Page 98 of Downforce

Then there’s also the way he says the word ‘princess.’ The few times he’s called me that over the years, it was always with a snide, almost disgusted tone.

Now, it’s different, softer, a caress rather than a verbal jab. The worst part is I don’t even know if he recognizes the change. It’s almost as if he’s slipped into it naturally as a term of endearment.

The pit of my stomach warms.

“It’s okay if you are,” he says, reaching out and intertwining his fingertips with mine. I don’t know when he closed the space between us.

Looking down at my hand in his, I wait for the panic that should overwhelm me. Max Ferreira is standing in front of me, holding my hand and looking down at me like I’m the only person in the world.

The intensity of his heated haze should have my heart in my throat at the very least.

Not to mention the fact that my sister is only a few floors down and knows that I’m up here. My parents and brothers are within walking distance in their own apartments and I’m standing here holding hands with my brother’s sworn rival.

None of that even comes to mind though. The usual feelings of betrayal and deceit don’t make an appearance. Not when I take a second look into Max’s eyes and notice something I hadn’t seen before.

A look of loss resides beneath the heated stare. He doesn’t blink or turn his face away, shielding his gaze. Which means he wants me to see it.

“What’s wrong?” I place my tablet down on the table beside me, and with my free hand I cup his cheek, a slight lift of my heels brings me closer to his face. This stance is intimate. Anyone peering at the two of us would instantly know that there’s something deeper between us.

Max causes a tiny gasp to escape from my throat when he turns and kisses the inside of my palm. His hold on my hand tightens as he steps back and leads me over to a spot at the edge of the roof. He leans against the half wall and slides down, taking a seat on the edge, facing the inside of the building.

I sit next to him. He takes my hand into his.

For almost a full minute there’s silence between us as Max draws figure eights with the tip of his finger on the inside of my wrist. The touch is so light, almost imperceptible yet it causes waves of electrified currents to course through me.

“Did you know Monaco is where my father’s one perfect lap occurred?” he asks, surprising me.

It takes a second for my brain to come back online. When it does, I nod.

Everyone knows about Severino Ferreira’s one perfect lap. The one that those who were lucky enough to witness still talk about more than two decades years later. The qualifying lap that set the standard for races to come.

According to witnesses, Severino performed so well, not one slip, one slightly off corner and perfect mastery over a notoriously difficult car that season led to Severino shaving more than two full seconds off of his already first place finish to place pole.

It’s truly the stuff of legends in the sport of motor racing.

Unfortunately, at the time qualifying races weren’t filmed and no one who wasn’t there would ever get the chance to see it.

“You’ve heard about it.” Max chuckles.

“Is there a fan who hasn’t?”

He shakes his head. “He told me about it that night,” he continues. “He would always tell me about his races the night after. Even if I was in bed, he would sneak into my room and wake me up because he knew I would cry in the morning if he hadn’t.”

“You used to cry?” I tease.

He glares at me.

“I want pictures as proof.”

“I’ve got your proof,” he says, his voice resembling a growl.

“That almost sounds like a threat.”

He squeezes my hand.

“Monaco was always his favorite race of the season.” He pauses. “No,” he corrects. “Second favorite. Brazil was always his first choice. But here is where he had his perfect lap.”

“What did he tell you about it?”