Page 21 of Downforce

The ‘what-ifs’ don’t stop, and I think to tell the photographer that this is a bad idea again.

“Relax.”

Max’s voice pulls on my awareness, bringing me back into focus.

“I’m probably the last person you want to stand next to, but this won’t take long.” There’s a bite in the words he says only loud enough for me to hear.

The photographer, now on the other side of the room, is changing his camera’s lens.

“I wasn’t thinking about you,” I say honestly. I refuse to tell him that my brain tried to take me down what could’ve turned into a long and endless thought tunnel.

Max doesn’t need to know how my mind works.

“I find that surprising,” he retorts.

I open my mouth to give him a scathing reply—because why would I be thinking about Max Ferreira of all people—but the photographer intervenes with a request for me to take a seat on one of the square pieces draped in a gray sheet they’ve chosen for the shoot.

I sit in the requested position and do my best to focus on the photographer and his directions and not the heat emanating from Max’s body behind me.

The task is easier said than done when I find my eyes drifting to the top corner of the hangar.

What if Travis got into an accident?

The thought appears out of nowhere, and I can’t stop the next thought that reminds me of the time when I was late getting to one of Travis’ races.

The race where he got into an accident so bad it broke his arm.

Should I text him again?

But that would distract him if he’s driving.

“Annalise, could you stand face to face with Max?”

The photographer’s words give me something to do instead of going down another spiral.

“Sure.” I inject false cheerfulness into my voice. As long as I can pretend I’m unfazed by all of this, I will be unfazed.

“Shouldn’t be too much longer that you’ll have to put up with my unbearable presence,” Max says while the photographer pauses to check something with his camera.

I roll my eyes. “Once again, I wasn’t thinking about you. You are a non-factor,” I not so kindly remind Max.

“Ouch.” He doesn’t appear the least bit wounded by my reply. “You should hope your brother doesn’t take the same attitude. I love being underestimated. Blink and it’ll be me you watch being crowned as the king of motorsport this season.”

I snort. “Don’t count on it.”

He raises an eyebrow and inches, almost imperceptibly, closer. “Would you like to wager on that, princess?”

The final word is a sneer.

“Why wager when it’s almost a guarantee you’ll lose?” I shrug before turning away from him. I glance at the clock and then the photographer in hopes that he won’t read the truth in my expression.

There are no guarantees in Formula 1, and just because you were at the top last season doesn’t mean you’re guaranteed a repeat or to even finish in the top three. The cars and drivers, for that matter, can undergo multiple changes from one season to the next.

Another look at the clock has me wondering where Travis is.

“Max,” someone calls, drawing both of our attentions.

It’s a young man wearing a red Amato Racing shirt. The wide grin on his face and stars in his eyes speaks to his excitement at just being a part of this world-class team. The fact that I don’t recognize him likely means he’s a new hire.