Page 6 of Off the Grid

“It is. I know it is.” He twists his lips as our gazes hold, before a soft smile turns the corners of his lips up. “Part of this is me wanting to leave this sport better than I was born into it. We need more women in it. And not just so we can say you’re here but because you come at things differently. See other angles. Look at problems from a different viewpoint. Have opinions that are no doubt different than the owners—who are all men.”

“And the other part?”

His smile reaches his eyes. “Maybe I want that connection with you like we used to have. When you were little, then when you were a teenager and we’d sit in the paddock with our chests rumbling, our ears buzzing, and our hearts pounding during a race. Call me nostalgic, tell me I’m growing old, but I miss those days with you.”

Jesus. Talk about grabbing hold of my heart and squeezing it. I’d run from the sport. My only focus had been on getting away. For my own sake. But selfishly, I never stopped to consider what he’d lost. How my abrupt absence, and the years that have followed, affected him. I’d been too busy reeling from . . . and well, running.

Coping.

Healing.

“I miss that too.” And I do. They are some of the best memories. “It’s just . . . I don’t know, Dad.”

He angles his head to the side and studies me. I feel nothing but love from him despite his scrutiny. “There hasn’t been a single moment where you said you think it’s a good idea or that you’re excited. Not even a smile over it. You want to tell me what’s really going on, Camilla? Why you don’t want this opportunity?” He stares at me with a look in his eyes that hints that he knows his words to be true. That there is so much more to the story about why I walked away.

I open my mouth and close it. All those times I’d sit on his or Nonno’s shoulders and tell them I wanted to run this place rush back. This was my dream. My biggest hope.

My eyes are drawn to the picture of my great grandfather on his credenza, my nonno, my uncle Luca, my dad, and me—four generations of Morettis. The past. The present. And what was supposed to be the future.

Anyone could look at it and see we’re related. The dark hair. The olive skin. The light brown eyes. Our mannerisms.

I’m proud to be part of this family, this legacy. I hate that I’m hesitating on his request.

“Cami?” he prompts.

“No reason,” I lie. “I found my thing with marketing. I’m good at it, that’s all.”

He doesn’t respond and when I finally look over to him, he’s studying me. That’s never a good thing. The man can read me like a book.

There’s a reason I had to put space between us—a whole ocean—until I could deal with the new reality the chain of events left me accepting.

“You are good. That’s my point. The team needs you. The company needs you. I need you.”

And the dagger twists with those last words.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, my own internal war being waged that he has no idea about.

“I tell you what, kiddo. Give me a year. The rest of this season, actually. Come work with me and if after that time, I haven’t won you over and you still don’t want this, I’ll never ask again. You can go back to MOO and be done with racing,” he says, the name we fondly call Moretti Olive Oil.

“You’re trying to reel me in because you know I won’t want to leave you, aren’t you?” I tease.

“Can you blame me?” He laughs and his smile lights up his eyes.

“Can I have some time to think about it?”

“Of course. But, Cami, I need you on this. I really do.”

“I know. I just need to think things through.”

He turns back to the Moretti world beyond.

“I’m here if you need to bounce things around. Just like always.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

But that isn’t true. He’s sick and, one day, sooner than we ever expected, he won’t be here.

And that’s the day I’m dreading more than any other in the world.