SAVANNAH

Race day in Valencia was just as exciting as it had been in Monte Carlo and Montreal—filled with crowds and parties and an unmistakable electric current in the air. For many spectators, races were an event, a once-in-a-lifetime weekend, and some of that thrill had rubbed off on me.

I'd gotten to the garage an hour early, at seven in the morning, to see if anyone needed an extra hand. Jack had told me I'd be observing on this race, as well—but working with the representative of the tire company, so we could decide which tires we'd need, since rain was in the forecast.

I stopped in the team canteen for an espresso. Being around all these Italians had made me fall in love with the high-octane coffee. As I stood near the Nespresso maker, a woman approached.

"Are you Savannah?" she asked in heavily accented English.

I turned to look into dark, deep-set eyes. She was smaller than I was—slim, with short silver-and-black hair. Her eyes were oddly familiar. She had to be at least sixty, but was gorgeous and elegant in a European way. She wore black pants, a black shirt, and a Team Eagle windbreaker.

"I am."

She put her hand on her chest. "It's so good to finally meet you. I knew I'd have to track you down because my son wasn't going to make the introduction."

"Your son? Oh!" This was Dante's mother?

"I'm Sofia Annunziata. I've heard so much about you. I got in early this morning on the first flight, otherwise I would have arranged for all of us to have dinner last night."

I opened and closed my mouth, unsure of what to say. It was one thing to pretend to be in a relationship with Dante for the press. It was another thing to lie to his mother. Surely she'd be able to see through this charade. My mom certainly would, if she were here.

"Let's sit and talk for a moment. If you have time, of course." She gestured to a table and chairs. Suddenly the canteen seemed incredibly bright, with its beaming fluorescent lights.

"I have a few minutes. I got here early because I'm trying to learn as much as possible. Right now the team engineer has me observing during races and changing tires during practice. I hope to be in the pits for a race in the future, though." I plunked down in the seat, realizing I was rambling. "But enough about me. Did you have a nice flight?"

She sat across from me and folded her hands in her lap. "I live in Rome now. Dante and his sister grew up outside of the city, in a small town on the Mediterranean coast. He bought me a home in Rome some years back because my sisters live there and he knows how much I love it."

"How wonderful. Is your husband here too?" I looked around the empty cafeteria.

A sour expression crossed her face. "No. We aren't exactly together, and we travel separately."

I sensed there was a story about Dante's parents but didn't want to pry. "Do you love Rome?"

Her face brightened. "So much. It's the best city in the world. You'll have to come visit sometime. I'd love to show you around. I wanted to tell you, Savannah," she said, leaning in, "how impressed I am with you. I've been reading newspaper articles about you, and you seem like such a smart, ambitious woman. I'm so happy my son has finally decided to settle down with someone who shares his interests."

I bit the inside of my cheek. Deception didn't come easy to me, and Mrs. Annunziata seemed like a genuinely kind person. "He's, ah, one of a kind, Dante."

Was that the best I could do? I was supposed to be falling in love with him and all I could muster was 'He's one of a kind'?

His mother laughed. "My son can be quite hardheaded. I'm actually surprised that he's so supportive of your career, given what happened to his sister. That tragedy really altered his worldview."

"Yes, hardheaded is a good description for him . . ." My voice trailed off. Though I would admit that in the last couple of days, since he'd shared that detail about his sister, I'd tried to be a bit more charitable toward his fears about me on the track.

"Don't pay any attention to that side of him. Dante admires people who want to succeed. I'm sure that's what he sees in you, and that's what he loves in you. It takes—how do you say it in English? Stomach? Stomaco, in Italian—a strong stomach, to do what you're doing."

"Guts," I offered.

"Yes, that's it. Guts. I'm sure Dante appreciates that quality in you."

I doubted whether Dante loved anything about me, except for my boobs in low-cut dresses, but I wasn't about to argue.

"Maybe guts isn't the right word. Maybe I'm stubborn too. Or delusional."

"No. You're not. We need young women like you in the sport. And don't let anyone, including my son, tell you otherwise because of his sister. And speak of the devil."

Mrs. Annunziata stood up, and I twisted in my seat to see Dante and Jack walking toward us.

Jack was wearing a big smile and bounded over. "Buongiorno, Mamma," he shouted and wrapped his long arms around her.

"There's my second son," she said.

I climbed to my feet and met Dante's eyes. I expected him to be annoyed, for some reason, but instead he looked amused.

"Hey," I said softly.

"Having coffee with my mom?" He nudged me with his shoulder.

"Mm-hmm."

Jack and Mrs. Annunziata broke apart, and Dante leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. "Mamma, ciao." They launched into rapid-fire Italian.

Jack approached me. "I was looking for you because I have some news. You know Rolf?"

I nodded. Rolf was a young German tire changer on Dante's team.

"Well, he went out for a run early this morning and slipped on a patch of loose dirt. Sprained his wrist when he fell. Won't be able to change tires during the race. I'd like to put you in. If you think you're ready. I think you're ready, but I wanted to know how you're feeling."

I straightened my posture. "I was born ready."

***

During a Formula World pit stop, it isn't every second that counts.

It's every tenth of a second.

"One more lap," Jack warned in our headsets. Fourteen of us pit crew members went to our spots. I was assigned to the left front wheel, meaning the one closest to Dante, on the driver's side. Three of us were assigned there—one man to my left and one to my right. I held the wheel gun in my hands and rested on my knees, legs spread to give me stability. The sound of the twenty cars on the track reverberated through the air like the buzz of a million angry bees.

"Remember, Savvy, lock your air wrench onto the wheel's center lock nut a fraction of a second before the car stops moving. You've done it during practice dozens of times. You've got this." Jack's voice soothed my nerves.

With a controlled motion, Dante's car veered into view.

In a flash, the car entered the pit. As I'd learned, I attached the gun to the wheel as it approached, and by the time it rolled to a stop a foot later, the nut was loose. The engine's low rumble vibrated through my body.

The man next to me whisked the tire away, and the man to my right—Giorgio—jammed a fresh tire in its spot. I pressed the air wrench to the nut and fixed it into place.

No sooner had I released the gun and leaned back from the car than Dante sped off in a whir of RPMs.

"Two point nine seconds," Jack said in our headsets. "Amazing work, team."

I sprang to my feet, finally able to exhale. Giorgio lifted his right hand and I slapped him a high five.

Never in my life had I done anything as exciting as in those 2.9 seconds.

***

That night, instead of going to a nightclub with Dante, I went to a team dinner Bronson had organized. It was held in a bland banquet hall at our hotel, the atmosphere not as lavish as in Monaco or as hip as the nightclub in Montreal.

This was more like a big, raucous family meal, and I couldn't help but laugh with happiness when I walked in.

Dante was seated at the head of one long table. He'd come in first, again—his third race in a row. Between that and his mother's presence, he seemed more relaxed than I'd ever seen him.

Max, however, looked like a guilty Labrador puppy, sitting at the head of his own table, surrounded by his pit crew. He hadn't finished the race because he'd crashed on the final lap while trying to overtake another car. He'd ignored the directions of his engineer, which was a big no-no.

Jack privately told me it had been a boneheaded move—Max had been in fifth place but lost it all in an attempt to get to fourth. Drivers rarely went against their engineer's recommendations, and it was all anyone was talking about on motorsports blogs in the hours after the race.

He kept pushing his blond hair off his forehead, and I noticed that he was drinking more champagne than usual. Bronson was sitting next to him, looking less than pleased. Oh dear. I'd heard rumors that Max and Bronson didn't see eye to eye on some things, but I tried not to listen to the gossip. I had enough of my own issues to deal with.

Steering clear of that drama, I took a seat at Dante's table, far from where he was sitting—or tried to. His mother spotted me and extended her hand.

"Savannah," she said, her voice rising above the mostly male chatter. "I saved you a seat up here."

She patted a chair next to her and smiled warmly. How could I refuse? At least it wasn't immediately next to Dante. I walked toward her, and she leaned in for a double cheek kiss.

"Che bella," she said to me, patting my hair. I'd washed and blow-dried it straight tonight, and it cascaded down my shoulders. I'd worn a simple black polo dress and white sneakers, hoping to look sporty and, well, not too sexy.

"Thanks," I replied, and caught Dante's eye. He was staring at me, which made me uncomfortable. I couldn't read his expression, and I wondered how he did that—his face animated and warm one moment, then an impenetrable mask the next.

I took my seat and tried to make small talk with Mrs. Annunziata. "Did you enjoy the race?" I asked her.

"It's always a little bit, how do you say, nerve-wracking to see my son drive. My heart's in my throat the entire time. As it must be for you."

"Yes," I murmured. And that's when it hit me. I'd been so worried about my own performance during the race that I hadn't yet thought about Dante's safety. I figured he was the driver, the professional, and he had that part under control. He appeared to never show fear.

But what if he was hurt out there? The very thought left me with an unsettled, uneasy knot in my stomach. I went to quell it with a sip of champagne, but over at Max's table, Bronson stood up and tapped his knife against his wine glass.

The room quieted.

"We wanted to thank you all for your hard work today. Dante and Jack and their crew did an incredible job," Bronson said. "I'd also like to single out Savannah, who worked her first pit stop. She was excellent, and the entire team was flawless."

He held up his glass of wine in my direction, and everyone erupted into claps and cheers. Dante's mom rubbed my back, and part of me felt like crawling under the table. Instead, I beamed at everyone.

In my peripheral vision, I saw Dante rise from his seat, come around the table, and lean in my direction. My eyes widened when he planted a big, dramatic kiss on my cheek. His spicy aftershave smelled so delicious, and I had to admit, the thought of kissing his mouth—later, in private—came to mind.

"She was amazing, wasn't she?" he called out, while running his hand down my hair. "She makes me look good."

Did he just pay me a genuine compliment in front of the entire team in an odd, backhanded way? I was so shocked that it barely registered when Bronson started talking about Max and his awful final lap. Everyone knew Max had ignored his team engineer, and no one was thrilled about this development.

"Now, there's no room for ego on this team." Bronson wagged his finger. "I need you all to remember that."

Yeah, right. It was all ego, according to what I'd seen over the past several weeks. And the biggest ego of all was in the man who kept winning races.