Page 35 of Full Throttle

He said the words like a fact, but her chest warmed anyway. Like the sucker for praise that it was. “Still. Doesn’t hurt to hear you say it.”

“Frederick spoke to you for a while after class. Does he make a habit of that?”

Dominic’s voice was casual. Too casual. Juliette shrugged. “Sometimes. I find it best to ignore him.”

“What was he saying?”

Juliette hesitated. Truthfully, she could hardly recall. She’d become accustomed to the barrage of insults that came anytime she out-lapped Frederick: hag, whore, slut…Women everywhere could make a drinking game out of it. Two shots for when he disparages your appearance. Down your drink when he sexually shames you.

Juliette shrugged. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Dominic raised an eyebrow. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to be.” He reached for the salt. “I can speak with him, if you’d like.”

She almost snorted. Yeah. She could only imagine how that would go. “It’s fine. Comes with the territory of being the only woman.”

Dominic’s knife flashed. “At the academy?”

“In the sport.”

He scraped the mushrooms into a frying pan. “What’s that like?”

Juliette exhaled. “I’m still navigating it. There are some things that I…” She flapped a hand, feeling suddenly sheepish. “I don’t know. It’s not important.”

Dominic set down his knife. “I want to hear it.”

Juliette pursed her lips. She was almost sure Dominic was making fun of her, but his expression was serious. She tapped her pencil against the page. God, there were a million directions she could go with this. Where to begin? Well, I start every day by putting on makeup so that the boys take me seriously, but not so much that they’ll assume I’m shallow. Every day I wonder if I’m wearing makeup for me or because it’s expected of me. I wonder if I can even tell the difference. I wonder if that makes me a bad feminist.

“No, it’s just…” She cleared her throat. “It’s an honor to be at the academy. It is. And I’m proud to be one of the first women in the sport. But sometimes it feels like…” Dominic watched her intently, and she resisted the urge to shift. She couldn’t recall anybody ever looking at her like that. “I don’t even know if I’m changing anything, or if I’m a one-off, you know? Sometimes I feel like I’m not even in the driver’s seat. Like I’m just knocking on the window, waiting to be let in.”

For a terrible moment, nobody spoke. The chicken bubbled away in the pan. She could feel the heat of it against her cheeks. Or maybe she was just blushing. Why on earth had she shared all that? He probably thought she was a babbling idiot, or ungrateful at the very least. God, she should have never—

“Yeah, I get that,” Dominic said. “One of the first Moroccan drivers, remember? Or half Moroccan, at least.” His smile was wry. “The people in power are the people who change things. We’re outsiders.”

She relaxed. Just a little. “Then what do we do?”

He shrugged. “Just keep knocking.”

He pulled a bowl from the cupboard. She watched as he ladled chicken, wine sauce, and mushrooms, garnishing it with something green. Then, to her surprise, Dominic placed the bowl in front of her.

“Here.”

Juliette raised an eyebrow. “What is this again?”

“Another first.”

He packed the rest of the food into a container. Juliette surreptitiously took a bite; buttery chicken melted in her mouth, along with smoky onion and wine. She bit back a moan. Holy hell, that was good. Where the hell had Hastings learned to cook like that?

“Marchmont?” Dominic asked.

She turned.

He stood in the doorway, the container propped under one arm. For the first time, Dominic looked almost…uncertain.

“I’m not sure there’s an answer to these things. But for what it’s worth…” He gave her a small smile. “It’s nice to hear I’m not the only one who feels alone.”