Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
I don’t respond. Because I can’t really argue with that. I expect Accardi will make serious bank on endorsement deals as she’s the hottest story in all of sports right now. Accomplished, smart and supermodel gorgeous, how can they not want her in front of a camera?
“Meeting’s tomorrow morning,” Harley says. “Ten sharp. Titans HQ in Guildford. I expect you to be there. Smiling would be a bonus but not required.”
“Didn’t you say I could take some time off for my mum?” I ask in a last-ditch effort to avoid this.
“Sorry, that offer’s expired.”
I close my eyes and nod. “I’ll be there.”
“Good. And Ronan”—she softens, just a fraction—“seriously, if you need anything…”
“I don’t.” I hang up and shove my phone into my pocket, but my thoughts don’t stop moving.
Francesca Accardi. Her amber eyes that are difficult not to get lost in. Her soft rolling accent. The way she looked at me at that Italian restaurant in Suzuka, like she could see every brick in the wall I’ve spent years building.
I’m irritated, but also apprehensive. That woman that sets me on edge, but I’m not completely sure why.
And she’s not the only thing I have to worry about.
Lex used to be my friend and now he avoids me like I carry some sort of contagion. Not that I blame him.
Maybe this forced proximity will help. I can’t fix everything—but perhaps we can be teammates again. That might make this fiasco worthwhile if it offers me the chance to repair the friendship I so thoroughly damaged.
CHAPTER 6
Francesca
The Titans headquarters—my official workplace—is sleek and understated, a statement of quiet confidence rather than flamboyance. Formerly Excalibur Racing, I’m astonished at how quickly they were able to redecorate in the Titans’ colors. Floor-to-ceiling glass panels reflect a manicured circular drive in purple-gray pavers that match the team’s palette. White metal accents—curved canopies and angular columns—mark the entrance under a discreet Titans’ logo in shiny black lacquer.
Stepping inside, the lobby exudes both power and sophistication in the form of marble floors laced with veins of pale violet, plush gray sofas, and two display bays framing a silver-and-purple race car lit from below. Trophies and driver helmets rest on glass shelves beneath backlit walls, each piece curated and polished—not cluttered.
The eastern side of the massive lobby is floor-to-ceiling glass that overlooks the developmental engineering department. Inside, technicians busily code and analyze telemetry on new innovations in the all-out effort to build a better and faster car.
“Good morning, Ms. Accardi,” the receptionist says from behind a wide, curved desk at the far end of the lobby. She’s a young British woman wearing a sleek charcoal-gray suit with a subtle purple Titans pin at the lapel. She taps her screen and nods. “You’re expected upstairs. Conference room two.”
“Grazie,” I say with a smile as I flash my credentials at the scanner mounted to the side of her desk. The sensor chimes and a turnstile admits me into the inner sanctum. Beyond the checkpoint, the real work of Titans Racing hums around me.
Since I’m a bit early, I decide on caffeine as a bolster and head toward the break room. I pass a row of glass-walled offices on my left where some of the upper-level executives work. Through another set of glass panels on the right, I catch a glimpse of the garage below. Mechanics in branded coveralls swarm over a stripped-down chassis like surgeons, tools glinting under bright task lighting. If I had a choice of working in an office or a garage, I’d take the latter every day of the week.
I adjust the strap on my shoulder bag and turn down a hallway. The décor shifts slightly here—less clinical, more comfortable. Pale wood paneling. Titans’ signature white-and-violet branding woven into art and upholstery. Framed campaign shots and magazine spreads line the walls, a history of Excalibur Racing through the years, with the last few showcasing Nash Sinclair and his debut with Titans Racing. I study one particularly great shot of him throwing a rooster tail of gravel during track time at Silvercrest. I should be intimidated by Nash as he’s one of the best this sport has ever seen, but he’s been so welcoming that I’m grateful to have him on my team.
I round the last corner toward the break room and slow my steps when I see two very familiar bodies tangled in a goodbye kiss.
Nash and Bex.
Her arms are looped around his neck and Nash cups her face like she’s delicate as they smile at each other. It’s sweet—if you’re into nauseatingly cute.
I clear my throat loudly. “Should I come back in ten minutes with a bucket of ice water?”
Bex laughs without letting go. “Don’t be jealous. You’ll find your tall, delicious snack eventually.”
“Is that what we’re calling Nash now?” I say, tossing my bag onto the nearest counter. “A snack?”