Dating the University's Hottest Racer

Tasha’s POV

“YOU’RE watching that Formula 1 again, aren’t you?”

I didn’t look away from the small, flickering TV mounted crookedly in the corner of the garage. The screen buzzed with static every few seconds, but it didn’t matter. I could still see it—the blur of red and silver streaking across the track, the precision, the speed, the control.

Formula 1 rehearsal. Carlos Santiago, the youngest F1 trainee.

Monaco.

“Yeah,” I said quietly, tightening the bolt beneath my fingers. “Just background noise.”

A lie.

It was never just noise.

Engines roared through the speakers, sharp and clean, nothing like the ones I worked on every day. Those cars weren’t machines. They were… something else. Something alive.

Something I wasn’t supposed to touch.

“Background noise, my ass,” Old Man Reyes muttered from behind me. I could hear the scrape of his chair against concrete, the slow drag of his boots as he stood. “You’ve been staring at that Santiago boy like he’s gonna jump out the screen and ask you to marry him.”

I huffed a quiet laugh, ducking my head further under the hood of the car I was working on.

“If he does,” I said, adjusting the wrench, “I’m saying yes.”

He snorted. “Figures.

The engine in front of me coughed—low, uneven, wrong. Not loud. Not obvious. But wrong.

I stilled, head tilting slightly as I listened. There it was. That tiny hitch. That almost-missed stutter buried under the hum.

My fingers tightened around the wrench. “Yeah,” I murmured, more to the engine than anyone else. “I hear it too.”

The car was a newer model—sleek, expensive, the kind of vehicle that didn’t belong in a place like this. It had been dropped off that morning by someone who didn’t bother staying. Just keys, a quick complaint, and gone.

I leaned in closer, ignoring the faint hum of the TV behind me where a car sped past the Monaco barrier in a perfect curve.

“Alright,” I whispered, brushing my fingers lightly along the edge of the engine. “Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

The metal was warm under my touch. Alive. Always alive.

I adjusted my position, one knee hitting the concrete as I reached deeper into the engine bay. My world narrowed down to sound, vibration, instinct.

Not sight.

Never just sight.

I closed my eyes and listened. There. A fraction too slow on ignition. A delay so slight most people wouldn’t even notice.

But I did.

I always did.

Behind me, the garage door creaked open. I barely registered it. Customers came and went. Most of them didn’t even look at me long enough to remember my face.

Good.

That’s how I liked it.

“Took you long enough to get to that one,” said the voice wasn’t familiar. Low. Calm. Observing.

I didn’t turn.

A quiet, satisfied smile tugged at my lips as I turned the wrench and heard the click. “There you go,” I murmured. “Stop fighting me.”

“You figured that out without diagnostics?”

I froze.

Slowly, I pulled my hand back from the engine and straightened.

Then I turned.

The man stood just inside the garage, dressed too clean for a place like this. Mid-thirties, maybe. Crisp button-down, sleeves rolled just enough to suggest he wasn’t afraid of getting his hands dirty—but not enough to prove it.

“Something like that,” I said, wiping my hands on a rag. “You the owner?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he stepped closer to the car, glancing under the hood like he actually knew what he was looking at.

“Fuel timing imbalance,” he said after a second. “Subtle. Most mechanics would’ve missed it.”

I crossed my arms, leaning against the side of the worktable. “Good thing I’m not most mechanics.”

The corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile. “Clearly.”

Behind me, the TV volume spiked as a commentator’s voice cut through the garage.

“And that’s Santiago taking the lead again—flawless execution—”

The man’s gaze flickered briefly toward the screen. Then back to me. “You watch racing,” he said.

Not a question.

“Sometimes,” I replied.

Another lie.

His eyes narrowed slightly, like he caught it—but didn’t push.

Instead, he nodded toward the engine. “How long did that take you?”

I shrugged. “Twelve seconds,” I said flatly.

Silence. Then—

“I thought so,” he said, still watching me with his observing eyes.

Something in my chest tightened. I pushed off the table, suddenly restless.

“If your car’s the one I’m working on, it’s done,” I said. “You can test it if you want.”

“You’ve been working here long?” he asked instead.

“Long enough.”

“Where’d you train?”

“I didn’t.”

“What’s your name?”

There it was. The question I always avoided.

I hesitated just for a second. “Tasha.”

“Tasha,” he repeated, like he was committing it to memory. “Last name?”

I grabbed another rag, turning away from him. “I don’t use it.”

Old Man Reyes cleared his throat loudly from the corner. “She’s the best mechanic in this town,” he grumbled. “Whether she wants to admit it or not.”

“I can see that,” he said quietly.

The garage felt smaller all of a sudden. Too small and I didn’t like it.

“Look,” I said, stepping back, “if you’re here for the car, take it. If not, I’ve got work to do.”

Another pause. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a card, and held it out to me. “Take it,” he said.

Something in his tone made me stop. I stepped forward slowly and took the card. I glanced down and read it.

Pablo Westmore

Vanguard International Academy.

Department of Mechanical Engineering & Performance Systems.

My stomach dropped. “You’re—”

“An engineer,” he finished. “Yes.”

I looked back up at him. My heart beating just a little too fast. “Why are you here?”

Pablo held my gaze. “Because I heard there was a girl in this town who could listen to an engine and tell you what it’s thinking.”

My grip tightened on the card.

“I’m not interested,” I said quickly. “Whatever this is—”

“It’s an opportunity.”

“I didn’t ask for one.”

“No,” he said. “But you deserve one anyway.”

Behind me, Old Man Reyes spoke again. “Kid.”

I closed my eyes briefly.

“Don’t,” I warned.

“You’re going.”

I turned to him. “No, I’m—”

“You’re going,” he repeated, firmer this time. “Or I’m dragging you there myself.”

“Reyes—”

“You think this place is all you get?” he snapped. “You think you were meant to spend your whole life fixing other people’s problems and pretending that’s enough?”

The words hit too close.

Too sharp.

“I’m fine here,” I said.

“You’re hiding here,” he said, looking straight into my eyes. “I know you deserve more than this old garage.”

Silence.

I hated when he did that. When he saw too much and when he said it out loud. I looked back down at the card in my hand.

Vanguard. Where Carlos Santiago is currently studying and training for Formula 1.

A place I’d only ever seen in articles.

“I don’t belong there,” I said quietly.

The engineer’s voice was steady when he answered. “Then prove them wrong.”

I swallowed hard. My heart pounding with fear and excitement. Or, something bigger than both.

“...What do I have to do?” I asked, voice trembling with so much emotion.

“Pack a bag,” Engineer Pablo said. “You’re flying to Monaco.”

The world tilted. “Monaco?”

I glanced back at the TV. At the blur of speed. At the name flashing across the bottom.

Santiago.

Then back at him. “When?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Tomorrow.”

Reyes let out a low chuckle behind me. “Told you,” he said. “Engines don’t lie.”

I looked down at my grease-stained hands that were already rough with years of working invisible at the garage.

“…Okay,” I said.

Reyes nudged my shoulder as he passed. “Go pack,” he said gruffly. “And don’t forget—you’re not just good, kid,” he smiled at me like a proud parent. “You’re better than all of them.”

Engineer Pablo Westmore nodded and held out his hand for a handshake. “Alright, welcome to Monaco, Tasha.”