This night, Amelia thought, was off to a bad start.

She wiggled her foot, surreptitiously trying to adjust the heel. A blister was forming on the back of her ankle. A blister, Amelia thought grimly, the size and shape of Saturn; she'd been tempted to turn back to the hotel and change shoes, but she was already running late after Connor called in a panic to say that he had Aquagenic Urticaria (Connor called about twice a week whilst scrolling through WebMD to say that he had a rare disease, but it still required an hour-long conversation to talk him down).

And now, Trek was trying to ruin her evening.

She sipped her champagne. Her Team Manager clearly didn't realize that she could hear him; he was standing just to the left of the flower arch, dressed in a white linen suit and hexagonal orange sunglasses. Two men stood next to him.

"You should have seen the car," Trek was saying. "Jen did a number on it. Door crushed, paint ruined, headlight dangling off..."

One man laughed. "Let me guess. The Benz?"

"Oh, obviously," Trek said.

The other man whistled. "What's it going to cost you?"

Trek took a sip of champagne. "Six grand."

"Yikes."

"How'd she do it?" a man asked.

"Shopping." Trek lowered his glass, scattering golden light. "She was trying to pull out of the car park. She hit a pole."

There was a long pause. Then both men laughed. The sound was round and full, melting in the middle like chocolate. It would have been a nice laugh, Amelia thought, if it wasn't for what they were laughing at.

One man wiped at his eyes. "Fucking hell, Trek."

"I know." Trek shook his head. "Like it's stationary. How does someone hit a stationary object?"

"Women amaze me."

One man clicked his fingers. "Maybe you should get her a cheap little car to drive around. Something pink and pretty. That's what I did with my wife."

"Or you could hire a chauffeur," the other suggested.

"I might have to," Trek said. "Just for peace of mind." He glanced both ways. "And let me tell you, gentlemen: I'd be saving money."

More laughter. Amelia took another sip of champagne. A sick feeling had started in her stomach, and the Italian breeze — which had felt humid and lovely — now clung to her like oily sun cream. A man waved a hand.

"No, no," he said, "we're being unfair." He paused. "Jen probably got distracted. After all, you know what women are like in shopping centres."

The other one smirked. "Do you reckon she saw a Zara sign?"

"A Zara sale sign."

"Don't be ridiculous," Trek said.

He swirled his glass of champagne, and his signet ring caught the light, glistening like a miniature sun. Amelia gripped her glass. Please, she thought. Please say something to defend her. Please don't be a knob about it.

Trek smiled. "My wife has higher standards; it would have been a Burberry sign."

The men roared with laughter. Amelia turned away, her jaw hardening. Fuck it; she couldn't hear any more of this. She took a long swig of champagne, starting towards the balcony. Her chest felt oddly hollow, and she thought of the way that a tire popped, all the air going out in one great big whoosh.

She was familiar with these sorts of jokes. The 'women-can't-drive' jokes. The 'women-get-distracted-by-shiny-things' jokes. Hell, she'd been listening to them since she was eight years old, driving a kart around a track.

But to hear it from Trek?

Trek, who'd hired her? Trek, who was responsible for putting the first female F1 driver in history on the grid?

Amelia drained her champagne. Sod it, she thought darkly; she was going to get drunk. She scanned the packed balcony, looking for the bar—

"Cartwell!"

She turned.

Cedro was waving her over. He was sitting near the railing, silhouetted against the terracotta roofs and black spires; buttery yellow light haloed his dark curls, and his white sleeves were rolled up. A young woman had her legs slung over his lap — his girlfriend Tiff, Amelia presumed — and she was chatting to Isla.

And then there was Noah Wood.

Noah was leaning against the railing, his black necktie hanging loose at his throat. His head was turned towards Matthew, and she could see the sharp curve of his jawline. The patch of stubble that he'd missed at his throat. He looked up as she approached, one eyebrow lifting in a way that Amelia had never fully mastered.

"Let me guess," Noah said. "Freak asteroid hit your car."

She paused. "What?"

"No, wait." Noah clicked his fingers. "A man robbed an olive oil stand, and you were the only witness to the crime."

She frowned. "Wood. If you want me to understand you, you'll have to speak in English."

Noah drained his glass. "No, I've got it. Your hotel was overrun with porcupines."

Amelia looked at Cedro. He was, she could only assume, the official Noah Wood translator. And sure enough, Cedro sighed and lowered his glass. "He's guessing reasons why you're late."

"Oh." Amelia shrugged. "I was calling a friend."

"A friend," Noah echoed.

"Connor Yip. He's an—"

"F2 driver." Noah's face was unreadable. "I know Yip. Didn't realize you two were friendly, though."

Amelia eyed him coolly. "And I didn't realize I had to give you a list of every person that I'm friends with."

"If it's all the same to you," Noah said mildly, "I'd prefer it in an Excel spreadsheet. They're so much easier to organize, don't you find?"

Amelia clenched her fists. She went to take a sip of champagne, raised her glass, and then realized it was empty.

Oh. Right.

"I'm going to the bar," Amelia announced.

She was already turning when Noah rose. "I'll come with you."

Her irritation grew. "I can make it across the room without your assistance, Wood."

He gave her a mock-toast. "My drink is empty."

"Then I'll bring you one."

"I hate to break this to you, Cartwell, but in order to present a united front, you will actually have to stand next to me at some point."

His voice was light. And damn it, Wood was right; she could admit that to herself. If they wanted to save face — if they wanted to keep the Mercedes and Alpine sponsors from pulling out — then they needed to seem chummy. But to actually admit that out loud...

Amelia swallowed.

Her father liked to say that she'd been born with the confidence and pride of a fifty-year-old American politician. Now was no exception.

Apologize, she thought. Admit that Wood has a point.

Instead, what came out of her mouth was: "I'm standing next to you right now."

"You're like, fifteen feet away," Noah said.

Amelia glowered. "Has anyone ever told you that your depth perception is terrible? No wonder you keep losing races."

Too far. She knew it was too far the moment the words left her mouth. Noah fiddled with the end of his tie. There was a terrible, awkward pause. The other four — who'd been watching the exchange like a tennis match — took a long sip of their drinks. Then Cedro gestured to the pink-and-purple sky.

"The sunset is beautiful," Cedro said. "Don't you agree?"

"Lovely," Tiff added quickly.

"Stunning," Isla said.

"Superbly astonishing," Matthew said. "Wonderfully astounding." He took another drink. "I think we should all take a moment to admire it in companionable silence."

Another beat. Then Noah lay a hand on her arm.

"We're going to the bar," he said.

She shook him off. "Don't tell me what to do."

"You just said you wanted another drink."

"And now I don't."

"Cartwell." He leaned in close, his hot breath curling in the shell of her ear. "You're either coming with me to the bar willingly, or I'm throwing you over my shoulder and taking you there. Choice is yours."

A rush of heat pooled in her stomach. For the first time, she was aware of the woodsy smell of his skin; the way his cheek was scratchy against her ear. She could feel his heartbeat against her back, and she jerked out of his reach.

Fuck.

What the hell had that been?

"Fine." Her cheeks felt flushed. "Let's go, then."

They turned for the bar. Noah placed his hand on her lower back, and the touch felt like a hot brand against her skin. She looked up at him.

"What are you doing?"

"High-fiving your back," Noah said. "Everyone's doing it nowadays." She continued to look at him, and his voice became exasperated. "Christ, Cartwell, I'm just trying to act like we're mates. That's the whole point of tonight, isn't it?"

She sighed. "I suppose."

Noah looked at her in surprise. Then again, Amelia thought, that was the closest she'd come to admitting that he was right. The closest she ever would come to it if she had any say in the matter. He nodded to a woman in a floaty yellow dress.

"You see that woman over there? Drinking a martini?" Amelia nodded, and Noah's hand tightened on her waist. "That's Lily. She's with Sky Sports. Laugh as we pass her. Pretend I've said something funny."

She smiled as they passed. "Do you really know every reporter?"

"Most."

A camera clicked. Amelia kept smiling.

"Why?"

Noah gave her an odd look. "Because I like talking to them. You should try it sometime. Most of them have personalities and everything." He leaned against the bar, flagging down a staff member. "One whisky neat and...?"

He looked at her expectantly. Amelia took out her wallet.

"I can get my own drink," she said.

He waved her off. "It's an open bar. And I'm already ordering."

"But we'll have to tip them."

"I know," Noah said. "I've got it."

"I don't want you to pay for me."

Her voice came out harsher than she'd anticipated. More defensive. Noah studied her for a long moment, and there must have been something in her face, because he nodded, turning back to the bar. "Just the whisky, then."

Amelia stood on her tiptoes. "And I'll have a lager, please."

"And I'll have one of her, please," a masculine voice said.

They both turned.

A young man with dark hair stood behind them. He reached up to scratch his face, and emerald cufflinks winked on his wrist. This was Matthew Carr's teammate, Amelia realized; they both drove for Ferrari.

Lucas Walsh.

A/N: Hello lovely readers,

Firstly, I am so sorry for missing last week's update! I've been a bit snowed in with work lately, and time got away from me (*insert upside-down smiley face emoji here*).

The GREAT news is that I'm posting four chapters today! Woohoo! I'll be in Greece from August 12 to 23, so hopefully this makes up for the lack of posting while I'm gone :)

Question of the Day: Guys, we have SO much to talk about in the real-life F1 world!! What do we think about Seb's retirement? And what team is Oscar Piastri going to sign with? The drama lately has been UNREAL (naturally, I am living for it).

Affectionately,

J.K.