Page 57 of Spin Control

As he walks down the hall and I fight the urge to run to him, all I know is that I’m in a world of trouble.

24

The second I drive past the exit to Logan Airport, Elizabeth shoots me a glacial glare.

She’s been quiet the entire ride. I’ve been giving her space to process before she’s thrown into the chaos of a race weekend—especially since I pushed her to open up about the world-shattering fight with her sister. But I want her to know that it’s okay to be vulnerable sometimes. That she can feel safe with me. That she can trust me.

But I probably should have informed her of our itinerary.

“So,” I say slowly. “The thing is, I’m from Boston.”

“I figured that would mean you know how to get to the airport.”

“About that,” I drawl. “There’s really no reason for you to get there seven hours early.”

Elizabeth glares harder. “Are you kidnapping me?”

I grin. “In a sense.”

“Wes. Where are we going?”

I keep my eyes on the road and my voice casual. “My parents’ place.”

Out of my peripheral vision, I see Elizabeth’s jaw drop.

“The Canadian Grand Prix is the one race they go to every year, so they’re on the same flight as us. Plus, I didn’t bring my bag for the weekend with me.”

“For fuck’s sake,” I hear her mutter from the passenger seat, and I hold back my chuckle. “Is there anything I need to know?”

“Not really,” I say with a shrug. She definitely doesn’t need to know that I’ve never brought anyone home with me. “I mean, you’ve looked them up, right?”

“The internet is not going to tell me the things their only son can.”

My parents are genuinely great people—warm, curious, and interesting. Despite us butting heads over my career choice when I was younger and their disapproval of some of my more ne’er-do-well ways, they’ve never given me an ultimatum or made me feel like a disappointment. They’ve always supported me, even when I went against their advice.

“I’m sure you already know that they’re Michael and Rebecca Grant, and they’re both Harvard professors. That sounds intimidating, but I swear they’re normal. They go to the farmer’s market and donate to NPR. Sure, my dad’s a top global economist, but he’s also very into gardening. He’s been talking about getting a permit to keep bees. And you already know my mom is a Jane Austen scholar. Oh, and since you’ll see the overstuffed bookshelves that line basically every wall, you should also know that she has a side gig as an author.”

“Wait, what?” Elizabeth asks, perking up. “What kind of books does she write?”

“Historical romance.”

“Really?” Elizabeth asks, her voice flooding with curiosity.

“Yep. She’s pretty prolific, actually.”

“Huh,” Elizabeth says. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Rebecca Grant book.”

“That would be because she uses a nom de plume. I’m guessing you have heard of Rosalind Sinclair?”

Elizabeth gasps. “Your mother is Rosalind Sinclair?”

I’ve seen this woman in the presence of royalty and rockstars—never once has she lost her composure. But it’s my mother that she gets excited about.

“The one and the same,” I say, smiling. “Are you a fan?”

“Are you kidding? Her Ladies of Larkspur Lane series rewired my entire brain.”

I chuckle. “If you tell her that, she’ll probably send you home with an entire autographed set.”