Page 103 of Spin Control

41

Two months later

If you had told me in Cape Cod that Wes and I would take our families on vacation to Abu Dhabi together, I would have bet my entire bank account that would never happen.

But here we all are, having dinner on Yas Island.

My mother is exchanging gardening tips with Wes’s father while a wide-eyed Emma listens in. Wes’s mom has Eddie in her lap and is chatting animatedly with Jane while my dad is, to my complete shock, listening attentively as Ellie tells him a story about a mermaid witch-queen whose familiar is a dolphin named Pablo.

“What are you thinking about, Jacobs?” Wes asks, pressing a kiss to my temple.

“That you were right,” I admit. When he floated the idea of us all being here for the last grand prix of the season, I didn’t think it was a good idea. But then he goaded me into a wager: I had to agree to the trip if he could make me come in less than a minute. I really should have specified he wasn’t allowed to add a vibrator to the mix, but I wasn’t that upset about losing, in the end. “I’m glad we’re all here.”

It’s been a hell of a year, full of ups and downs none of us ever saw coming. But it’s also been one of the best years of my life, both personally and professionally.

Martine requested a full-time retainer for my services—something that Clint had to negotiate the hell out of since the sovereign nation of Druvia requested the same thing. So now, rather than flying around the world, fixing whatever crisis is thrown my way, my time is split between two very high-profile and demanding clients.

It wasn’t hard to give up my Upper West Side apartment. But when I told Wes, he, of course, kissed me soundly and then offered to buy any place I desired in the city. I thought he was joking until he started sending me real estate listings for historic brownstones with eye-watering price tags.

“Wesley,” Rebecca says leadingly. “I don’t know if you’ve seen the latest publishing news—”

“Of course I have,” he says, laughing. Earlier this week, seemingly every publishing house in the world went to auction over a manuscript about rival F1 drivers who are spies for enemy nations and have to work together when both of their presidents are kidnapped. It turns out that the author is a lawyer-by-day, fan fiction-writer-by-night, best known for her erotic “Grantbinksy” stories.

Jane grins. “Think you’ll be invited to the premiere when the book becomes a movie?”

“God, I hope so,” he says. “I’ll force Stas to go, too. Imagine how grumpy he’ll be.”

“What book?” my mom asks, and Rebecca jumps right in, explaining the book’s premise and then the world of fan fiction to my parents, who look scandalized that a Harvard professor is not only knowledgeable about this, but clearly a proponent of it. It’s a goddamn delight to witness.

After dinner, I fall in step with Jane during the walk back to the hotel. As predicted, Todd is making the divorce as drawn-out and frustrating as possible. But despite that, Jane is thriving. After going public about the divorce and shifting her content from curated perfection to relatable vulnerability, her following has skyrocketed and she’s received several incredibly lucrative brand deals. Though she could make a comfortable living as an influencer, she’s decided that isn’t the career she wants to pursue and is currently in the process of renewing her teaching license.

“Cape Cod, Italy, Monaco, Austin, and Abu Dhabi, all in one year,” I say. “Who’d have thunk the Jacobs girls would take so many girls’ trips together.”

Jane snorts. “I don’t think any of those qualify as girls’ trips, all things considered.”

”Maybe not,” I say. “What do you say we finally plan one?”

Jane smiles. “Martha’s Vineyard?”

“Sounds perfect.”

On Sunday, while my family watches the race from a comfortable hospitality suite, I’m in the garage, headphones on.

Wes and Stas have dominated this last slate of races. The Constructors’ Championship is now Martine’s to lose, and Wes is leading the Drivers’ Championship by a handful of points.

Everything has come down to this race. The tension is as taut as a bowstring and everyone is watching with bated breath.

With ten laps to go, Thad passes Stas, who growls out a curse in Russian before asking, “Are his tires fresher?”

“Yes,” comes the answer from his race engineer, and Stas curses again. “We will still win if I am third, yes?”

“Yes,” Albrecht says, coming through on the radio. “And so will Wes. You’re good where you are, Stas. Keep the pace steady, manage your tires, and defend the hell out of your position.”

“Understood,” Stas says, his voice full of relief.

Less than a second separates Thad and Wes as they begin the last two laps of the race. Everyone is white-knuckling whatever they can grasp, eyes glued to the screens.

Wes flies down the long straight, braking as late as possible into the chicane, trusting the stability of the car as his tires bite into the pavement.