Love Track For Three

POV Eva

Fourth place.

The two words taste like battery acid in my mouth as I watch Charles storm through the garage.

His race suit unzipped to the waist, blonde hair plastered to his head with sweat and fury. The Spanish sun has been brutal all weekend, but nothing compared to the heat radiating off him right now.

I know what's coming before he even opens his mouth.

The tightness in his jaw, the way his hands clench and unclench… He needs someone to blame, and lucky me, I'm wearing the target today.

"The brake balance was wrong." His German accent thickens when he's pissed, turning the words into weapons. "I told you I needed more front bias for sector two!"

The janitor, who's just here to mop up spilled energy drinks and existential despair, pauses mid-swipe and glances at us like Charles just started speaking in Morse code.

I don’t blame him.

Front bias means shifting more of the braking power to the front wheels—helps keep the rear from stepping out in tricky sections. Like sector two. I know that.

I wish I could explain it to the poor guy.

But right now, I’m too busy not stabbing Charles with my stylus.

"I calculated based on your practice feedback—" I start, but Charles is already in full attack mode.

"Your calculations were wrong, Farnese. Again."

The garage is cemetery-quiet.

Twenty pairs of eyes swivel our way, mechanics frozen mid-task like they're watching a car crash in slow motion. Which, honestly, they kind of are.

"This is the championship, not amateur hour," Charles continues, his voice rising with each word. "One mistake like that could cost us everything!"

My face burns hot enough to melt steel. The worst part? He's not wrong. But being right doesn't give him license to eviscerate me in front of the entire team.

My temper, the Italian fire I inherited from Papa along with his stubborn streak, ignites.

"I know what I'm doing, Weinberg. One small adjustment doesn't make me incompetent."

"Then prove it. He steps closer, gray eyes cold as winter rain. “Because right now, your work is costing me points."

The air between us crackles. Not just with anger and irritation, but with the same pull that’s haunted me for over a year.

Logic says run. But right now, fury wins.

"Maybe if you gave clearer feedback instead of expecting me to read your mind—"

"Maybe if you were actually qualified for this level—"

"Debrief.” Parker's voice cuts through our verbal sparring match like a checkered flag ending a race. “Conference room. Now."

Our team principal looks thoroughly unimpressed with both of us, and I know we'll both catch hell for this later.

Charles shoots me one last withering look before stalking off, leaving me standing there with my professional dignity in tatters and my personal resolve wobbling like a damaged front wing.

Six hours later, the garage is a ghost town. Just me, my laptop, and enough self-loathing to fuel a rocket to Mars. I've run the calculations twelve times, adjusted every parameter, cross-referenced with historical data.

Tomorrow's setup will be perfect, even if it kills me.

The sound of footsteps makes me tense. I know that stride, measured and purposeful. Like everything else about Charles Weinberg.

He's changed into civilian clothes: dark jeans and a black t-shirt that clings in ways that should be illegal in most countries.

"You're still here."

His voice has lost the sharp edges from earlier, but tension still hums underneath.

I don't look up from my screen. Can't. Won't. "Fixing my apparently amateur work."

He moves closer and he studies me, and I hate how my body responds to his proximity. Pavlovian conditioning at its finest.

"Eva."

Just my name, but the way he says it, low and rough around the edges, makes me look up despite myself.

And there it is: the look that's been my downfall for thirteen months running.

Hunger mixed with frustration mixed with something I refuse to name because naming it would make it real, and Charles doesn't do real.

He made that crystal clear a few months ago when I was stupid enough to ask what we were to each other.

"Nothing. There's nothing between us and there never could be."

The memory stings fresh as a paper cut.

"I was frustrated," he says quietly, moving behind my chair. "The team was watching…"

"So you humiliated me instead."

The words come out steadier than I feel, but my anger is a complicated thing now. Tangled up with want and hurt and the pathetic hope that maybe this time will be different.

His hands grip the back of my chair, knuckles white with restraint.

"I don't apologize for wanting to win." His breath ghosts across my ear, sending involuntary shivers down my spine. "But I shouldn't have taken it out on you. Not in front of everyone. I’m sorry."

I spin in my chair, suddenly trapped between him and the desk, our faces inches apart.

"This doesn't change anything," I whisper, even as my pulse goes NASCAR-fast.

"It never does," he agrees, voice rough as gravel.

The space between us feels electric, like that moment before lightning strikes when all the hair on your arms stands up and you know you're completely fucked.

His eyes drop to my mouth, and I swear I can feel that look like a physical touch.

When he's moving closer, I'm not backing away. His hand comes up, thumb's tracing along my bottom lip, and we both know that it's doing absolutely devastating things to my decision-making capabilities.

I tilt my chin up, close enough now that I can feel his breath against my skin, and then we’re kissing like the world is ending.

His mouth is hot and greedy on mine. I’m clawing at his t-shirt, desperate to feel his skin, and he’s got his hands tangled in my hair, pulling just hard enough to make me gasp.