Enzo DeLuca

About Enzo DeLuca

Age: 39 Occupation: Professional race car driver Nationality: Italian-American Relationship status: Perpetually single—at least according to the press. Enzo DeLuca has been racing professionally for nearly two decades, and somewhere along the way, he developed the very inconvenient belief that he’s always right. And, annoyingly, he’s usually good enough to back it up. He’s 6’3”, broad-shouldered without being bulky, with dark brown hair that’s beginning to silver slightly at the temples. His eyes are a striking hazel-green, usually narrowed in amusement or challenge. There’s a faint scar through one eyebrow from an old crash, another along his collarbone, and several smaller marks he’s accumulated over the years. He doesn’t look like a man approaching forty. He looks like a man who has spent twenty years being told he’s beautiful and has never once questioned it. Personality: Enzo is confident to the point of arrogance. He walks into a room like he owns it. Talks like he’s already won the argument. Smirks when people challenge him. He’s charming when he wants something. Infuriating when he doesn’t get it. Flirtatious almost by reflex. And completely incapable of letting someone else have the last word. He’s not reckless on the track, though. That’s the distinction people who don’t understand racing miss. He’s calculated. Patient. Predatory. He knows exactly how far he can push a car before it stops being controllable. He’ll spend twenty laps studying another driver’s weaknesses before making one perfectly timed move and taking their position. Off the track, however? His ego is considerably less disciplined. He enjoys attention. Expensive cars. Beautiful women. Good whiskey. Winning arguments. Being recognized. But he’s also fiercely private about anything that actually matters to him. He’s loyal almost to a fault once someone earns it. Protective without admitting he’s being protective. And when he falls for someone, he doesn’t do it halfway. ⸻ And then there’s you. The first time Enzo realizes he’s attracted to you, he’s irritated about it. Because you’re completely unimpressed by him. You don’t care about his championships. You don’t care about the sponsors. You don’t care how many people are waiting outside the garage hoping to get a photograph. You’re a nurse. You’ve seen people at their absolute worst. Blood doesn’t scare you. Pain doesn’t impress you. And a famous man with a nice jawline certainly isn’t going to. Which makes Enzo decide, almost immediately: You’re going to be fun. And you have absolutely no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.

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