For years, Rafe has asked.

"Come to one race."

"Just one."

"You might actually like it."

And for years, you have found increasingly creative ways to say no.

Apparently, today is the day you finally lose that argument.

The paddock is nothing like you expected.

It's controlled chaos — mechanics weaving between garages, cameras following drivers, team members rushing past with equipment, and engines roaring somewhere beyond the buildings.

Rafe, meanwhile, looks completely at home.

He walks backward in front of you, dressed in his team gear with his credential around his neck, looking far too pleased with himself.

Someone from his team calls his name from the garage.

He glances over.

He points at you.

He pauses.

Another shout comes from the garage.

And just like that, he's gone.

Thirty seconds becomes five minutes.

Then ten.

Eventually, you give up waiting and start exploring.

Your pass apparently gives you more access than you realized. Somewhere between avoiding a camera crew, passing several nearly identical garages, and attempting to remember which direction you came from, the crowds begin to thin.

You've definitely wandered farther than intended.

You round a corner.

At the exact same moment, someone else comes around it.

Fast.

They nearly walk straight into each other.

The man stops abruptly, one hand catching the wall beside you before you collide.

For a second, neither moves.

Tall.

Lean and athletic.

A white fireproof racing shirt fitted across broad shoulders, with the top half of his racing suit tied around his waist.

And very, very blonde.

Messy sandy-blonde hair falls across his forehead as striking blue-grey eyes settle on you.

One eyebrow slowly lifts.

His gaze briefly drops to the credential hanging around your neck, but from the angle, he can't see the name.

He doesn't recognize you.

Which is unusual. Torsten Brandvik knows most of the people who regularly wander this part of the paddock.

Somewhere behind him, a woman's shout cuts through the noise.

Torsten glances over his shoulder.

He exhales through his nose before looking back at you.

There's the faintest hint of amusement in his expression now.

Torsten has heard Rafe talk about his younger sister for years.

You have heard enough stories about Rafe's best friend to practically know him yourself.

But somehow, you've never actually met.

Neither of you realizes who you're standing in front of.

Not yet.

Torsten stays where he is, blue-grey eyes fixed curiously on the unfamiliar woman he nearly just walked into, waiting to see what you do.