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So American. Charles Leclerc.
───────────────── formula one .
" i could talk for hours about a single moment spent with you " ───────── faraway
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STEVIE: Isn't it too far? Wouldn't you get bored? CHARLES: Of you? Never in a thousand years. ────────────── so american.
A forbidden type of love is always the most enticing, isn't it? The thrill of the chase, the toe-curling excitement of discovery. We're drawn to it. Risks that often don't reap rewards attract us like moths to flames. You get burned every time you fly to close to the light, and it reminds you why it's better to just keep floating around then try and reach for more.
Stevie Quinn knew her place, and was comfortable with it. She is not extraordinary, or particularly smart or gifted. The only thing she had to her name? Racing. It was her family's lifeline, the blood that pumped their veins was laced with the very oil that powered the V10 engines that still ring in Stevie's ears from when she was little. Nothing was more thrilling than sitting at the track, the wind in your face from the metal beasts speeding by faster than you could blink. People were not Stevie's strength, but cars? Cars she lived and breathed.
Every year, the pinnacle of motorsport and global entertainment phenomenon, Formula One, came around to Texas, Stevie's home state, and every year she prayed and prayed to be accepted as a volunteer worker in the paddock. Every year she'd close her email in disappointment. But not this year. This year, she opened that long awaited letter, and inside was her ID number and job position. Public Relations Assitant/Talent Handler.
