LILY

"I can do this." As I speak aloud, I clutch the string of komboloi, or Greek worry beads. Dad bought the strand for me years ago, a little trinket he'd picked up during a trip when I was having a difficult time with exams in college.

Over the years, I'd nearly loved them to death, the azure blue of the beads shiny and familiar in my fingers.

"I am stronger than I think."

I take a deep breath and stare into my hazel eyes in the mirror. The dark circles underneath are barely hidden by the tube of concealer I found in my purse. I tuck the beads into my purse and swipe on some lip balm. Gah. I look haggard.

"I am worthy just as I am."

I release the breath into a long sigh as my phone lets out a shrill ring in the other room. Back when I worked at the video game development company, I'd said these mantras to myself every morning before I went into the office, in hopes they'd change something, anything, about the terrible working conditions.

They hadn't, but I'd continued to repeat my mantras until the day I was fired. Since then, I'd gotten out of the habit, assuming my mantras were merely rubbish. Now that I'm faced with getting my father back to health and running his Formula World team, I figure I need all the help I can get. So it's mantras and worry beads every morning from here on in.

I can do this.

In the living room portion of the palatial suite, I scoop up my cell. It rings while it's in my hand. Since five this morning, the phone's been blowing up with texts, calls, and emails. Almost all are from reporters wanting to know what's going on with my father, with me, the team.

It's the part of this whole situation that I want to hide from, but can't. Eventually I'll have to give a news conference, but I'd rather do it after talking with Dad and his doctor this morning. Knowing Dad's prognosis will give me the strength to tackle everything else. I'll also need to get the team's PR department on board. Dammit, I probably should've done it last night.

Everything happened so quickly, though. Even now, it feels like a long, bad nightmare.

This call is different, though, because I know the number and the person on the other end. I answer after the fourth ring.

"Anh," I cry.

"Sweetie, are you okay? I'm so sorry. How is Adrian?"

The lilting accent of my longtime friend is a balm to my ears. I'd met Anh de Havilland when I was an intern and she was a grid girl, holding umbrellas over drivers and stunning the world with her Vietnamese-French beauty. Now she's in charge of hiring the grid girls — they're called promotional models now — for all the races, employed by the company that owns the rights to Formula World.

"He's okay. I'm going to visit him. Where are you? I was going to come find you yesterday, but time got away from me."

"Mais oui. I'm in Austin, I had to fly here early because two girls are out and I need replacements. I have a long day of tryouts and interviews. Are you coming? I heard the news that you are in charge of your father's team."

"Yeah, I'm flying out today after I visit the hospital. Will you be around for drinks tonight? Coffee? I know you're busy." Anh is an extreme extrovert, unlike me. She's always got a packed schedule, which is one reason why we drifted apart since I left Formula World.

But she's the kind of lifelong friend that you can see after five years and it's like no time at all has passed.

"I can't wait to see you," I sigh. "I've got a lot to tell you."

"I'm sure you do." Her words are pregnant with meaning, probably because she's one of the only people on this planet who knows the history of me and Max. "Text me immediately when you get to Austin."

"Will do. Ciao ciao."

She bids me goodbye in French, and I hang up.

There's a knock at the door, and I look up, alarmed. My god, I've been up for an hour and it's been non-stop.

It's probably Adam or the bellhop coming to collect everything, including Dad's luggage. Staying in Dad's suite was a terrible idea. The bed was too hard, and the pillow was oddly large. I should've gone home. That way I could've binged on cookies and made my favorite coffee.

Instead, I'm running to see who is pounding at the door. "Who is it?" I yell.

"Lily, honey?" comes a woman's voice. "Yooohooo."

When I fling it open, I find my mother, looking characteristically gorgeous. Effortless. Her style is best described as "coastal grandma," with flowy linens, soft cottons, chunky jewelry, and a vaguely bohemian vibe. She's in a cream-colored ivory jumpsuit with a turquoise stone the size of a golf ball around her neck. In her polished hands is a cup of coffee. She doesn't say anything as she sweeps inside.

"Eileen. Good morning." There's a touch of sarcasm in my voice because my mother is a wild card. I never know what she's going to do or where she's going to show up. Today, it's my hotel suite. Tomorrow, who knows. I consider her my best friend, but like all besties, I know her quirks and annoyances. And when I'm annoyed, I call her by her first name.

"Hello, dearie. Your hair looks so much better that shade of brunette, you know. Vibrant. Like polished mahogany."

"I haven't washed it today."

She stops to appraise me up and down. It's as if it's been three minutes, and not three weeks, since we last saw each other.

"Hmph," she finally says.

I extend my hand. "Thanks for the coffee."

"That's not for you." She takes a sip and I let out an exasperated groan.

"Come on," I whine.

"Fine." She hands it to me, and I take a sip. "Ew. What is this?"

"It's my chaga mushroom coffee. Can you believe they sell it in the lobby here? How progressive."

I hand it back, only slightly disgusted, because Mom's always trying something new. "You could've called. Texted. Let me know that you were showing up. I was about to leave to see dad and then I have to get to Texas."

She waves a hand dismissively. "I was only in North Carolina. It was no trouble to cut my yoga retreat short and hop a quick flight here."

"How did you know where I was?"

She lifts a shoulder into a shrug. "I knew your father was staying in this hotel, and Adam told me you'd spent the night here. I tried calling but you didn't pick up."

"How did you know Dad was staying at this particular hotel?"

Mom yawns. "I visited him earlier in the week. He called and was lonely. So I spent the night."

She peers into the bedroom. "I'm sure housekeeping changed the sheets."

I don't hold back a grimace when I see her coy little smile. Their relationship is...odd. Has been my entire life, which is probably why I've been reticent to get too deeply involved with any man. Emulating my parents' eccentric, weirdly open marriage isn't what I want out of life.

She's not fazed by my reaction. "I'll come with to see your father this morning. In fact, I was thinking I could stay here in Miami and care for him at your place. I've already talked on the phone with Adam at length, and we've worked out the details. Maybe we'll use your place."

Now I'm gaping at her in open-mouthed horror. Mom and Dad have lived apart for a couple of years, and had a rocky, constant on-and-off again relationship my entire life. They love each other, but have a hard time living under the same roof. Yet they do things like hook up in hotel rooms, apparently.

"Do you think that's such a great plan?"

Mom looks at me as if I've sprouted a third arm as she sits on a brocade loveseat. "Lily, he is my husband. Of course he needs me to care for him."

"Whatever you say," I mutter, leaning against the door. Actually I'm wondering if Mom will stress him out even more, but I don't say that aloud.

"I also came because of you. Your texts last night gave off a very," she waggles her fingers in my direction, "unsettled vibe."

I snort. "Naturally I was unsettled. I'm still unsettled. Dad had a major coronary event and he's asked me to take over the team. It's deeply unsettling."

"And that's why I'm here. Someone needs to care for Dad while you run the team."

I roll my eyes.

"What?" Mom blinks her giant blue orbs that are framed with fluffy fake lashes. She's one of those people who can somehow drink a cup of brown liquid while wearing light-colored clothing and not spill a drop. Unlike me, who has a fresh blob of green toothpaste on the dress I wore yesterday.

Should've gone home last night. Should've never had dinner with Max. Maybe if I'd listened to my instincts, I could've slept in my own bed and not tossed and turned last night, thinking about Dad — and Max.

Ugh, Max. A memory of his intense gaze staring into my soul last night comes to mind, and a pleasurable shiver goes through me. I clear my throat nervously.

"I'm worried about Dad. And I don't know if I'm the best person for the team."

"Oh, pfft. How hard can it be? The guys know what to do. You need to show up at some races, give some interviews, stand around with headphones on and stare at monitors. You're overqualified, in my opinion." Mom's always been dismissive of the sport, probably because it was the one thing that robbed Dad's attention from her.

I don't respond because I'm absorbed in my thoughts. It hits me anew that I almost kissed Max last night in my discombobulated, emotional state.

"Lily? What is it? Why do you look like someone took away your Christmas? Don't worry about your father. He's going to be just fine. We'll talk with the doctor. And don't start with the imposter syndrome about running the team. You know that half those male fools on the team would gladly trade places with you, and they don't have the experience or knowledge you do."

"Yeah," I mutter.

"Then what's the problem...oh. Oh. I know what your issue is." Mom's concerned expression morphs into a smirk.

I give her a side-eye. "I have no issue. Let's get to the hospital."

"Max Becker."

It's difficult not to react, but I manage. "This has nothing to do with Max."

"You're fibbing. You're worried about working with him."

Mom was the only other person I'd told about Max seven years ago, besides Anh. She swore she wouldn't tell Dad. To my knowledge, she never did. She knows everything, from how we started to why we broke up. And since we're close, almost more like sisters than mother and daughter, she can read me like a book.

"Mom." My voice comes out in a strangled groan. "We had dinner last night. It was torture. Tort. Ure."

She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "That's not going to be simple. The team will be, but Max won't."

"No. It's not easy. Especially since he's being nice and kind and I don't know. Decent. Plus, he's still really hot." I sniffle a little for emphasis. "Last night we had dinner and were ambushed by photographers in the lobby. I almost melted down. I can only imagine what's in the tabloids today."

"Oh, I've already seen. Basically a lot of speculation about you and Max."

"What? You saw that? Why didn't you tell me? What did the papers say? I couldn't even look online this morning."

"Yeah, it's the usual. There's also some gossip about your dad being on death's door. We know better. This is one of those situations where you're going to have to put your feelings aside, Lily. Just block out all the noise and static and focus on being your incredible self."

I stare at her with one squinted eye. She seems to think that an Instagram meme will somehow save me from the emotional hell I'm stepping into.

"I seem to always put my feelings aside. That's the trouble. I'm finding it harder and harder to do."

"Such is the way of life for women in our world."

"Well, not you," I say, almost in an accusing tone.

"Not me, not now. Now that I'm sixty, I have, as the kids say, zero fucks to give. That's why I started my late-in-life career as an influencer. I stopped caring about what other people think. But trust me, when I was your age, I shoved all those emotions down. For my job, then for your father, and for you."

I sense that Mom's ramping up for a philosophical lecture, which is the last thing I need this morning. "Let's table this discussion until we can do it over drinks. We've got to get to the hospital."

"Okay, okay. But I want you to calm down and breathe. Center yourself." She shuts her eyes and pinches her thumb and forefinger together.

"Mom, I'll breathe later. Let's chop chop."

She opens her eyes and shoots me a reproachful glance. We both stand and I grab what little stuff I have, and shove it in my oversized purse.

"Adam will come get Dad's stuff. Don't worry," Mom says.

She opens the door as I'm checking my face in the mirror. On a good day, I look cute, but plain. Today I look basic and exhausted.

"Well, hello there," she says in an exaggerated tone.

What now?

I whirl around to find Max standing in the doorway. I hadn't heard him knock.

"What are you doing here?" I demand.

His hands are stuffed in his pockets, like they were when we said goodbye last night. His face is pinched with worry. Standing a respectful distance behind him are two beefy-looking guys that are obviously his bodyguards.

"I thought I'd come by and see how your dad's doing. Have you talked to him?" He glances from my mother to me. Our eyes lock for a moment, and once again, my face flushes hot in his presence. This has got to stop.

Mom clears her throat and turns back to Max.

"We were just on our way to see him," Mom trills. "Why don't you join us?"

I squeeze Mom's elbow, propelling her out the door and past Max, who smells freshly showered and yummy. He's wearing jeans and a Team Onassis polo shirt that shows off his taut, muscular chest.

"I'm sure Max has better things to do, Mumsy."

"No, I'd like see Adrian." Max's tone is even, so emotionless it's disarming.

"And I'm sure he'd love to see you, too," Mom says firmly.

What I want isn't a priority here, and I can't argue with Mom's logic. Max is my father's star driver, and I'm sure he would appreciate a visit from him.

"I've got a car downstairs." Mom pulls away from me and threads her arm through Max's. "Let's go."

I bite back a sigh and follow them out of the hotel. One of the bodyguards leads the way, while the other follows behind our little group. Max is a perfect gentleman, gallantly escorting Mom through the lobby door like they're going to a ball. People stop to stare at them and take photos. I skulk behind, hoping I'm hidden behind the beefy bodyguard.

Outside the hotel, there's a small gaggle of press that's clustered near a bench across the street. Just like he did last night, Max puts a protective hand on the small of my back as we all speed up toward Mom's car as the paparazzi barrel toward us, shouting questions.

I barely have time to wonder why Max's touch sends little electric sparks through my body because we all hurriedly slide into Mom's chauffeured car, barely managing to avoid the reporters. It's a Mercedes, with a massive backseat. Somehow I'm in the middle, mashed between Mom and Max.

One of his bodyguards is in the passenger seat, while the other is apparently following behind in an SUV. This is how it's going to be for the next several weeks, months even, if I take over the team.

As we drive off, a photographer shoves his camera almost against the tinted window of the car, in hopes of getting a photo of me and Max.

"They never stop, do they?" Mom asks in a cheery tone. She's always been amused by the media attention that came with Dad owning a team. Now that she's an influencer, she even kind of loves it. Mercifully, she knows how uncomfortable I am with being in the public eye, so she doesn't encourage the spotlight when we're together.

Already I feel suffocated. We ride in silence for several long, awkward minutes.

I glance at Mom and she's fiddling with her phone. "Did I tell you that Ralph Lauren asked me to do a campaign on Instagram? They want vibrant older ladies." Her laugh is like the audio equivalent of champagne, bubbly and light.

"Mmm, no, you didn't," I grunt. How I ended up her daughter is beyond me. Mom's ethereal and positive and I'm plain and grumpy.

My eyes slide to my right and Max's leg. His hand is resting on his thigh, and I study it for a second. This only serves to remind me of how he used to run those exact fingers over my body, through my hair, across my lips...

I screw my eyes shut. This cannot be happening. I can't have lusty thoughts toward Max. I'm his boss. Ugh, that even feels weird to think. And even if I wasn't, I'd only be making a fool of myself. Max almost certainly doesn't feel like he used to about me.

"Max, how are your parents, anyway? Are they still in Germany? Such lovely people. And your brother? How is he?" Mom turns and peers around me.

"They're doing well, thank you for asking, Mrs. Onassis. I'll tell them you say hello."

God, his manners are impeccable.

"I was going to take a couple of days to visit them between races, before Austin, but I decided not to because of the situation with Adrian. They're planning on being at a few of the races in Germany. They'd wanted to come over for the American races, but my brother had a health issue so they're home now while he recovers."

"What happened to Hans?" I blurt, suddenly alarmed. Six years younger than Max, his brother was born with Down Syndrome.

"He's fine. He had a minor heart issue but it was corrected with surgery. We flew him to a great hospital in Berlin and he was out within a week. He's almost fully recovered, but Mom and Dad didn't want to stress him out by bringing him to America."

Max's words are smooth and collected, but I see a flicker of anguish in his blue eyes.

"Were you able to be with him in the hospital?"

Max shakes his head. "I was in Sochi at the time."

Hans is probably his favorite person on the planet, and I know it must have affected him deeply to have to race while his brother was undergoing surgery. But that's the way of Formula World — it's not like a driver can just take a sick day, because every missed race means lost opportunities for points. For a driver to miss a race, it must be a life-and-death situation. And even then, most drivers choose to race; Dad once had a driver whose mom died on a Saturday, and he raced the next day. And won.

"I'm sorry."

"Hans is tough. He made it through and is doing well."

Max turns his head and stares out the window at the Miami traffic. I focus again on his hand, which is still resting on his thigh but now curled into a fist. There's a part of me that wants to take his hand, unfurl his fingers, and press my palm against his. Squeeze his hand and tell him it's all going to be okay — and hear it back from him.

That's what we would've done seven years ago, in private. But a lot has changed since then. Everything has, really.

And that's the crux of the problem facing me right now: that by being the team owner, I'm confronted every minute with the fact that I broke up with Max. It was possibly the worst decision I've ever made, and now I need to relive it over and over.

___

Copy: Are you loving BURN? Don't forget to pre-order book two in the series, CRASH, out in print January 2023!