Kendall's story. Description to come.
Tropes: strangers to friends to lovers, new adult, good girl/bad boy, ballerina, street racer, Formula One, diabetes awareness, she saves him
There are two televisions suspended above the open garage doors, showing a live feed of the Grand Prix. The pit crew has their own monitoring system, which relays diagnostics straight from Dom's vehicle. My younger brother hasn't been listening to his crew's advice. He went so far as to cruise past the pit stop, earning himself a time penalty.
At the back of the pit, I stand between Kendall and my grandfather. We're silent, our faces tilted to the screens. We watch as the red car—with Arsenault Racing stamped on the fin—crosses the finish line in sixth place.
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Noise permeates my headset. In the stadium above us, the audience roars, the sound rivaling that of the engines. When the final driver has completed the circuit, I tug the gear down, letting it hang around my neck. Kendall does the same, while Grandpère sets his on the workbench, turning to me with an inscrutable expression. I've never been close with the man who paid to have me aborted. My inability to read him is a result of our ill-formed relationship.
He pats my shoulder twice, his gaze analytical. "I'll be watching, Théo."
Having issued his enigmatic warning, Grandpère leaves the garage. I've deduced he's disappointed in Dominique. Sixth place out of twenty competitors. He's better than average, but not talented or dedicated enough to wear the family racing suit. Grandpère would be ignorant not to realize the Arsenault legacy is fading. This is the perfect time to overthrow the hierarchy.
But first, I'm in Las Vegas with a beautiful woman. Not just any woman, either.
Kendall Allard-Reeves. The sawdust heiress with humble beginnings, the ballerina with a trucker's appetite, the innocent vixen that has no qualms putting herself on display—or in the center of a family feud. She's a walking contradiction, and this is her first time in Sin City. She deserves the icing on the cake.
I look to Ken, trying my damndest not to ogle.
Last night, she was a vision in vintage Chanel. Today, she's a knockout in acid-washed jeans, a bralette, and a Renault F1 racing jacket with Arsenault stitched across the back. The bomber belongs to my father, but he left it in the Sky Loft years ago. I asked Kendall if she wanted to wear it, and I'm glad she slid her arms into the sleeves. I could get used to seeing her like this. Next time, though, she'll be in my pit with my sponsors branded into her clothing.
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