Page 9 of Full Throttle

She popped a biscuit into her mouth. “I missed breakfast.”

Baz ran a hand over his face. Freckles of blue paint decorated his fingers. “I can’t believe you’re eating shortbread right now.”

“Technically,” Juliette said, “they’re Viennese whirls.” She extended the sleeve. “Want one?”

Baz shook his head. “I’m good.”

He pulled at his sleeve: the only sign of his nerves. She’d become accustomed to looking for it over the years, usually before public speeches or doctor appointments. She’d only seen Baz cry once, on the first anniversary of his parents’ death. Even Baz’s breakup last year hadn’t been enough to shake him. But the sleeve pulling…that was a giveaway.

Baz pulled at the other sleeve. Juliette crumpled the biscuit wrapper.

“You’ll do well.”

Baz dropped his sleeve. “So will you. You’re the best driver on that track.”

Juliette shoved the wrapper into her jacket pocket. It was just like Baz, she thought, to try to reassure someone else when he was nervous. “I guess we’ll see.”

Baz paused. “Hey, Lettie?” He nodded at the stands.

She followed his gaze. A ripple of movement went through the crowd. Someone wearing a baseball cap was jostling down the front row, attempting to steer a yellow Lab that was happily snatching at people’s popcorn. A warm feeling spread through her chest.

“He came.”

Baz gave a small smile. “I thought he might try.”

From the stands, Capulet gave her a thumbs-up. He was flushed, as if he’d run the short distance from the car park, and he looked on the verge of saying something when his dog Clyde lunged for a woman’s purse. Juliette turned away, fighting a smile. The marshal gave a signal, and she squeezed Baz’s shoulder.

“Good luck.”

Baz nudged her. “You too.”

Juliette started for her car. Goldilocks, as she’d affectionately deemed it, primarily because of the navy-and-gold exterior that all Taurus cars shared; the academy models were smaller than the F1 versions—topping out at about 210 kilometers per hour—which made them easier to drive.

Allegedly.

“Marchmont,” a male voice drawled. “Nice of you to join us.”

Juliette didn’t bother to turn. “Von Galen.”

She hopped in the vehicle. Frederick leaned against the hood. His pink rubber bracelet read Be Kind, and Juliette suppressed a snort. “This is why women never win races. You’re always late to the track.”

Juliette started the car, feeling the familiar hum of the engine. Frederick leaned closer.

“Let me guess,” he said. “You got distracted by some fancy shoes?”

Juliette jerked her head. “Your car’s that way.”

“Or shiny jewelry?”

God. The least he could do was be creative. “Here’s an idea,” she said pleasantly. “Move. Or I’ll run you over.”

Frederick smirked. “Second place isn’t bad. As a woman, you’ll be lucky to finish at all.”

Juliette’s voice was sweet. “I’m sure most women feel that way around you.” She started the engine. “Three seconds. Then I’m driving.”

Frederick eyed the car warily. For a moment Juliette thought he might protest just to mess with her, but the marshal gave the last signal and Frederick zipped up his race suit. “I’ll wave at you in my rearview.”

He disappeared toward his car. Juliette exhaled, flexing her fingers on the wheel. Sweat pooled in her balaclava. Bloody Von Galen. He’d been a thorn in her side for eleven years now, but it would all be worth it after today.