𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 ☆ franco colapinto

tres - reunion

When I got to the hotel, I fell asleep almost instantly. During the car ride, I'd been in a daze, drifting between sleep and half-hearted conversations with my best friends. As happy as I was to be here, I was simply exhausted.

Sleep never came easy to me. My mind would be buzzing long past I turned off the light and curled up under a blanket. Often, the only way I could get rest was to read. I loved books, so it worked out nicely. Tonight, though, I had no need for a book. I passed out the second I laid down on the bed.

By the time I woke up, it was light outside. Birds chirped outside my window and kids' voices echoed outside of my door. A sense of peace overcame me. Waking up in a hotel was an ethereal experience; there was just something about not being at home.

It was Friday, which meant free practice. I had several hours until the session was due to start, so I decided to indulge in a lazy morning. I took a shower, made myself breakfast, took some time to work on my story, and had a quick phone call with Mari, my university bestie. Once I arrived at the track, the anticipation was high. Fans were rushing about, trying to get signatures of drivers. Mechanics rode on their wheel carts down toward their garages. Tour guides walked backward through hospitalities. The paddock was absolutely buzzing, as George Russell would say.

The Haas garage—which was at the very end of the pitlane, since they sort of suck—was only about two hundred yards away. I thought I'd made it without any weird interactions, but boy, was I wrong. Because at that very moment, the exact person I'd been hoping not to run into called my name.

"Lina?"

"Franco."

Reluctantly, I turned to look at him, instantly regretting that decision. Heat rushed into my body at the sight of him. His fluffy hair was messy and his face looked flushed. His race suit was tied around his hips—in that slutty way that all drivers do—which only accentuated his toned stomach. His muscles were practically outlined by the tight fireproofs and god, he looked good.

Now more than ever, though, he was off-limits. I never hooked up with a guy more than once, much less hooked up with an actual F1 driver. That one night, we'd had our fair share of alcohol—although I was sober enough to remember every tiny bit of pleasure he gave me. It had been fresh off of his maiden F2 win. Now, he was in F1 for the rest of the season, replacing Logan Sargeant. That was a good enough reason to stay away.

His eyes were wide, clearly surprised at seeing me. He hid that expression in a flash, though, and shifted to a smug look. "Come to see me race, hm?"

This was his game. He wanted to draw me in. Too bad for him, I played just as hard. "You wish. I'm here to support my lovely Oliver."

"Don't feel obliged to root for your best friend. I know you'd prefer to cheer for me."

"And why would that be?"

Franco raised his eyebrows. "You know exactly why, princesa."

Kill me now. This man was my actual kryptonite. From his deep voice to his heavy accent to his hazel eyes to his sharp jawline, he was a work of art. Stay strong, Lina.

Playing dumb, I said, "What do you mean?"

"Act like you forget, but I know the truth."

"Franco..."

He put his hands up. "Okay, okay, fine. But seriously, how are you?"

"I'm fine."

"Are you still writing?"

"Huh?"

"Aren't you trying to become an author?"

I felt flustered. "Um, well, yeah...I didn't expect you to remember."