They werenât looking for anything serious, only a sizzling one-night stand. But once ignited, their hearts didnât listen.
Sydney McKinnly needs a third world championship win to match his fatherâs record. But after a dreadful year in and out of the cockpit, the only way heâs keeping his driverâs seat is by agreeing to have his bloody biography written. It wasnât supposed to challenge his decision of not getting distracted by love this season. Harder said than done when the biographer is none other than his Rockies holiday fling.
Heather Everett-Fortier is a successful biographer, yet each new book brings her further away from her dream of writing romance novels. After a bad breakup, travelling the world with the St-Pierre Racing team provides Heather with unparalleled opportunities for gathering romance story-setting inspiration. But it also brings Heather closer to her one-night stand. As strangers, they werenât supposed to see each other again, let alone work together!
They werenât looking for anything serious, only a sizzling one-night stand. But once ignited, their hearts didnât listen.
Sydney McKinnly needs a third world championship win to match his fatherâs record. But after a dreadful year in and out of the cockpit, the only way heâs keeping his driverâs seat is by agreeing to have his bloody biography written. It wasnât supposed to challenge his decision of not getting distracted by love this season. Harder said than done when the biographer is none other than his Rockies holiday fling.
Heather Everett-Fortier is a successful biographer, yet each new book brings her further away from her dream of writing romance novels. After a bad breakup, travelling the world with the St-Pierre Racing team provides Heather with unparalleled opportunities for gathering romance story-setting inspiration. But it also brings Heather closer to her one-night stand. As strangers, they werenât supposed to see each other again, let alone work together!
CANADIAN ROCKY MOUNTAINS, ALBERTA, CANADA
AS I EXIT THE AIRPORT, THE CRISP AIR FROM LAST NIGHTâS snowfall hits me like a tyre barrier at full force. The snow covered mountains in the distance are my first glimpse of the Canadian Rockies. It would look magical to someone elseâromantic even. I used to think so⊠but now, I like the peaceful isolation my destination provides.
Away from everything.
The media circus. The memories. The lies. Her.
I head towards the line of waiting cars, wheeling my luggage behind me. None of the chauffeursâ signs have the alias I asked my agent to book my hotel room under.
I want to lie low for a while.
Forget this nightmare of a season.
I breathe in the cold air as I wait, taking deep breaths. For the first time in a long while, the nerves and the stress from my day job ease a wee bit.
Ross was right. This is the finest place to escape. Good old Canada, eh?
I smile, picturing my best mate, though I can never pull off the Canadian race car driverâs accent. My Scottish always shines through, despite the hours spent with Fairbrass Racingâs PR to make me sound more posh.
Iâll forever be a lad from Loch Guirmean, a loch with a blue so deep it looked almost purple in the sunlight. I just have two driver championships and a Formula World driverâs salary now.
Well, once the divorce settlement had gone through, I had a wee bit less money. She might have trodden all over my heart, but Andrea will never take another quid from me.
Even after everything, I have enough to stay here.
Across the pond, deep in the Canadian Rocky Moun tains, instead of the Italian Dolomites, where I would have gone with the team to trainâmy old team.
I suck in a breath.
How could I forget?
Adjusting my beanie, I glance at the line of taxis. No one has recognized me yet. I need to be somewhere the media wonât find me. Where they wonât write another article about my love life being in shambles or speculate whether itâs the end of my career.
Peace and quietâtwo things I long for.
Last year was a shite show of a season; I ken I wasnât performing my best. The team analysed itâŠand the fans saw it. But more embarrassingly, they fathomed the reason for it, too.
My entire Series One season was destroyed by love.
Scuderia Mariella had paid me a significant amount to ensure I contributed points towards the Constructorsâ Championship. Yet, I hadnâtâŠ
I shake my head.
This year will be different.
This season, Iâd go after my third championship.
This time, I would win.
I wonât crash into the barrier while getting distracted by images I dinna want to imagine. Of Andrea and the cricket player doing the dirty on the newly renovated kitchen island, and all the other places in our Tuscan villa.
All my energy will now go into driving, not divorce papers.
Weâve signed those.
Andrea is out of my life for good.
This year, the Sydney McKinnly that the fans knew and loved will be back.
The crunch of snow and ice fills my ears. A black car pulls up to the left in front of the airport between taxi cabs. Itâs sleek; the contours glimmer in the sunlight.
My type of motor.
The chauffeur comes out and looks at me. âMr Dougal McCallum?â
âAye, thatâs me.â Or who Iâm going to be for the next ten days.
Stepping forward, I admire the carâs details. My agent, Oliver, chose well.
âSorry Iâm late. Roads are icier than expected,â he says, opening the back passenger door.
âThatâs all right, mate.â
âIs that all your luggage?â he asks, looking at my shiny grey sponsored suitcase.
âAye.â As a Series One driver, I travel light.
âOkay.â He picks it up and goes to the boot.
The hired car might not be in Scuderia Mariella red or in St-Pierre Racing crimson, but I dinna care. For this trip, I want to stay anonymous. A fancy black motor would do that.
I slide into the backseat.
Iâm accustomed to driving or having Enrico, my old personal trainer, drive me to circuits or the factory. It feels strange to have someone else drive. The tall pine trees, covered in snow, rush by the window. The crunch of ice gets louder as we approach a curve in the road.
Iâm itching to be in the driverâs seat, but I doubt the chauffeur will allow me to take the wheel. Even if I am a two-time Formula World champion. This chauffeur doesnât know that. And telling him will go against my plans of staying anonymous.
The driver was talking about ice hockey. I could hear RossÊŒ voice in my head correcting me. Itâs not ice hockey; itâs just plain hockey.
I try to make small talk, but Iâve always preferred foot ball, which Ross calls soccer.
Thank goodness Andrea shagged a cricket player instead of a footballer. I wouldnât be able to think about the sport without the unwanted visuals otherwise. And Ross and I had got in the habit of watching games (on replay) during non-race weekends this past year.
âCome on, DesprĂ©s!â the chauffeur mutters under his breath as we listen to the ice hockey match on the radio.
Broadcaster: âAnd the goalie blocks the puck. The Vancouver defenceman lands right on his wallet⊠And Liam DesprĂ©s gets the puck, picks up speed, circles around the back of the net⊠He scores with one minute left in the period! Making it two-nothing for Calgary!â
âHell yes!â The chauffeur taps his steering wheel, then looks in the rearview mirror. âOh, sorry!â He turns down the volume a tad while the commentators are analysing the play. âFirst time visiting the Rockies?â
âAye.â
âNice. Youâll love it! Where are you from?â
How do I answer that? I want anonymity, but my Scottish accent gives it away. Even if it has softened by years of racing for English teams in the junior categories and in Series One. Before getting picked up by the Italian racing superforce⊠and dropped.
My heart pinches.
Itâs okay.
My career is not over. Ross, Oliver, and Da made sure of that. My new teamâs HQ is in Canada, but the factory is in the UK.
I have a drive.
Iâm okay.
Why is this a harder question to answer than the hundreds I get on race weekends?
My thoughts focus on the scenery outside. I finally settle for⊠âOriginally from Scotland, but I live in London.â
Having spent a lot of time in London over the years, I ken enough street names and tube stations to answer some thing in a pinch. And itâs more plausible than saying Monaco. That just gives it away. How many Scots live in Monaco? Not many.
âOh! Thatâs near Toronto,â the chauffeur says, nodding. âIâve been there for my cousinâs wedding. Nice.â
Toronto?
What does Toronto have to do with bloody London? Itâs not even in the same country! I quickly go over any conversation Iâve had with Ross over the years. He might have mentioned something when I was driving for Fairbrass Racing.
âEngland,â I correct.
âOh, that London.â He glances at me in the rearview mirror. âNever been there.â
âItâs like Toronto, but bigger.â
I hope that was right. London appeared quite huge when navigating the tube, and Iâd never travelled to Toronto for a proper visit. Iâve only ever been to MontrĂ©al for the Grand Prix and to Rossâ tiny hometown near a loch.
Ross had insisted on driving there. That isnât an experi ence I want to go through again soon. It was one thing getting driven around by a chauffeur, quite another when it was another professional race car driver. My heart had pounded as if Iâd run a marathon uphill while on a roller coaster. Not bloody pleasant.
âWhat brings you here?â the chauffeur asks.
âHolidays.â
He nods. âNowhere better.â
We pull up to the hotel nestled in the mountains. He gets out of the car, opens the boot, and takes out my carry on suitcase. The lights from the building glint on the surface like liquid mercury.
The chauffeur hands me the luggage. âEnjoy your vacation.â
âThanks, mate.â
I check into the hotel under my alias: Dougal McCallum. Using Granâs maiden name is always a risk. But even when Iâm staying under the radar, I want to realise when someone is speaking to me. Daft, I ken that.
The receptionist doesnât bat an eye. âHereâs your key. Have a nice stay.â
With the beard I grew in December, no one knows who I am. I hope it stays that way. âThanks, lass.â
As I wait for the lift, I review the lobby. The hotel is surprisingly quiet for ski season. Not many guests around. But it is more remote than the bigger ski resorts. I had told Oliver to book somewhere no one would know me. Some where private. And if ever the staff do find out who I am, theyâd respect my privacy. After looking at other locations, Ross recommended this placeâhe and Catriona loved honeymooning here years ago. So Oliver booked it.
This is a bonnie place.
And better yet, itâs private.
The lift pings and the doors open.
Main Lobby.
After a moment, the doors close.
The lift doesnât move.
I spot my reflection in the fitted mirrors lined with mahogany trim. I look like I havenât slept properly in weeks. No, make that months. My red hair is sticking out at odd angles from under my beanie. The beard makes me look like a different person. As far away from my photos in sports magazines.
The lift still hasnât moved. Why isnât it bloody moving?
Jet lag and the gruelling season are catching up with me if I donât remember how to operate a lift.
I glance at my key.
Ninety-five.
My racing car number.
I smile and take it as a sign that things will go well in my future.
Itâs always been my dream since I was a bairn to have three championship wins like Da. Seeing my number, I ken next season wonât be a repeat of the last.
I push the button for the ninth floor, then enter my suite. The room has wood cabin details but with all the luxurious amenities I have grown accustomed to in my field of work.
Aye, this will do nicely.
***
TO FIGHT OFF THE JET LAG AND STRETCH MY LEGS AFTER THE long flight, I head to the gym. It has everything I need. A few people are on stationary bikes. Elliptical and treadmill machines line the windows. The views of the forest and mountains are stunning.
I pull up a photo of Enricoâs handwritten scribbles illustrating a workout on my phone. Then I put the earphones in and hit play. It might not be the roar of a Series One car engine, but the musicâs tempo gives me a similar rush.
I go through my warm-up routine, then head to the treadmill.
My old personal trainer at Mariella had always created a plan for my physical health while I was on holidays and during the off-season. So itâll be easy to follow one of my old f itness routines here. Even if Enrico is in the Italian Dolomites with my best mate, Shawn Marquis, and my replacement, Kaleb Thetford.
I canât blame the Scuderia for switching drivers. We are in this sport to win. If someone doesnât perform, it isnât a surprise to not see them with a drive the following season. Having mentored a few of the younger drivers when they were still in the junior categories, I ken Kaleb is a skilful driver. Heâll be someone to watch on track.
Am I annoyed that he is in my race car this year? Aye!
But I can beat him.
St-Pierre cars were fast last seasonâthis year wonât be any different.
With renewed motivation, I increase my speed.
I havenât met my new teamâs personal trainer in person yet. Adam sounded like a decent bloke when we spoke on the phone. Iâll see the Canadian when I get back to Europe and officially meet all the team at the factory for my first day of work.
I run to the familiar songs.
Sweat trickles down my face.
I want to make sure I keep my fitness level up; driving aerodynamic motors at fast speeds requires work.
The music on my playlist changes from cool-down lap songs to my ringtone. I decrease the speed on the treadmill, then glance at my phone.
Rossâ name on the screen.
Iâm forty-five minutes into my run. Not bad.
Letting my mobile ring, I stop the machine and head to a secluded area of the gym, grabbing a towel on the way and passing it over my brow.
When Iâm out of earshot, I swipe the screen to answer.
âFinally, Syd! Did you make it?â Rossâ voice fills my ears.
âAye, Iâm here.â
âGood! Just checking in on you. Not too much turbu lence, I hope? Didnât get too carried away with the provided drinks on board?â
My good mood at hearing my mateâs voice fades.
âI dinna need nannying on holiday, Ross,â I say. ââWe saw each other at Christmas. Are you calling me as my best mate or as my team principal?â
âYou are my star driver and cousin-in-law. Triple pres sure from the wife, fam, and team ownerâŠâ He sighs. âMaking sure our assets are behaving themselves.â
ââSo as a team principal.ââ I frown. âI ainât Jasper.â
âI know that. Enjoy yourself, but not too much. We have lots of meetings for the upcoming season. I need you to be one hundred per cent focused this year.â
âThatâs always the goal: win a championship.â
âGood. Donât make me regret putting your name forward to St-Pierre Racing.â
âYou wonât.â
âOh, another thing⊠Oliver is going to call. Youâre to meet another candidate for the biography. Sounds promising.â
Ugh, I am in no mood for another one of those blasted meetings.
âThey canât all be bad, right?â Ross chuckles.
âIf it wasnât in the bloody contract, we wouldnât be looking for one.â
âThat bloody contract is the reason you have a seat next year.â
âAyeâŠâ I wipe my face with the towel again.
âGood chat. Have fun on your vacation.â Loudly, he adds, âSend Cat lots of pictures!â
Bloody hell! I pull the phone away from my ear. âShe asked you to say that?â
âPromised to bake me some of her famous sticky toffee pudding,â he admits sheepishly.
My cousinâs voice cuts in. âDonât forget the photos. And Ross dinna touch the batter! Itâs not baked yet!â
âYou dinna need to call me if you want to talk to each other. You bloody live together!â
âSorry, Syd! We justââ
âIâll see you at the factory.â I hang up on my way back through the gym to the lift.
Their marital bliss makes me want to boak.
Despite the motive for the call, I canât stay mad at my familyâs meddling for long.
From the nearest window, I see a glimpse of mountains. I take a few steps. The unfamiliar peaks stare back at me. They are braw, but they arenât the ones that I would have seen this year if last season hadnât...
I bunch the towel in my hand.
The first week back in the paddock will be strange. I had mostly been happy at Mariella. Rushing off to training camp with Enrico has been part of my winter routine for so long; I had to stop myself from asking him questions during my workout.
The few people here would think I was raving mad, talking to myself.
Shawn had invited me to spend the winter break with him, Alessandra, and the bairns. As nice as spending time in the Marquis household is, I need this time away from every thing. Itâs not like I hadnât been home for Christmasâwell, not home exactly. The place I had called home for the last two years went to her in the settlement.
I had visited my parents in Perthshire over Christmas, enjoying a tasty home-cooked meal with a glass of Scotch whisky.
Mam had insisted.
Your first Christmas alone. You must spend it at Loch Guirmean!
My parents didnât understand being childhood sweet hearts. I didnât have the heart to tell Mam and Da that my wedding vows hadnât meant a thing to Andrea. I hadnât made her see reasonâŠ
Iâm not a quitter, but then she told me it had been going on for months and wasnât a one-time thing.
A one-night shag after getting plastered with drinks at a pub when I was away on a different continent for workâI could have understood. I would have eventually got over it by proving to her I was the better shag while I was home.
But months? Naw!
I push the lift button with more force than necessary.
Anne Nikolaikenâs The Unwritten Rule kicks off the Racing Line Series and immediately throws readers right into a mix of fate, fast cars, and complicated feelings. Sydney McKinnly, a once-star race car driver trying to save his career, and Heather Everett-Fortier, a biographer whoâs still searching for her own happy ending, meet unexpectedly during a holiday. Their attraction is almost instantaneous, and things heat up quickly. However, once their vacation is done, they part ways, leaving each of them unable to stop thinking about the other. When Sydneyâs PR team decides his reputation needs fixing up with a biography, fate steps in and brings them back togetherâthis time for an entire racing seasonâand neither expects the other to become such a personal distraction. Sydneyâs fighting for redemption behind the wheel, and Heatherâs determined to keep things professional, but it quickly gets hard to separate work from something that feels a whole lot like love.
What I loved most was how real these characters felt, especially as they tried (and failed) to keep things just about work. I was quickly pulled into their playful back-and-forth banter, which sizzles with undeniable chemistry, making not only their romance tick but their everyday scenes engaging as well. I loved the balance between the thrill of Sydneyâs worldâmotorsport weekends, the noise of the grid, the heat of competitionâand quiet, relatable moments, like Heather winding down after a tough day by simply going for a run or debating hotel coffee. Nikolaiken doesnât bog the story down with racing jargon, and when technical terms come up, thereâs enough context and a handy glossary to ease non-fans through. Secondary characters like Ross, Stephanie, and Brian add to the world without taking the spotlightâeach has their own quirks and history, fleshing out the environment and giving readers more to root for.
Iâd recommend this to anyone looking for a fun, steamy romance with a twist of sports drama. Itâs perfect for readers who enjoy dual-point-of-view stories, slow-burn chemistry, and characters facing significant life changes. Thereâs heart, humor, and a connection that everyone can root for, which made me want to spend more time with the Racing Line crew. If youâre after a romance that balances professional ambition with genuine emotion, this one fits the bill.