Chapter Two

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SAVANNAH

Showtime. Well, not exactly. It was only practice. But every practice needed to be perfect, at least for me. This was the final run at the test track before the season opener in Monte Carlo, and my heart practically raced in time with the RPMs coming from the gleaming white car.

I pulled on a white helmet and adjusted the strap under my chin until my head was safe and snug inside. Snapping the visor into place, I knelt between two men, one of whom was holding a tire. I picked up the pneumatic wheel gun, and it was heavy and comfortable in my hands.

Finally. It felt amazing to be in the pits, the roar of the engine echoing in my head. I'd spent the last three weeks here at the Eagle headquarters, mostly doing boring onboarding with Human Resources during week one. Life had gotten more exciting in week two, when I'd shadowed crew members from the team's other car. After all this, I was assigned to Dante Annunziata's crew and had recently learned the fascinating—and highly confidential—technical aspects of his vehicle from the engineers.

Fun fact: the steering wheel for the car on the track cost close to a hundred grand. It was made of carbon fiber and silicone, and controlled up to forty functions for the vehicle.

And now, it was time for me to control my own destiny.

Everyone was clad in identical white, fire-retardant jumpsuits, with heavy black gloves and boots. Not to mention the white helmets, which made us look like aliens. Even the most ardent of racing fans wouldn't be able to tell I was a different gender—the other tire changers were also trim, small, and nimble. Sure, maybe I was a bit shorter than the rest, but I didn't feel like I stood out.

Giorgio, the tire carrier next to me, gave a thumbs-up, and I responded in kind. He flipped up his visor.

"Che calor," he yelled, and I recognized his words as Italian, something about the heat, because I'd been studying the language for the last month in preparation for my first practice with the team. I wanted so much to be accepted by them, and each time anyone talked to me, I tried to be super pleasant. So far, everyone had been respectful and kind, and I was grateful.

It didn't feel hot outside to me, not after a lifetime spent in the steamy south of Georgia. This heat had nothing on my hometown, where palm trees, moss, and people visibly withered in the summer months. I grinned wide inside my helmet.

Girl, you've got this.

I'd signed with Eagle to show everyone a woman could break barriers in racing's most glamorous sport. I'd also wanted to prove something closer to home.

My mother assumed I'd choose something genteel, a branch of the motorsports profession with a whiff of glitz, like public relations. She'd gone along with the engineering diploma from the University of Georgia and the internship with NASCAR and IndyCar. But my traveling the world with a race team for the better part of a year had been a bridge too far.

"You're going where, to do what?" Mom had asked a month ago, during our weekly bottomless mimosa brunch at a place not far from home. Her incredulous tone had caused many of the well-heeled Southern women at nearby tables to turn in our direction. "But what about that assistant public relations job with the racing team in Atlanta? Or something with our family's company? You'd be close to me and dad, and you'd be able to find a nice Southern boy to settle down with."

Then came the inevitable guilt trip. "How could you leave me?" she'd wailed.

The emotional manipulation had become too much to bear, and for the first time, I stood up for myself. "I don't want nice, I don't want a Southern boy, and I don't want Atlanta," I shot back. "I want international travel and fast cars and Formula World."

She'd fixed her hard blue stare on me and doubled down on her toxic tactics. "You'll never succeed in that world, Savvy. That's a rich man's game, and you have no business sticking your nose into places it doesn't belong. Don't even bother. You'll fail."

That conversation, and no small measure of satisfaction, raced through my head as I stood there, waiting for the car to pit. I was here in Italy. I was succeeding. Thriving.

Crouching into position again between the two men, I sent a silent thank you to my unconventional father, who had always encouraged me to follow my dreams. It was Daddy who had introduced me to the world of motorsports, and who had been the only one to know my secret dream: to help run our family's company, alongside my brother, and sponsor my own racing outfit—an all-female team in one of the top circuits, proving that women could be successful athletes and equals in motorsports. First, though, I needed experience.

"Get in place!" yelled a voice.

With a high-pitched roar, the powerful machine whizzed into the pit. The guy standing at the hood—the lollipop man—held up a sign to signal to the driver to keep his brakes on during the pit stop.

I moved fluidly, pressing the gun into the middle of the tire, unlocking the single lug nut at the center of the wheel. I eased back. The man to my right slipped the tire off, and the man to my left slid a new tire on in one seamless motion. I moved forward and quickly locked the lug nut with a fierce blast of the wheel gun.

Zip. Whoosh. Zip.

It was an intricate dance, albeit one that happened in a few blinks of an eye. The twenty-one strong pit crew that hovered around the car stepped back with uniformity. The lollipop man at the front raised his sign and the car sped off. With that engine, it would eventually reach its peak of fifteen thousand revolutions per minute—up to two hundred and twenty miles per hour.

Faster than a hot knife through butter, I thought.

I thought something else too: You're a beautiful girl, Savvy, which means you have to work harder and smarter than everyone else to be taken seriously. That's what Daddy always said, and I'd reminded myself of his words a thousand times during my first weeks with Eagle. It was a mantra I repeated every time I was asked to do something new.

Work harder.

Work smarter.

Don't show any fear.

The team practiced the pit stops four more times, each one more efficient and faster than the last. The pit crew manager took off his helmet. "Three point one seconds on the last stop. Nice work. Let's take a break and recap the day."

One of the tire carriers who'd stood nearby during the pit stop clapped me on the shoulder as we all walked into the pit garage. After a few moments, a hand firmly eased me aside. From the specially tailored uniform, the uniquely decorated helmet, and the swagger, I knew it was Dante Annunziata, our driver. I'd seen him earlier when he'd climbed into his car for the test laps.

Pulling off my helmet, I watched as the team parted for him, a king given the privilege of entering the air-conditioned garage first. Drivers, even the most decent of guys in any semi-pro contest, usually displayed a hint of entitlement and brashness off the track, and an exacting, calculating iciness behind the wheel. He was no different, from what I could tell.

I followed everyone inside. Although the team was American owned, the headquarters were in Italy because the owner loved it here, I'd heard. The Team Eagle operation was like nothing I'd ever seen in other circuits back home. The place was a vast motorsports complex that had been recently built with an eye for detail. Everything from the polished concrete floors to the mahogany conference room tables to the tools with their surgery-theater-level gleam screamed money.

Owner Brock Bronson had spared no expense for the building or the cars. This was how I'd explain the place to my dad next time I called: cleaner than a bar of soap, with the added bonus of a catered pasta bar for lunch. Hopefully Daddy would be able to visit during a race at some point later in the season. Making him proud was important to me.

As I started to pull a chair out from the sleek mahogany table, Giorgio tugged on my sleeve and wagged his finger.

"We sit back here during these briefings," he whispered in a heavy Italian accent.

I winced, wishing I hadn't drawn attention to myself. "Sorry," I whispered. He was my dad's age, a guy with salt-and-pepper hair and a handlebar mustache. He motioned for me to sit next to him, front and center in a row of folding chairs.

The team's engineers and computer technicians took their places at the conference table.

I set my helmet at my feet on the gleaming terrazzo floor, mimicking the other guys, and undid my ponytail. Goodness, that cool air felt amazing on my scalp. I combed my hair back with my fingers, letting it fall loose over my coverall-clad shoulders.

My gaze alighted on a man at the head of the table. For a second, everything around me—the two dozen pit crew members, the assistants serving coffee, the strong blast of the air-conditioner—fell away, because I was spellbound by a pair of dark, molten eyes.

Dante Annunziata.

My first thought was that it was too bad he wore the foulest, angriest glare I'd ever seen. With his longish raven-black hair tumbling over his forehead and his matching dark brows, it was a waste of a handsome face to look so nasty. My second thought was one of sheer curiosity. Why were his full lips curled into a sneer as if a foul odor permeated the room? Our pit stops had been flawless, and he'd driven as fast as the wind around the track. He should be thrilled that we'd worked so well as a new team, especially since the season opener in Monaco was just days away.

What was he staring at? I glanced to the men on either side of me, then quickly over my shoulder at the two other rows of chairs, which were filled with pit crew members and team staff. I looked again at Dante. He hadn't stopped staring in my direction. And his flashing dark eyes were still unblinking and furious.

Well, that was rude. Surely he wasn't raised by wolves?

As if he'd heard me calling him names inside my head, Dante turned to Jack, the chief engineer, who sat next to him. The two men huddled for a minute until the team's owner ambled in. He was lanky, and wore dung-colored cowboy boots, jeans, a black T-shirt, and thick, black-rimmed hipster glasses. He took up a lot of space when he moved his long arms and legs.

He was followed by Tanya, the team's head of public relations. She was also from the US—Boston, I think, if her clipped accent was any indication. I'd only met her once, and thought she was pleasant in a slightly frosty way. But since we were among the only women employed by the team and both from the United States, I hoped to get to know her better. Being surrounded by all these dudes—and missing my best friend, Kayla, back home—made me crave female friendship.

Bronson passed by Dante and Jack, squeezing both men's shoulders before taking the empty seat next to him. "Take it away, Jack. It's your show," he said.

Jack climbed to his feet. "You all looked incredible out there. Bravo, team." He pumped his fist. "Now, let's go over what we could've done better, and talk about the weather conditions for our first race."

I concentrated on his post-practice wrap-up, trying to put Dante's blazing stare out of my mind. Something about him left me with a squirmy feeling.

"We'll likely be starting the Monaco race on soft tires, since they've done so well in practice this week," Jack said, then launched into a long explanation about the weather in France.

I studied Dante. He was a world champion in the sport. A legend. Which meant I needed to be deferential and extra respectful.

He furrowed his brow. His full lips plumped into a faint pout. He ran a thumb across his jawline, which was sharp as a knife.

I'd bet a hundred bucks that he practiced that brooding, intense look in the mirror just to perfect his sex appeal. The thought almost made me laugh, but I had to admit an uncomfortable truth: he had more sex appeal than his car had RPMs.

It was not something I often thought when looking at a man. Actually, I'd never had a visceral reaction to a guy like this. Not during either of my internships, not in college, not ever.

Guys rarely affected me one way or the other, much to the dismay of both my mother and Kayla. Oh, sure, I thought some were cute, or even handsome. I liked men. I'd kissed a few. But Dante, and his searing, brooding expression, was a different story entirely, stirring in me something both unnerving and unfamiliar. Dangerous, even. There were times in recent years I'd wondered whether I was a normal woman as I was usually so unaffected by the opposite gender.

But this man was different.

His forehead was high and his nose aquiline, a classic Italian look. He often posed for edgy modeling shoots for various Italian clothing designers, and I'd seen lots of photos of him online. But in person, he was way different. Rawer somehow, and more arresting. All charisma and attitude. His lips were plush and sensual, which made his sharp jaw seem all the more masculine. He was clean-shaven and I pondered how the olive-gold skin of his face would feel under my fingertips.

Egad. I made a mental note to text my best friend back home about this troublesome thought. She'd probably laugh at me and tell me I was jetlagged or dehydrated.

"And I'd like to again introduce our newest team member, Savannah Jenkins. Some of you met her during this morning's meeting or have had the chance to say hi over the past couple of weeks. Our team's grown so much, though, and we've hired so many new people that I wanted to do another round of introductions, since I know some of the staff and techs haven't yet been acquainted. In case she doesn't stand out, Savvy's the one in the front row of chairs with the long red hair. Savannah, stand up, please."

Oh dear.

I hurriedly smiled and stood, all while being acutely aware of Dante's smoldering eyes. He'd caught me staring, and I watched as his own gaze skimmed down my coverall-clad body. Just great.

"Thank you," I said, drawing out the words in my most syrupy Southern accent. I'd been trying to temper that around all these international people, but when I was flustered or put on the spot, my roots bloomed in my voice with a vengeance.

"I'm thrilled to be here in Formula World with all y'all, simply honored to be in your presence," I said. "It's a world away from Atlanta, where I'm from, but I know we're going to win the championship for Eagle. Get 'er done. Shake and bake, and all that. At least that's what we say back home. And Mr. Annunziata, I must say that was some of the finest driving I've ever seen on a track. You are incredible."

A ripple of laughter and applause went through the room. Except from Dante. He winced. Didn't nod, didn't smile, didn't acknowledge my compliment in any way.

Jack smiled warmly. "We are equally as thrilled to have you. In case you didn't know, Savvy—that's what she likes to be called—has an engineering degree and has interned with a top NASCAR team. She and Eagle are also part of history, because she's the first female tire changer in Formula World. She's a great asset to Eagle, and I hope you'll join me in making her feel welcome."

Bronson stood. "I'd also like to give Savannah a big hello. I know you all got my memo about her, but consider this a formal welcome. Having a woman on the team puts us at the forefront of motorsports. We should all be proud of that. And look at her. She's something, isn't she?"

When everyone again turned to stare at me, I froze. In an instant, my face felt like I'd pressed it into a bowl of jalapeno peppers, and I knew it was turning red. "Thanks, y'all," I replied.

The team applauded, and I sank back into the chair. The guy next to me patted my shoulder. I let out the breath I was holding and pasted on my best pageant smile. Even gave a little wave.

My eyes went from Bronson to Jack to Dante. He wasn't clapping. Instead, he was scribbling on a piece of paper in front of him. Looking like he couldn't be bothered.

What a jerk.


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