Page 58 of On The Edge

“Well, then I guess now wouldn’t be a good time to tell him it was an incredible race,” I say playfully and smile, trying to make up for my blatant error.

Amandine laughs. “No. Probably not. But”—she cranes her head back and forth—“he is probably about done if you want to go find him.”

“I would. Thank you.”

“I saw him head that way.” She points. “Probably in his driver suite.”

“Thank you. For everything this weekend,” I say and squeeze her hand. “I’m sure you’re probably glad to be rid of me and my endless questions.”

“It was my pleasure. See you next race?”

“Um, yes. Sure.” I’m taken aback by the question. “Depends on my schedule.”

“Hopefully it works out so that you can be here. It’s been fun.”

“It has.”

I move down the hallway toward the back of the complex. The staff is slowly packing their things up, because if my F1 crash course was correct, this whole place will be deconstructed and on the move within the next forty-eight hours.

I’m preoccupied thinking of the enormity of it all when I hear Cruz’s voice. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak in his native tongue. His accent is thick and beautiful.

And angry.

My years of Spanish in high school, living in Texas, and a high school job where I had to practice speaking it, pay off right now. I can actually understand what is being said between the two.

“You don’t pull my strings. No one does.”

I take a step forward, thinking the conversation isn’t a big deal, but falter when I peer into the partially open door in front of me. Cruz’s back is to me and the man I now know to be his dad, Dominic Navarro, is facing my direction. There is a closed door at his back so I highly doubt by the tones of their voice and the expression on his dad’s face that they realize this door is open and that others can hear their argument.

Dominic’s nostrils flare as he crosses his arms over his chest. “She’s not good enough for a Navarro, plain and simple. Take care of the problem or I will.”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who or what he’s talking about. Before I have a chance to wrap my head around the words, the meaning, and the sting of hurt they cause, the next comment staggers me even more.

“You’re a pathetic excuse for a Navarro, Cruz.”

He thinks his son is pathetic? Is this a joke?

Those words would crush me if my father said them to me. How is this the same man who I witnessed bragging about his son over the past few hours? Who I saw stride through the garage with his distinguished legacy surrounding him like an aura, and his son’s team emblem on the right front of his polo shirt.

Cruz’s shoulders sag and I don’t need to see his face to know that devastation is etched in its lines. How can it not be?

I move and accidentally draw the attention of the older Navarro because, when I look back at him, our eyes meet briefly. Within seconds and before Cruz even turns to notice, Dominic strides across the space, eyes full of irritation meeting mine briefly, before shutting the door with a resounding thud.

At a loss for words and with a heavy heart, all I can manage is to stare at the closed door for a few moments.

Did that really happen?

Yes.

Yes, it did.

Tears burn in my eyes and shame I shouldn’t feel, but do, washes through me. There is a part of me that wants to open the door and march in there and ask Dominic Navarro who the hell he thinks he is. There is another part of me that knows I’m way out of my element here, way out of my league in terms of pecking order. And then there is the tiny part of me that wonders if Cruz agrees with his dad.

If he feels the same about me.

The lump in my throat grows bigger and the urgent need to get the hell out of there takes over.

I should be livid, furious, trying to extricate the feelings of shame that initially washed over me—and I am, all of those things—but just as I’m about to scurry away, it hits me.