Page 134 of Full Throttle
She drew a breath. Then she moved toward the reporters.
“Morning, ladies and gentlemen. Who’s up first?”
Juliette looked down at her coffee. It was her third cup. The I-only-drink-this-in-emergencies coffee. People scrambled around the garage, carrying tires and wrenches. Ranya was leaning on her cane, saying something about tire degradation, although Juliette couldn’t concentrate. Her stomach was a knot of jumbled wires.
Beside her, Dominic braced his elbows against his knees. He’d changed out of the clothes he was wearing at the hospital and into a race suit, and she realized with a pang that it was the last time that one of them would be wearing the navy-and-gold colors. Most likely her, with the way things were shaping up.
“Again,” Ranya was saying, “the aim is to make up as many positions as possible. Dominic’s car survived the worst of the damage, and he has the better starting position.” She paused. “Robert feels it’s imperative that we get him to the front.”
“In other words,” Juliette said, “you need me to hold up traffic.”
Ranya’s mouth thinned. “Yes.”
She’d suspected as much, but the blow came just the same. Still. It was the team’s only shot at winning a trophy, so she shoved down any resentment. To her surprise, Dominic cleared his throat. “That’s not fair. Marchmont deserves to run her own race.”
She could feel him trying to catch her eye, and she busied herself with slipping on her gloves. Ranya shook her head.
“It’s too big a risk. We have to do what’s best for the team.”
Dominic frowned. “That’s not—”
“That’s team orders.” She turned to Juliette. “I’m sorry.”
She swallowed. “I understand.”
Strategy was just strategy. It wasn’t personal. It did mean that Dominic would get to keep the seat though, which was a shame, because she looked excellent in navy. Someone called Ranya’s name, and their team principal started toward the computers, her cane clicking on the floor. Even looking at it closely, you couldn’t tell that it was hollow, Juliette thought with admiration; it was the ultimate fake-out.
Dominic ran a hand over his face. “This wasn’t my idea. I need you to know that.”
Juliette rose. “It makes sense. You have the fresher tires. The better placement. I’d do the same if I was a strategist.”
“Well, it’s not fair.”
She shrugged. “Racing rarely is.”
“Drivers!” A person in a headset held up two fingers. “Two minutes to formation lap.”
Right. Juliette hastily yanked on her balaclava; sweat trickled down her neck. Just as well that she had an excuse to leave, because if she hung around any longer she might cry. “Good luck. I’ll see you at the finish line.”
Dominic rose. “Wait.”
Against her better judgment, she paused. Dominic was watching her intently. He looked like an underpainting, she thought, like one of those layered acrylic paintings that he’d once shown her in a Parisian art gallery. A thousand pictures contained within a single frame: a stern instructor; a supportive teammate; a patient friend; and something else, something more that she couldn’t define. Dominic moved closer, and the smell of him was overwhelming, a combination of spice and skin.
“Not a day goes by,” Dominic said raggedly, “where I don’t regret what I did. But I want you to know that I never stopped…” His throat worked. “I just never stopped.”
Shock lanced through her. “Hastings—”
“Give me the chance to explain. I’ll tell you everything, I promise.”
A lump burned in her throat. “I can’t.” Heat burned in her cheeks, and even though part of her was desperate to speak with him, her stupid pride wouldn’t allow it. “I get it, Hastings. You chose your career over me. Hell, I even understand it. But I can’t sit here and listen to you explain that you fancy me but it’s not enough—”
“Fancy you?” He flinched as if she’d struck him. “Juliette, if you think that this is some sort of fleeting infatuation for me—”
“Drivers!” Ranya clapped her hands. “To the cars. Now.”
Dominic reached for her, but Juliette was faster, darting out of his grip. She was halfway to her car when a voice called out.
“Juliette!”
