Page 58 of The Fast Track

“That doesn’t sound promising.” Roz wrinkles her nose. “D’you think you could pull your dress a little lower, show more cleavage? Ooh, or maybe higher, and more leg.”

“No, it’s not that.” I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, but something is missing. Something that makes my stomach flutter, that makes me smile like my face is breaking when we laugh, some unspoken thing that makes me feel electric and warm when we’re together.

“All right, then, keep trying. The sisterhood is rooting for you!” She takes out her phone and shows me the comments under a clip of Dietrich and me arriving at the gala, posted by the official Orbital account. They’re all along the lines ofYaasssss Queen go get the King!andI’m so glad he’s with a racing girlie [flexed bicep emoji].

I grin reluctantly. It’s flattering to know there’s a whole community out there rah-rah-ing this whole thing with Dietrich as some sort of statement for women in racing—all the other F1 drivers’ wives and girlfriends are usually models or actresses—but I’m not sure what that would even prove. All it does is make me feel anxious about letting everyone down.

Cameron walks by with his mother in tow, and my heart does an odd little flip. Mrs. Evans waves, but Cameron stares straight ahead like he doesn’t see me.

Before I can noodle too much over whether he purposely ignored me, servers thread through the crowd, gently prompting the guests to take their seats. Roz and I separate, her headingtoward the back for the F3 table, me making my way toward the temporary dais near the front of the hall. Dietrich’s already sitting, up to his elbows in diamond-level sponsors and other VIPs Mom would salivate over if she were here.

There’s a sponsor sitting in the seat with my name card. I clear my throat to politely indicate he’s in my chair, but the guy’s yammering away to Dietrich and doesn’t notice. I reach out and tap him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir, I think you’re in my seat.”

He frowns, clearly irritated at the interruption.

“This is my date for the evening, Justine Kwong,” Dietrich introduces.

The guy’s face morphs from annoyed to obsequiously apologetic in a millisecond. “Of course! What a pleasure to meet you.” He gets up, practically bowing me into my own seat like he didn’t just try to take it. “Dietrich, a real pleasure as always. I’ll catch up with you later?”

Dietrich gives a noncommittal smile.

“Just in time,” he breathes as soon as the sponsor is out of earshot. “That man was making me crazy with his talking.”

“Happy to help.” I do a mock salute. I can’t help wondering if this is what it’s going to be like all night—everyone trying to talk to Dietrich and me acting as crowd control. His ex-girlfriend couldn’t have enjoyed playing this role.

“Justine.” Lou Wilson sits next to me, breaking out in a wide smile. “Delighted to see you.”

“Hi, Lou!” My voice comes out barely more than a squeak.Considering our last one-on-one interaction involved him giving me a drinks order, this is a surprising (and welcome) development.

“This is Justine Kwong.” Lou turns to the heavily bespectacled man sitting on his right—Willem Hendriksen, the title sponsor who wouldn’t give me the time of day when I shadowed Dietrich during the British Grand Prix. “The one I was telling you about.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Hendriksen looks me up and down with clearly zero recollection of the last time we met.

“She drives in F3, first girl to podium in the series.” Lou jerks his thumb at me. “This is the real deal, I’m telling you. She’s going to be the first female F1 driver.”

I feel like someone’s set off a bottle rocket in my chest. Lou Wilson has gone from mistaking me for a server to thinking I’m going to be the first female F1 driver. I debate whether I should remind him about Lella Lombardi, or Maria Teresa de Filippis, but it doesn’t seem like the smartest move to correct him in front of the title sponsor chairman.

“Willem, you’re joining us at Spa, right?” Lou nudges Mr. Hendriksen. “You ought to come watch the F3 race beforehand, see what our girl can do.”

“I’ll look into my schedule,” Mr. Hendriksen says, giving me a skeptical glance.

“Now, Justine,” Lou says, turning to face me, “Frank has briefed me on how well the season is going. It’s always special to lead the team championship and have multipledrivers competing for the Drivers’ Championship.”

“Cameron’s doing great,” I volunteer, then immediately want to slap a hand over my lips. Mom would call me silly for openly promoting my competition. It’s like I can’t keep his name out of my mouth.

“Who?” Lou frowns.

“One of our other F3 drivers,” Dietrich prompts.

“Right, of course,” Lou says in a way that makes me feel like he’s already forgotten Cameron’s name. It should make me feel over-the-moon joyous, that I’m parked next to the Big Boss like a guest of honor while my competition is a distant afterthought. But part of me can’t stop thinking about the Evanses. How much they’ve sacrificed to get Cameron this far, what it would mean to him.

Mom was right. I’m already getting distracted, and we’re not even racing.

“I’ve only heard this one here”—Lou nods at Dietrich—“sing your praises, which, frankly, I can’t remember him ever doing before.”

I send Dietrich a glowingthank youlook. He smiles back.