[**ON HIATUS**]
Noah Wood is a Mercedes driver. Scrappy, charming, and far too handsome, Noah is one of the best drivers on the grid. But a newcomer is threatening to steal his seat, and Noah must win this year's Grand Prix - or risk being booted ou...
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He would never understand, Noah thought, why fancy restaurants insisted on serving such tiny food for such enormous prices.
Not that he was paying.
But still.
He eyed the tray of canapés. Lobster rolls. Maple-glazed sausage. And figs with goat's cheese, pistachio, and honey. The young waiter was looking at Noah expectantly, the tray extended towards him. The party was in full swing, now; guests mingled under the Italian sunset, carrying glasses of champagne and cigarettes. The rooftop bar was a riot of loggia and green vines; a river snaked through rambling buildings below them, gleaming like a silver ribbon in the fading light.
It was, Noah had to admit, very pretty.
Shame that Amelia Cartwell was going to show up any moment and spoil it.
He pointed to the tray. "Which one do you like best?"
The waiter blinked. "Sir?"
"Oh, Christ." Noah winced. "Please don't call me that. It makes me feel like I should be sitting behind a desk on Wall Street wearing expensive leather shoes."
The boy — and he really was a boy, Noah thought, no more than fourteen or fifteen — cracked a small smile. "The lobster rolls are buono."
"Lobster it is."
Noah plucked a lobster roll from the tray. The boy raised his phone.
"Would you mind... er...?"
The waiter mimed clicking a button, his smile sheepish. Noah obliged, snapping a quick selfie. He couldn't help but feel slightly smug; Italy was Cedro's home turf, so it was always a pleasant surprise when people supported him.
Naturally, Noah thought cheerfully, he would rub it in Cedro's face at the first opportunity that presented itself.
He handed the phone back. "Cheers."
The waiter said something could have either been thanks very much, or maybe your tie is terrible — Noah's Italian had never been particularly good — before scampering off towards the kitchens. Noah bit into the lobster roll. Butter and lemon exploded in his mouth, and he almost groaned.
Fuck.
That really was good.
His phone beeped.
Noah wiped his hands on a napkin, hastily glancing at the screen. One text from Levi, his younger brother. A dagger of fear went through him.
Levi had written, Smash it tomorrow!!
His brother had added a string of car emojis, along with — inexplicably — a pretzel emoji. Noah blew out a breath. Fine; it was fine. Just like the phone call from his mother last week in Bahrain; she'd only wanted to discuss the latest episode of Neighbours. But fear, Noah thought, was like water; it ran whatever path it chose, and the body depended on it to survive.
