Page 54 of Until The Lights Go Out

Austin didn’t even hesitate. He pointed straight at me as I pointed at him.

I let out a quiet, disbelieving breath. “No.”

“Oh, come on,” he said. “You’ve got that whole broody thing going on. That’s how it always starts.”

“The notorious playboy falling in love? Now that would be quite the sight.” The interviewer smiled.

“Whatever,” I said, sharper than I meant to, feeling defensive. I knew I was called a playboy, and I mostly stayed offline, ignored the tabloids and gossip, but it still shifted through. People still talked. The thing was, I hadn’t been seen with anyone since the season started, and people were hungry for any crumbs they could find to report on. I wasn’t surprised about the question; it was bound to be asked or hinted at. But the truth was, I couldn’t think of anyone other than the redhead from my childhood who haunted my every damn thought.

He raised a brow. “Sure.”

“Nah man, can’t tie me down.” I smirked, playing into my role.

But even as the words left my mouth, my brain betrayed me. It wasn’t a memory so much as a feeling. The faintest trace of something familiar—soft, warm, impossible to place unless you knew exactly what you were looking for. Her.

There had been nights—more than I wanted to admit—where I’d woken up and, for a split second, I swore I could still smell her on my pillow. Like she’d just been there. Like I’d only imagined the part where she left. It was ridiculous, but it didn’t stop it from happening.

“Theo?”

I blinked, dragging myself back into the room. “What?”

“You’re up,” the host said.

“Right.” I forced my expression back into something neutral. “No. Not happening.”

Austin laughed. “Man’s in denial.”

I didn’t respond. The problem wasn’t that he was wrong, it was that I didn’t have a good enough reason to prove him otherwise.

By the time they finally let us go, I was already halfway out of the room before anyone could stop me.

“Bauer—press pen,” someone called. I closed my eyes for half a second, exhaling through my nose before turning back. The press pen was worse in a different way: less scripted, more unpredictable, more opportunities for people to say something they shouldn’t. I moved through it on autopilot at first. I answered questions, nodded when I needed to, kept everything controlled and contained.

Until I saw her.

It wasn’t intentional. I wasn’t looking, but she was like a damn beacon.

My eyes found her like they always did—cutting through everything else until there was just her standing a few meters away, headset on, tablet tucked against her side as she spoke to another driver.

She looked like she belonged there, so confident and focused. She was not just the girl from the track or midnight talks on the hill, or even the drunken, free version from my room a few weeks ago—but something more solid than both of those things combined. I felt that same pull in my chest, sharp and unwanted.

“Some people get these roles because of who they know, yeah?” the driver she was interviewing said too loud, tone casual in that way that wasn’t casual at all. “Not exactly hard to talk strategy when you’ve got inside access with a former driver as a father.”

I went still, anger surging through me at not only the tone, but the full dismissal of her racing background. It wasn’t a secret that she was headed to Formula One with her track record before the crash. She knew what she was talking about because she lived and breathed racing. She knew her shit.

Maisey didn’t react, she only smiled. “Strategy doesn’t get easier because you’re standing closer to the garage,” she said, calm, measured. “If anything, it gets more complicated.”

He shrugged, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Sure.”

Something in me snapped at the dismissal, the overall shithead misogyny.

“Maybe shut the fuck up,” I said, my voice cutting clean through the noise of the paddock, “and show a little respect.”

Silence hit like a wall.

Every head turned.

The driver blinked at me, clearly not expecting it. “I was just⁠—”