Some people might think that sounds a lot like the words of a deranged boat captain who’s declared they’re going down with the ship that everyone knows isn’t seaworthy. Unless, of course, those people also happen to work in a family business—if they do, then it just sounds like love and loyalty.
What’s worse is that man standing in front of me probably knows something about the zany emotional arithmetic that comes with working with your family, considering how his eyes soften when he realizes that I’m temporarily without a snappy comeback. He leans back a little, slides his hand off the roof of the car, and sets his fingertips on the sheet metal surrounding the window opening.
It’s tradition to stencil the driver’s name above the window opening on a stock car, but ours says Wells Racing instead, which is easier since my dad ran in this car before I did. Cody would have raced in it too if he hadn’t wrecked a quarter midget car when he was ten, breaking his arm and his collarbone. After that, he never wanted to race again. He’ll gladly work on my car, but the only steering wheel he’ll sit behind is the one in his Dodge pickup truck.
Alec traces his fingers over the stencil and smiles absently, almost in the same way I do when I’ve had a rough day and I need a reminder of why I still believe in this way of life. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, which means I feel a little less like hollering stop touching my stuff while clanging my wrench against one of those Employees Only signs—but only a little less.
“Ah, Wells Racing. The home team’s ride,” he says, a grin still playing on his lips. I almost end up smiling back at him. “This must be your brother’s car?”
That smile I almost gave him dies a quick death. Because for fuck’s sake, I can’t take anything else today. I sure as hell can’t handle any sexist assumptions, especially when they come courtesy of Mason Enterprises. Again.
If only that wrench I is using earlier is within reach. I feel the need to bang it against something hard—like Alec Mason’s pigheadedness—right about now. It’s the same feeling I had when Tate Marshall offered up his insights on how I should know my place when it comes to business dealings between grown men. It was wishful thinking to believe that since Alec’s knuckles don’t drag on the ground when he walks, he might see me as more than just someone’s daughter.
I’m not stupid—I know better than anyone that this is still very much a guy’s game. Racing remains a world where women are a rarity, and when we are a part of the show, it’s usually as pawns in some clumsy corporate attempt at inclusivity. Because behind those cutesy little productions are too many people who still believe a woman’s place in racing is atop the podium… but only as a scantily clad trophy girl.
I sigh, then silently remind myself of all the reasons why I shouldn’t start throwing things at his head. The only things I can legally throw at him are four-letter words, and I have a few of them on the tip of my tongue. But Cody speaks before I have a chance to offer up any of the choice insights I’d like to share.
“Do I look like I could fit inside that car?”
A creaking sound accompanies his question as Cody rolls out from under the car on a creeper. When he unfolds his gigantic frame and stands up to his full height, the question answers itself.
While Cody and Alec are almost the same height, that’s where the similarities end. My brother is built like a rugby player while Alec looks like a pro surfer, with a leanly muscled form that’s well defined even under his clothes. No matter how cut I’m sure he is under that suit, he can’t help but look scrawny standing next to my brother, the human sequoia.
Cody wipes his hands on a shop rag, shoves it into his back pocket, and then crosses his big arms over his barrel-sized chest. Alec’s brows rise an inch.
“You do not look like you could fit in that car. In fact, I think you’d have a tough time getting your pinkie toe wedged inside.” Alec’s face blanches a shade, then he mutters a curse under his breath. “Which means that, unless your dad is still racing, this is Sage’s car.”
Cody nods once. “And that means you should see how quickly you can extract that fancy loafer from your mouth. Seeing as it’s really wedged in there, that might take a while.” He clenches his jaw for a beat. “We’ll wait.”
Another muttered curse word from Alec before he gives up a long sigh. His eyes meet mine.
“Please accept my apologies, Sage. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
When I give him nothing but a fresh glare, he looks defeated. For a split second, I almost feel bad for him, but it passes just as quickly. We do not feel for the real estate vultures, I chastise myself. We despise them, we warn them off our property, and we cuss them out. If that doesn’t work, then we haze them with BB guns until they leave us alone.
Okay, fine. We don’t use BB guns. I might have considered it at one time or another—and loaded a few pellets just in case—but I’ve never actually done it.
At least not yet.
Alec takes another deep breath and extends his hand to Cody, formally introducing myself. They exchange a stiff, manly handshake.
“Look, I know that one of our people is out here a few weeks ago, and I know he screwed things up pretty badly with you all. I’m here to see if there’s some way we can fix this.” His attention moves between Cody and me. “We’re a family business, just like you guys. Maybe that means we can find a way to work together.”
I sputter out a choked laugh and Cody snorts. Our eyes meet and every moment of our siblinghood passes between us like an unspoken secret handshake, one that means we’ll always go up against our enemies together, like dogs backed into a corner.
“Just like us?” Cody says. “I doubt that.”
Alec tips his head to one side and shrugs a little. “We might have more in common than we think.”
“Oh, like the same yacht dealer?” I say dryly. “Do we both like that chateau de whatever wine? The one with the fruity, leggy, snooty, smoky notes of blueberries and Mallomars? Or maybe we have a shared love for spending the holidays in a Swiss chalet with the Kardashians?”
Alec’s eyes light up a little before he lets out a scoff. “Come on, everybody knows the Kardashians don’t do Europe in December. When it comes to a white Christmas, it’s always Aspen or Park City.”
He throws in a half grin that I can’t quite decipher. I’m not sure if he’s playing along with my sarcasm or if he’s being smug. Either way, it’s making my head hurt. Even if he does have permission from Dad to stroll around the property, there’s no way I’m going to let him take the high ground in my damn shop while leaning on my race car.
“Oh, excuse me,” I drawl. “What was I thinking? Next time you see her, please tell Kim I think she looks terrible as a blonde.”
“Will do,” Alec replies. A smirk hitches up one side of his mouth. “Should I tell Kanye anything? Or what about Khloe? I might see her before I see the Wests. We share the same Maserati dealer, and you know how that goes—those dealer guys are all about the gossip. Do you have the same problem around here? Maybe down at the Chevy dealer?”
I nearly lunge across the hood of my car, grateful that it’s sitting between us; otherwise I might do more than just jab my finger in the air at him.