Page 151 of Full Throttle

“I am.”

“With a friend?”

Dominic shrugged. “Something like that.”

They shook hands. His father clapped him awkwardly on the back, and something like sadness curled in Dominic’s chest. He had a sudden vision of himself at eight years old, sprinting across the foyer to get to Vance, who was wearing rumpled business clothes and carrying a suitcase. Baba, Baba, do you want to see my racing tapes?

He turned for the door.

“Dominic?” Vance called.

He paused.

His father was hunched over the golf bag. The winter sun had bleached Vance’s hair bone white, and his dark skin was wrinkling. He looked older than Dominic remembered, and something in him softened. He often forgot that before Vance Hastings became The Spider, he’d just been his father. Baba. Papa. Dad.

A sudden memory rose.

Dominic was sitting on his father’s shoulders, bundled against the February chill. The air smelled heavily of roasted peanuts. His father sprinted along the Seine, dodging art vendors and crepe stands, making Dominic laugh until he thought his ribs would split. His mother trailed them at a leisurely pace, picking apart an almond croissant, her voice high and teasing. My two troublemakers. What am I going to do with you?

“I just wanted to say…” Vance cleared his throat. “We’d love to have you back at Duro Stallion next year. Just say the word.”

Dominic stilled. All year, he’d been waiting to hear those words. At times, he thought he might kill for them.

But now…

He offered his father a smile.

“Thank you,” Dominic said. “And please tell the team that I’m flattered by the offer, but I’m afraid I’ll have to turn it down.” He shifted the box, turning for the door. “I’m going to try something new.”

Epilogue

City of Dreamers

Dominic pushed through the crowded museum.

The Musée d’Orsay was a study in shadows. Moonlight filtered through the glass ceiling, curling around marble statues. Violin music drifted up like floating stars. Women glided through the room, their skirts billowing out in odd-blooming flowers. This had once been a train station, Dominic knew, although it was now a museum, a very expensive museum that the FIA had paid a small fortune to rent out.

He scanned the crowd. He’d been searching for Juliette for twenty minutes, although he’d been sidetracked by people wanting to speak to him. Apparently, dating someone had made him seem softer. “More approachable,” Liêm had explained, which was, in Dominic’s opinion, terrible news.

Even so.

He’d endure it if it meant he could have Juliette.

And speaking of which…

Dominic spotted her by a small painting. She wore a black dress that dipped low in the back, revealing a swath of creamy skin; silver cowboy boots peeked out from beneath the hem. His pulse sped up. Bloody hell, she was a vision; just looking at her knocked the breath from his lungs.

And it seemed he wasn’t alone.

Two men hovered nearby, their gazes lingering over her bare skin. Dominic slid next to Juliette, splaying his hand possessively over her hip. Mine, his eyes said, and the men abruptly averted their gaze to the nearest statue. Smart.

“I like this one,” Juliette said.

She nodded at the painting, oblivious to the men’s stares, which was typical; for someone who drove a race car for a living, Marchmont had no peripheral awareness off the track. He kissed the side of her head.

“What about it?”

“It feels like freedom,” Juliette said. “Like when you’re barreling down a track at two hundred miles an hour and nothing else matters.”