Page 155 of Off the Grid

He closes the distance, his eyes on mine. His chest heaving. When he stops, he seems a little shaky on his feet.

“I said, I saw what you said to her,” he says quietly, motioning for the cameras to back the fuck off.

They do, but they’re still there, a little farther away, but still so very present.

“So?”

“It’s not my business, but it doesn’t take a genius to draw conclusions. To put the two and two together I’ve questioned for more years than I care to count. To be ashamed that you were able to defend my daughter when I didn’t even know she needed it.”

“Sir? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, still unable to betray her confidence, but I make sure my eyes tell a different story.

He nods. “I know you don’t. And I respect you for that more than I think you’ll ever know.”

“Again, thank you for the opportunity.” Those are the hardest fucking words I’ve ever had to say before giving him one last look and turning to leave.

“Spencer.” I look over my shoulder, and Carlo holds his hand out to me to shake it.

The tremor catches me by surprise. It’s violent and obvious and, before the concern finishes flashing through Carlo’s eyes, I step toward him, using my body to block the view of the cameras. I take his hand in mine to shake, but don’t let go. Why is his hand fucking shaking? Why does he look like he’s . . . vibrating? He’s stressed, I get that, but—

My dad was going through some health scares.

That’s when I started flipping through the evidence.

Camilla helping him in the conference room that day. His tendency to have his hands in his pockets to steady him. The cane he occasionally uses. The tremors that were slight but that I shrugged off.

How did I not string the signs together?

Just like my dad’s favorite actor and my mum’s Hollywood crush, Michael J. Fox, Carlo Moretti has Parkinson’s.

He meets my eyes—surprise and gratitude heavy in them—as I hold on, waiting for it to subside. “You good?” I murmur.

He shakes his head, his eyes darting to the crowd around us.

I keep my hand in his and cuff him on the shoulder to prolong the connection. To help him camouflage what he’s been trying to hide.

Another moment passes.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

I release his hand and we stand face-to-face. Man-to-man. A dad and his daughter’s lover. A gentleman and a fighter.

As two men who love the same woman but in completely different ways.

“We’ll figure it out, Riggs. We’ll make it right. God fucking knows how considering the FIA will be down our throats with fines. LeCroix’s probably going to press charges.”

“I’ll pay the fines, sir. This is all on me.”

“My ass you will. I take care of my family. God knows I clearly didn’t in this case.”

“Sir?”

“Head out. Let me fix shit. We’ll talk later. If you think I’m letting you off this team now, you’re fucking crazy. Yes?”

My eyes well with tears I don’t want to shed, and I blink them back. “Yes, sir.”

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CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE