Chapter 1
Agatha Harkness isn’t the kind of woman who gets caught off guard easily.
In fact, she’s worked in motorsports long enough to handle just about anything thrown at her—entitled drivers throwing temper tantrums, race engineers arguing over the accuracy of their telemetry data, even the occasional pissed-off team owner being unreasonably irritated by how their mid-tier race team wasn’t suddenly at the top of the leaderboard in the Xfinity Series.
But when Todd Davis, owner of Davis Family Racing and Agatha’s boss of five years, called her into his office with that look on his face—the tell-tale sign that meant she wasn’t going to like what he had to say—she knew she was in deep shit.
She leans back in the stiff office chair, arms folded over her chest as Todd explains his plan. By the time he’s finished, she’s already shaking her head emphatically.
“Absolutely not,” she says flatly. “I know who Rio Vidal is. I know what she’s done in ARCA.”
“So do we.”
“And you still want to hire her?” Agatha asks, incredulous. “In the first half of last season alone, she sent three cars to the garage at Kansas, took out a race leader and a lap car at Talladega, and somehow managed to finish in the top five in all but two of those races.”
Todd nods silently.
“She is a stain on this sport, and I am not going to have my name attached to whatever bullshit she’s about to pull in the Xfinity Series.”
Todd sighs, rubbing his temples despite Agatha’s predictable reaction. “Agatha, listen—“
“No. You listen.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees and locking eyes with him, her gaze burning. “I’ve been with this team for years, and have cleaned up God knows how many messes. I get that I’m not the easiest person to work with, but at least I’m not out there pissing off every single person in the world of stock car racing. That girl has a reputation for taking out half the damn field just to get a top ten. Is that really the reputation you want for our team?”
“She’s really talented,” Todd countered. “One of the best I’ve seen in ARCA in a long time. She just needs someone to help keep her in line. Someone to mold her into a respectable NASCAR driver.”
Agatha scoffs, shaking her head. “And you think I should be the one to do that?”
“I think you don’t put up with anyone’s bullshit,” he says simply. “And I think she needs someone who won’t put up with hers.”
“Isn’t that why she ended up with six different teams last season? Because her crew chiefs and the fucking team owners didn’t want to put up with her bullshit?”
“No one bothered to rein her in and correct her behavior, they just dropped her the second she was too much for them to handle. They didn’t try to help her.”
“Help her with what, exactly? Learn how to wreck the entire field instead of just twenty cars and still make it to the end of the race?”
Todd folds his hands on his desk and sighs.
Agatha exhales sharply at his abrupt lack of explanation, running a hand through her unkempt brown hair. “Todd, I’m not a crew chief. I wouldn’t even know where to start with that.”
“Bullshit.” His voice is calm, but firm. “You’re the smartest engineer we’ve had on this team since Jeff retired. You already make half the calls the crew chiefs do, and you’re the reason we’re running as well as we are. I have full faith in you.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Because, honestly? He’s not wrong. She loves this sport—loves the strategy, the challenge, the exhilarating thrill of getting a car across the finish line first. And if she doesn’t take this, what’s left? Watching from the stands while someone else lets this girl ruin the world of stock car racing as she knows it?
Still, she’s not entirely convinced. “What if she ruins my career? What if she wrecks someone so badly, we have the first fatality in the sport since Earnhardt?”
Todd’s gaze remains on Agatha, steady and unwavering. “Then that’s on me for hiring her. You do your job, I’ll take the fallback.”
Silence hangs between them.
Agatha hates everything about this—hates the unpredictability, hates the feeling of being backed into a corner. But more than anything, she hates the idea of walking away from her dream job and the sport that she loves well before she’s ready.
he exhales slowly, like she’s already regretting the words that have yet to leave her mouth. “So… when do I get to meet the Tasmanian Devil?”
Todd glances at his watch. “She’ll be here in an hour to finalize her contract for the season.”
“Of course she will,” Agatha mutters, rubbing at the tension in her temples. She has one hour to prepare for what will be the biggest headache of her career.
Lord help her.
The next hour is somehow both the slowest and fastest of her life.
She spends most of it pacing the shop floor, lingering just long enough between various workstations to make herself appear busy. The crew is used to her doing this when she’s stewing—she processes her frustration in motion.
Harold, one of the lead engineers, gives her a confused look when he catches Agatha staring too intently at a set of brake rotors, like they contain the meaning of life. She blinks, shakes her head, and walks away.
She flips through telemetry data completely irrelevant to Daytona. Hovers behind the mechanics as they adjust a backup car, offering insight they didn’t ask for. Triple-checks setups, jots down useless notes, does just about everything except think about the fact that soon, she will be saddled with the responsibility of keeping a wrecking ball of a race car driver in line.
And then the large shop clock strikes 11:15 A.M.
Rio Vidal is incredibly late.
Agatha isn’t sure why she’s surprised. Of course the woman making her life harder—without even having met her—can’t be bothered to show up on time.
Through the large window that looks into the shop floor, she spots Todd standing by the front office, chatting with who she can only assume is Rio’s manager—a taller, awkward-looking guy who’s been there for at least ten minutes, looking increasingly embarrassed as the seconds tick by.
Agatha leans on a nearby workbench, arms folded tightly over her chest, eyeing the front door like a hawk.
And then—finally—it swings open.
Rio Vidal strolls in like she’s showing up to a friend’s house.
She’s wearing a black t-shirt with her name and a winged sprint car printed in neon, clinging to a lean, muscular frame. The jeans she’s paired them with are so tight around her calves, Agatha assumes she’s borrowed them to look halfway put together. Black Ray-Bans are perched on her nose, rendering her expression unreadable. Her hair—short, dark waves—is tousled just enough to suggest she drove erratically with her head out the window just to get here.
Agatha's irritation boils within her before Rio even opens her mouth.
It’s the way she carries herself—unbothered, far too casual, like showing up late to full-season contract signing with a NASCAR team isn’t a huge deal. Like professionalism is merely a suggestion.
And Agatha has no patience for drivers who don’t take their jobs seriously.
But then there’s the other problem. The problem she notices the moment the front door of the building swings open and pointedly ignores.
Rio Vidal is attractive. Irritatingly attractive.
It’s not just the way her t-shirt hugs her form or how her jawline is sharp enough to slice through sheet metal. No, it’s the overconfidence—the lazy, almost cocky way she carries herself, sunglasses still on indoors like she’s Brad fucking Pitt. Agatha has always loathed those who walk into a room like the entire world is theirs.
Unfortunately, her body doesn’t seem to give a shit about her principles.
It’s fine.
She’ll get over it.
Because it doesn’t matter.
What does matter is that Rio Vidal is her fucking driver, and she is not allowed to be even a little attracted to her. Not personally, not professionally, not at all.
So instead of addressing any of it, Agatha shoves down and buries whatever inappropriate thoughts try to take root and pushes away from the workbench. She stalks toward the front office, already determined to make herself as unapproachable as she can manage.
By the time she steps into the hallway outside the shop, Rio and her manager, Billy, are mid-conversation with Todd.
Agatha doesn’t greet them. Doesn’t offer a handshake, doesn’t even smile—just stops next to the doorway, arms folded tightly over her chest, posture stiff with indifference. If Rio notices, she doesn’t seem to be bothered. If anything, the slight tilt of her head suggests she’s at least amused.
Todd, ever the diplomat, gestures toward the small room. “Miss Vidal, Mr. Maximoff—let’s sit and talk.”
Rio flashes a half-smirk and saunters past Agatha without hesitation. Billy trails behind her with the distinct energy of a man whose first language is apologizing for his client’s behavior.
Agatha lingers just long enough to make it clear she isn’t following after them so much as she’s politely allowing them to go in first.
Inside, Billy takes a seat in front of Todd’s desk, however Rio doesn’t immediately sit—instead, she leans against the chair, elbows resting on the back, looking way too relaxed for someone about to discuss a contract that will alter the course of their career.
Agatha doesn’t sit either. She moves to stand behind her boss, leaning against the wall, arms folded, stance rigid as far away from Rio as she can reasonably manage.
Rio takes that as a challenge.
“Miss Harkness,” she says, all polite drawl and feigned respect. The way she says her name—deliberately slow, teasing—sends heat prickling up Agatha’s neck before she can stop it. “Nice to finally meet you.”
On the surface, Agatha doesn’t react, remaining painfully stoic.
Internally, however, is another story.
Because fuck this bitch—for that tone, for trying to charm her, for saying her name like it’s something important. For making Agatha notice the way her lips curve around the vowels.
She tightens her jaw, maintaining her neutral expression. “Likewise.”
Rio smirks like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
Agatha is sure this is exactly how she weaseled her way onto so many teams last season—flustering some poor bastard in upper management until they overlooked her blatant recklessness in favor of finding her endearing.
Todd, oblivious or simply too seasoned to give a shit, clears his throat and reroutes the conversation. “Let’s go over your contract.”
Billy flips his folder open to reveal a legal pad and fancy ballpoint pen, then straightens in his seat, dialing his corporate attentiveness up to ten. Rio remains in her too-informal sprawl, nodding along like she’s only half-listening (because she is most certainly only half-listening).
Todd runs through the details with his typical precision, hitting every standard point as black and white as possible—sponsorship obligations for both car and team, media appearances, general performance expectations. Billy listens, asks the occasional clarifying question as he scribbles down notes, nods seriously.
Rio, on the other hand, looks as engaged as someone listening to the ingredient list on a toothpaste tube.
It isn’t until Todd reaches the clause that her interest seems remotely piqued.
“You’re going to have to adjust your driving approach,” he says, flipping a page in the contract. “Specifically, to stop wrecking your colleagues on purpose.”
Rio feigns innocence so masterfully that Agatha nearly chokes on sheer indignation.
”I don’t wreck people on purpose, Mr. Davis,” she says, her expression the picture of coached, manufactured sincerity.
Agatha knows better than to believe it.
”Oh, bull—“
Todd raises a hand before she can finish, shooting her a look that all but screams: Do not make us look bad in front of prospect talent. Agatha seethes in silence, arms folded so tightly it’s a wonder her ribs haven’t shattered under the pressure.
Todd looks back at Rio. “Your contract depends on you making a real effort to fix your on-track behavior. We’re here to win, not to turn the sport into a demolition derby.”
Rio nods, sunglasses hiding whatever half-hearted agreement might be in her eyes. “Of course.”
Agatha is going to lose her fucking mind.
Eventually, they read through the rest of the contract. Rio signs her name with overexaggerated flair, dotting the i’s with sloppy stars. Billy, ever the professional, adds his own signature without comment.
Todd flips the folder closed and clasps his hands together. “Great. Now that you’re officially a member of Davis Family Racing, Agatha—why don’t you give Rio a tour of her new home?”
Agatha barely stops herself from shooting him a lethal glare. Are you fucking serious?
But the look on Todd’s face tells her it’s not a request.
So, with all the enthusiasm of someone being sent to their own execution in the town square, she exhales sharply and forces out a hardly gentle, “Sure.”
Rio, for the first time all meeting, appears genuinely interested.
“Lead the way, Miss Harkness.”
Agatha strides out the door, not bothering to check if Rio has left her seat and chosen to follow. Of course, she does—Agatha can hear the languid scuff of her tennis shoes against the polished tile, the amused exhale like she already knows this is going to be fun for her and absolute hell for Agatha.
“The offices,” Agatha says flatly, gesturing to the closed doors they walk past. “PR, marketing, finance—basically, the people who make sure we get paid and don’t look like complete clowns on race day.”
Rio hums, almost like she’s actually interested, but Agatha knows better.
They walk further down the hall, past the conference room, past the offices shared by other crew chief-race engineer duos, past—
Agatha’s office.
She says nothing, continuing down the corridor.
Rio, of course, stops.
Agatha’s jaw tightens as she hears Rio take a few steps back. There’s a beat of silence, then: “Huh.”
Agatha freezes in place, but doesn’t turn around.
“I honestly didn’t think you were the ‘framed degree’ type,” Rio muses, peering through the unobstructed doorway.
Agatha finally turns on her heel, catching Rio’s gaze just as it moves to the wall behind her desk.
Massachusetts Institute of Technology
Bachelor of Science in Mechanical Engineering
Agatha exhales sharply through her nose, battling the urge to stand straighter and grin—a flicker of pride she refuses to acknowledge in front of Rio. “You done snooping, Vidal?”
Rio smirks, backing away from the threshold. “What? I thought you were giving me a tour. Not my fault your door was wide open.”
Shit.
Agatha levels her with a glare. “Move.”
Rio raises her hands in mock surrender but steps away, falling back into line beside Agatha as she leads them toward the weight room.
”So, MIT, huh?” Rio says as they walk. ”I thought most engineers went to UNC Charlotte.”
Nothing.
”You from Massachusetts?”
“Yep.”
Rio waits for more. When only silence follows, she tries again. “How’d they rope someone as gorgeous as you into crew chiefing?”
Agatha’s step falters just the littlest bit, but she recovers before Rio notices.
She doesn’t let it show—doesn’t let the comment, the unexpected spark of heat at being called gorgeous, throw her off track.
Instead, she answers plainly, coldly: “By recognizing my knowledge and talent. That’s typically how it works.”
Rio grins. “Oh, for sure.”
Silence hangs between them for a moment before Rio blurts out, “You know, you’re a lot shorter than I imagined you’d be.”
Agatha exhales sharply, shaking her head. She picks up her pace.
The rest of the tour is just as annoying. Agatha offers the shortest, most straightforward explanation of each space—the weight room, the break room where the team eats, the simulation room—while Rio remains silent or makes some snide comment that Agatha doesn’t dignify with a reaction.
Finally, they make it to the shop.
It’s as busy as is expected right before the beginning of a race season—mechanics moving between workstations, voices and occasional laugh overlapping, the din of power drills and other tools filling the air. Most of the crew barely look their way when Agatha and Rio walk in, too engrossed in their work.
A couple, however, do notice.
And the second they realize who Agatha has in tow, their expressions shift from neutral to moderately horrified.
One of the engine builders, John, makes eye contact with Agatha, looks at Rio, then back at Agatha, his expression screaming, Are you fucking serious right now?
A fabricator exhales sharply, whispers something to his coworker, and shakes his head like he’s just been informed they’re expected to hit their season fabrication budget by the third race (and with Rio at the helm of one of their cars, they might).
Yeah. They all know exactly what kind of season they’re about to have.
Agatha doesn’t acknowledge any of it. She just clears her throat, plants her hands firmly on her hips, and turns to Rio.
“This is the shop,” she says dryly. “Try not to destroy our season and every piece of equipment we own.”
Rio bats her eyelashes, then tilts her head, lips curving into a deceptively sweet grin. “Me?” she says, innocence so blatantly forced it pisses Agatha off even more. “I would never. You have the wrong idea about me, Miss Harkness.”
Agatha levels her with an unimpressed, unamused glare.
Rio hums, folding her arms as she looks around the shop, then back to Agatha, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Besides,” she adds, lowering her voice the littlest bit, “I’d hate to make your new job harder than it needs to be. You seem awfully tense already.”
Agatha does not react.
She refuses to react.
No narrowing of her eyes, no sharp exhale, no indication whatsoever that the comment got under her skin.
Because it didn’t.
Absolutely not.
(Except for the way her shoulders stiffen. And the sudden urge to exhale through her nose harder than she needs to. But that’s it.)
“Tour’s over,” Agatha announces flatly, turning on her heel and walking back the way they came.
Rio grins, moving beside her with a casual stride.
By the time they make it back to the front office, Todd and Billy are still sitting at the desk, deep in conversation about Rio’s public appearance obligations and salary. Agatha slows slightly, hesitating long enough to remember that she is, in fact, a professional and that—no matter how insufferable Rio Vidal is—she’s going to behave like one.
So, before stepping inside, she lets out a breath and turns to face Rio. “Any questions?”
Rio arches a brow, fully aware Agatha is only asking to be polite. So she takes her up on it. “Yeah. Just one.”
Agatha doesn’t believe her. “Go for it.”
Rio looks at Agatha with a shit-eating grin. “Actually, I lied. I have three.”
Agatha suddenly regrets every life choice that has led her to this very moment.
Rio lifts a hand, counting off on her three fingers. “One—are you into ladies? Specifically ladies—” Rio hums, as if she’s pulling a random, totally unrelated number out of a hat, “—five years younger than you?”
Agatha does not dignify that with an answer.
“Two—are you single?”
Agatha stares straight ahead.
“Three—are you doing anything this weekend?”
Agatha inhales through her nose, her already waning patience hanging by a fraying thread. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
She turns to leave, but Rio frowns, genuinely puzzled. “Tomorrow?”
Agatha fights the urge to roll her eyes. “You’re new, you’ve got a lot to catch up on,” she says, glancing back at Rio. “Fire suit fitting, seat molding, sim time…” She waves a hand vaguely, already checking out of the conversation.
Rio blinks, clearly having expected to show up right before Daytona at best.
“Welcome to NASCAR, Miss Vidal.”
Agatha doesn’t give her time to process or respond before walking off, taking long, quick strides toward her office with a singular, exhausted thought looping in her mind:
This season is going to be a fucking disaster.