one who can be curious.
“My turn to play twenty questions,” I say, hoping he’ll let the abrupt change of subject slide. “What went wrong with you and Marcel?”
His jaw tics and something that looks suspiciously like panic flashes across his eyes, but he recovers just as quickly with a sheepish smile and a careless shrug. “Professional differences.”
He’s being diplomatic, which I appreciate. I’ve known Marcel for years, and the truth is, he can be as big a jackass as Nico. He’s in the motive-through-intimidation-and-humiliation school of race engineers. Not every driver responds to that kind of treatment. And I’m betting Grady isn’t in that club.
“You don’t have to pull punches with me. This—” I gesture between us. “—is a judgment-free zone. And anything you say stays here.”
“I appreciate that. But I’m not one to complain. I’m more of a go-with-the-flow, glass-half-full kind of guy.”
That fits what I’ve heard about him. And yes, I asked around. Like I said, I’m curious. And curiosity might kill the cat, but it also leads to discovery. Like discovering what makes this guy tick and how to improve his performance on the track.
“Let’s just say our dynamic was a little—intense for me.”
Word on the circuit is that Grady’s the poster child for positivity. A constant ray of sunshine. And why shouldn’t he be? He’s young, gorgeous, and he’s had a huge leg up getting into this business. What’s he got to worry about?
Still, I’m impressed at his reluctance to dish the dirt on his former race engineer. Gossip is a fundamental if frustrating part of Formula One, almost as essential to the sport as breathing. Hence the proliferation of bloggers, YouTubers, and social media accounts dedicated to discussing who on the circuit is fighting with—and fucking—who. It’s refreshing to deal with someone who’s not into all that shit.
“Okay.” I’ll have to go at this another way. “If you don’t want to tell me what wasn’t working with Marcel, then why don’t you tell me how you see our relationship functioning?”
He takes a long, slow sip of hot chocolate—the whipped cream is long gone by now—and lowers his cardboard cup slightly, eyeing me thoughtfully over the rim. It strikes me as a good sign that he’s taking my question seriously. That he wants this relationship to work as much as I do. Maybe more, given that a rookie driver is more expendable than an experienced, veteran race engineer.
Even one with a black mark like a near-fatal crash on his record.
“I get that I’m wet behind the ears,” he says finally. “I’ve got a lot to learn. And I’m open to constructive criticism from the engineering side of things. But my input is important, too. I want to feel like I’m part of the decision-making process.”
And you didn’t with Marcel?I want to ask. But I don’t have to. The solemn look on Grady’s normally cheerful face confirms my suspicion.
Fucking Marcel. It’s beyond me how he manages to convince anyone to hire him. Especially a smart guy like Jacques.
Then again, we all make mistakes sometimes. Some bigger than others. Some with life-changing consequences.
“Of course your input is important,” I assure him, shoving thoughts of hospital beds and wheelchairs to the back of my brain. “You’re the one in the driver’s seat. The only one who can tell us what’s happening with the car. Is it oversteering when you exit the corners? Are the brakes consistent from corner to corner? I’ll be relying on you for information as much as you’ll be relying on me to analyze that feedback and make any necessary improvements. That’s the only way any of this works.”
