"Hi." The young man stuck out his hand. "We've not been introduced. I'm Lucas."

Lucas's hand wobbled slightly. Cigar smoke and whisky clung to his clothes, mixing with the smell of Italian leather, fish, and the sulphur of the city. There was a gleam to his eyes. He was drunk, Amelia realized; or drunk enough that his eyes kept flicking to the plunge of her pale green dress, anyway.

Still.

She ought to be polite.

She took his hand. "Amelia."

Lucas's smile widened. "I know."

"What do you want, Walsh?" Noah asked.

He shifted to stand closer to her. She could feel the heat radiating off him, and her heart sped up. Out of irritation, Amelia thought. Obviously.

"Easy." Lucas dropped her hand. "I'm just saying hello. I almost didn't recognize you, Amelia." His gaze flicked down again. "You look... different."

She crossed her arms. "Well, I'm not wearing a balaclava. Or a uniform."

"No." Lucas's mouth curled. "Shame we don't have communal changing rooms; I would have liked to see what was underneath the uniform."

It took a moment for his words to sink in. Amelia blinked. Blinked again. Blinding rage swept through her, turning every bone in her body molten. Did that fucker actually just say... did he just look at her and say—?

She was going to kill him.

Rip him apart with her bare hands.

Except she couldn't, Amelia realized, glancing around the party. She was on thin ice already. And if she decked Lucas Walsh in a public setting, the tabloids would have a field day. She dug her nails into her palm. Counted in her head. One. Two...

"You're drunk, Walsh." Noah's voice was short. "Go home."

Lucas took a sip of beer. "Only if Amelia agrees to come with me."

"Didn't you see the FIA email?" Noah asked. "Dating teammates is against the rules." His smile was pleasant. "Then again, I know that reading is hard for you. So many words. It must be difficult, considering you only know about five."

Lucas shrugged. "You know what they say. Forbidden fruit tastes sweeter, and all that." He held out a hand. "What do you say, sweetheart? Shall we find out?"

Noah took a step forward. "Back off, Walsh."

Lucas laughed. "Oh, come off it, Wood. Like you haven't thought about shagging her."

"I said, back the fuck off."

Noah shoved him. Lucas stumbled. His back connected with a high table, sending several drink glasses tumbling to the floor. Someone screamed. A camera flashed, and Amelia darted forward, seizing Noah's arm.

"Wood!" Panic pulsed in her chest. "What the fuck are you doing?"

His eyes were black. "Did you hear what he—?"

"Yeah, I heard." Amelia dropped his arm. "I don't need you to defend me."

"And what was your plan?" Noah demanded. "Just stand there and take it?"

They studied each other. A muscle jumped in Noah's jaw, and he rubbed the spot that she'd touched. Lucas was swearing, shaking wine from his sleeve. Several waiters had dropped to their knees, cleaning up the spilled glass. A mix of fury and embarrassment filled her, so strong and sharp that she tasted metal at the back of her mouth.

"Maybe I was going to go home with him," she said.

Noah sucked in a breath. "That's not funny."

"Who says I'm joking?"

Noah was breathing fast, his chest rising and falling in short pants. "You know what? Be my guest. Torch your entire career for a one-night stand with Lucas fucking Walsh. The grid will be better for it."

She stilled. "Excuse me?"

Noah's face was hard. "You heard me."

A ringing began in her ears. She didn't think; she just threw her drink. Noah flinched. Sticky beer struck Noah in the face, dripping off his nose and ears; several drops slid down his neck, pooling in his collarbones. Someone gasped. More cameras clicked.

Remorse filled her, and Amelia set the glass down on the table. "Fuck." She let out a breath. "Wood, I..."

She couldn't get the words out. Even now, Amelia thought, they stuck in her throat: I'm sorry. Slowly, Noah opened his eyes. Droplets clung to his lashes, but he didn't bother to wipe them away; instead, he raised a finger to his lips.

Held her gaze as he sucked it.

"English IPA." His voice was rough. "If you really wanted to piss me off, Cartwell, you should have used a cheaper beer."

Heat crept into her cheeks. Noah's eyes were dark, the colour of starless skies, and the way he was looking at her... She swallowed. He looked like he wanted to shove her; he looked like he wanted to kiss her. And if she stayed here a moment longer, Amelia thought, she was afraid of what she might do.

She didn't think.

She just turned and left.

Amelia awoke to the sound of pounding on her door.

Sunlight filtered through the crack of the curtain, sparking off the wooden drawers and glittering chandelier. Through the open curtain, she could make out a slice of the Royal Palace and the gardens beyond; somewhere, birds were chirping, and the smell of oranges drifted through the window. She blinked, rolling over to check her phone. Six o'clock in the morning; the Italian Grand Prix didn't start for hours.

So who the hell was standing outside her hotel room?

More pounding.

"Amelia!" a voice called. "Ammie, it's me. Open the door."

She frowned. Hang on. She recognized that voice. But it couldn't be him, Amelia thought; he was meant to be warming up for his race.

The pounding came again.

"Amelia Cartwell! Open this door, or I'm going to kick it in."

Amelia rubbed her eyes, shrugging a hoodie on. Then she swung open the door. Connor Yip stood on the threshold, holding a carton of orange juice in one hand and an English tabloid in the other. He pushed into her room.

"Here." He tossed the newspaper on the bed. "Look at this."

Amelia blinked. "You're meant to be at the racetrack."

"Amelia. Look at the newspaper."

She shook her head. "Why are you here?"

"Because I fancied some tiramisu." Connor's voice was exasperated. "Why do you think I'm here?" He hopped on the bed. "I saw a TikTok video of you last night throwing a drink in Noah Wood's face. People have made memes about it. Memes."

Amelia's stomach sunk. "Oh, no."

"Yeah."

"And that...?" She gestured to the tabloid. "That's about me?"

Connor rose. "Just read it. I'll make the coffee. My race got delayed, so I have an hour."

Amelia sunk onto the bed as Connor bustled around the hotel room, pulling out various teacups and bags. They could have just rung for room service, Amelia thought, but she didn't have the heart to tell him that; Connor liked a task, particularly in a crisis.

She smoothed the tabloid out on her lap.

The headline read, Cartwell Gives 'Em Hell: A Surprising Start to the Italian Grand Prix.

Party guests got more than they bargained for last night at a fancy fête held at the Hotel Continentale in Florence. At approximately 11 o'clock, F1 newcomer Amelia Cartwell, Ferrari driver Lucas Walsh, and paddock sweetheart Noah Wood were spotted at the bar together. 'You could tell that they were arguing,' a witness told Tuesday Express. 'Things were getting heated.' At one point, Wood grew so angry that he pushed Walsh into a table, shattering several glasses and alarming fellow partygoers. Cartwell responded by throwing a pint of lager at Wood, who reportedly seemed upset.

Could this be the beginning of a rivalry? Sources say that Cartwell and Wood have been secretly feuding since their crash in Bahrain. 'They hate each other,' a source close to the pair say. 'They might pretend to like each other in public, but...'

Amelia broke off, lowering the article.

Right.

This was a disaster.

She pushed her thumbs into her temples. Fuck. Trek was going to kill her. And thinking about Trek only made her angrier, considering the shit he'd said last night. Connor set down a coffee next to her, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder.

"Well?" Connor asked. "What do you think?"

Amelia met his gaze. "I think I need a pastry."

They found a café in the heart of Monza.

It was unassuming, as far as cafés went, Amelia thought; there was a smattering of white umbrellas, a few plastic potted plants, and the sort of Instagrammable pink wall that Connor always got excited about (he'd already snapped a selfie and sent it to his boyfriend, Logan). They placed their orders — a pink lemonade for Connor, an expresso for Amelia, and a blueberry scone to split — and then they sat in silence, their knees pressed together.

"It isn't what I thought it would be like," Amelia said finally. "The big leagues."

Connor adjusted his baseball cap. "What did you think it would be like?"

"I don't know." Amelia shrugged. "I guess I didn't realize that people would have all these preconceptions of me." She ran a finger over a plastic plant, tracing the fine veins. "Everyone keeps staring at me like they're waiting for me to do a trick. But I just want to compete. That's all I've ever wanted."

Connor patted her hand. "You're the first female F1 driver, Ammie. That's going to come with responsibilities."

"But I don't want to be the female F1 driver. I just want to be a driver."

"Think of all the young women you're inspiring," Connor said. "The good that you're doing."

Amelia sighed. "All I've done so far is crash into Noah Wood and then throw a drink in his face."

"Well," Connor said wryly. "There's still time."

"You really think I can win?"

Connor scratched his cheek. He was genuinely considering the question, Amelia thought; as a driver himself, he was weighing up the different performance of the cars. The politics of the grid. Each driver's performance.

"Yes," he said finally. "I think you can."

"Even in a midfield car?"

He shrugged. "Cedro Fontana did it last year."

"Good point."

The waiter arrived with their drinks. He placed the blueberry scone in the middle, and then set the pink lemonade in front of Amelia. She shook her head.

"I ordered the espresso," she said.

The waiter's eyes darted to Connor, as if seeking confirmation. Irritation went through her, and Amelia leaned forward. "Look, mate, just because the drink is pink doesn't mean that I ordered it. I ordered the espresso. Do you need me to repeat myself a third time?"

The waiter raised an eyebrow. He pushed the lemonade toward Connor, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like pazza. Connor waited exactly three seconds after the waiter left before rounding on Amelia.

"Ammie," he said. "What's going on with you?"

"Sorry." She rubbed at her face. "I just... I'm so sick of people treating women like their only purpose in life is to order pink drinks and put out for them."

To her horror, her voice came out tight. She turned away, staring hard at a plastic plant. Forced herself to count each leaf. She was not about to cry in an Italian café. No, she refused to cry in an Italian café. Connor looked alarmed.

"Did something happen last night?"

"No," she croaked.

"Amelia." His voice was stern. "Tell me."

It came out in a rush. Lucas Walsh cracking on to her, and Trek laughing with his friends about his wife's parking mishap. The sponsors threatening to pull out if she and Noah didn't repair their reputations. And how Amelia had to win the whole season, or else she'd be replaced by Angus McCormack, who'd once put a popsicle down her top at a pool party.

By the time she'd finished, Connor had finished his lemonade.

He shoved the empty glass away. "I think you should fight back."

"What?"

"Fight back." Connor's voice was firm. "Show them you're the best. Overtake people. Cut them off if you have to. Drive like your ass is on fire and there's a hot fireman waiting at the finish line. Who cares what people think of you, Ammie?"

She picked at the scone. "The press will hate it."

"Screw the press."

"They're going to say I'm a bitch."

"You are a bitch," Connor said. "A badass bitch. You might as well own it."

"Hey!"

She threw a piece of scone at him, and Connor dodged. But she was smiling now, Amelia thought; Connor had always been good at that. He reached across the table, squeezing her hand.

"Don't win because Trek told you to," he said. "Win because you deserve it."

She sucked in her cheeks. "Who do you think my biggest competition is?"

"Wood."

"Well," Amelia said, "if the media want a rivalry, then they'll get a rivalry." She picked up her knife. "Let the games begin."

Connor's smile was brilliant. "That's my girl."