One day, she would be a billionaire herself.

  So she needed to know about racing, and somehow, she’d ended up in the passenger seat of his car, revealing her vulnerabilities far too readily.

  Didn’t a girl like her have handlers? Why didn’t she have an assistant whose sole job it was to feed her whatever information she needed whenever she needed it?

  Confused heat crawled up the back of his neck. “We’re going to the Irwindale Speedway,” he said. Giving a little, since they were almost there now. The yeasty beer smell from the Molson brewery was the familiar welcome. “Classic car drag race night.”

  Even out of the corner of his eye, he could see her surprised reaction. She rubbed the bench seat between them again. “Like this car?”

  He grinned. “Yeah, like this car.”

  “Oh.” It was the single most pleased syllable he’d ever heard. “I guess that explains the fancy seatbelts.”

  He swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

  The parking lot already seemed full, to Monica’s eyes. Gleaming cars in all directions. Josh drove slowly but confidently to the midst of it, pointing out cars as he rolled down an aisle. “That’s a ’67 Cuda. That’s a nice Chevelle. Ooh, hello beauty.”

  There were hot rods, muscle cars, compact sports cars, and some weird custom racers, like a cab-over-engine truck that made Josh whistle. And mixed in among them were a lot of ordinary looking vehicles, too.

  “Spectators or sleepers?” she asked.

  Josh shot her an impressed look, then grinned. “So you know more than you let on.”

  She shrugged.

  He eased his car into a parking spot, then turned off the engine. “So, not all the cars here tonight—even the muscle cars—are here to race. Some are here just to be seen. Come on, I’ll show you around a bit before I register with the Race Marshall.”

  “You don’t have to get ready for the race…or…”

  “It’s not like what you know. It’s fifteen seconds of joy. And we’ve got all night before I need to do that. Lots of time for a few racing lessons.”

  Right. Her reason for getting in his car. The favour he was doing for her. “If you race cars,” she asked as she pushed open the heavy passenger door. “Then why are you working as a mechanic?”

  Any credibility she’d gained by knowing what a sleeper car was evaporated in the second her question landed.

  He frowned. “I’m going to pay money to race tonight. This is a hobby.”

  “But people do…” She frowned, too. “Isn’t it a profession?”

  “Yeah, princess. It is. For some. On some circuits. Not in the spaces I want to play in. And I like my job. I like my health insurance, my 401k, and the nest egg I’m saving towards for when I go my own way. It’s what us ordinary people do.”

  “I know that.” She didn’t like the look on his face. “I’m sorry.”

  He waved her off. “It’s fine. Count it as another lesson. And you can buy me dinner when we leave here.”

  That made her brighten right up. “It’s a deal.”

  Resolved to not put her foot in her mouth again, Monica scrambled out of the car and carefully closed the door behind her. When she met Josh at the trunk, though, he immediately tested her ability to listen politely and learn.

  “This is the heart of racing.” He gestured at the sea of hot rods behind him. “Cars.”

  Her mouth dropped open. Then snapped shut. She frowned.

  He looked amused. “You don’t look impressed.”

  “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  He leaned his hip against his car and crossed his arms. “Do you think I think that?”

  Her frown deepened. No.

  “Miss Fischer—”

  “Monica.”

  “Miss Fischer,” he repeated, seemingly unperturbed that she didn’t like the way he said it. It should be infantilizing. It was…not. It was engaging. Arousing. Distracting. “Is it possible that part of your problem is a rush to get to the finish line, in every sense of the word? You want me to deliver racing to you in a neatly tied up package, but it’s not neat. It’s long days and long nights of nothing but the love of grease and exhaust and growling engines. Of tires and repairs and the very specific kind of envy that sparks deep in your gut when you realize that someone else had a better idea than you.”

  She blinked, and maybe her frown softened. She wasn’t sure, because he was closer to her now. He’d stopped leaning on his car and prowled towards her as he talked, and now he set his hands on her shoulders and turned her around.

  “See that green car over there?” He pointed past her with one arm outstretched.

  She nodded, ignoring the wild heat that blazed across her chest as his other hand—still on her shoulder—squeezed a little.

  “That’s a vintage Mustang. I used to own one of them. Sold it so I could buy this car. I’d like to own another some day. That car makes me curious, and curiosity is at the core of racing.”

  She glanced at his black Gran Torino. “Do you wish you’d painted your car to look like the inside of a children’s arcade?”

  He laughed, then gently pressed his fingertips to the small of her back, pushing her forward. “What I envy is not on the outside. Let’s take a look at the engine. See if I might beat him in a race.”

  Next to the Mustang was a little hatchback, a Gremlin, and Josh pored over both engines. He sweet-talked their drivers in the same confident way he’d coached the pit crew earlier—the same way he was managing her demands to learn more about racing.

  When a car backfired nearby, and she jumped, he caught her hand and pulled her close.

  The early quivers of a crush were forming like the smooth, inevitable cresting of a wave. It swelled inside her. Dangerous, yes. Her father wouldn’t approve. An understatement. Her father would be livid if he found out she was messing with one of his mechanics.

  But her father wasn’t here tonight, and this was fun.

  “I’ll catch you in the pit lines,” Josh said, having firmed up a race buddy. Then he caught her hand again and gave her his full attention. “Come on. It’s time to get our tickets.”

  He was only holding her hand to tug her along, to keep her safe around souped-up cars rocking on their modified suspension and boisterous fans.

  For a girl who had grown up around racing, this was nothing like anything she’d ever experienced.

  And it apparently showed on her face.

  Josh laughed at her as they stood in line to get wristbands. “You’ve never been to a drag race track?”

  She shook her head. “Only…”

  He nodded. Only the fancy racing circuits, with celebrities in the paddock.

  “I think my father must have done racing like this when he was younger?” She shrugged. “A long time before I was born.”

  Her mother was his third wife, and the first one who had convinced him to have a child. His final wife, he said, although he was only in his sixties and he didn’t like to be single, so Monica was braced for him to announce he’d decided to re-marry.

  Maybe if he had another kid, the pressure to be good enough to be his heir apparent wouldn’t be as intense. He could project that onto some unsuspecting infant for a change.

  Ugh, that was not good. She shouldn’t wish for a sibling just to foist her burden on their tiny shoulders.

  “Monica…”

  She blinked at Josh.

  “Your wrist?”

  She presented her hand to the ticket seller. “Sorry. There’s just so much to take in.”

  “It’s her first time,” Josh said conspiratorially.

  “And I’m very excited,” she added, not wanting to be left out of the fun.

  Once they got through the gates, he steered her to the race officials’ tent, where he registered. They knew him, which made the process go faster, apparently. She caught snippets of their conversation, about his safety still being valid, no modifications since his last race, and why they never see him on Wednesday nights.

  “That’s the cheaper night to race,” he murmured to her as they headed into the stands. Below them, an aggressive-looking Charger was doing tire burnouts just before the start line.

  “Why don’t you race on Wednesdays?”

  “Because it takes an hour to get here after work, so I’m always at the end of the race list, and then it’s an hour to get home. And then I have to wake up for work the next day. Tomorrow, I can sleep in. I’m not a morning person at the best of times, but after a late night?”

  She was deeply amused. “So far, you’ve been nothing but charming. I find this hard to believe.”

  “Oh, I have a cross side, Miss Fischer.”

  She didn’t believe it for a second. She twisted away from the track so she was looking at him full on. “What do I have to do to get you to call me Monica?”

  “Not be the boss’s daughter.”

  She snapped her fingers. “Then for tonight, I am not.”

  He caught her hand and used it to spin her around, pointing her to an empty row at the back of the stands. “That’s not how life works,” he murmured in her ear. “Now let’s sit down and learn more about racing.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “You’re bossy,” Monica said under her breath as they climbed the bleachers.

  “You literally asked me to teach you things.” He paused a beat as they took their seats. “Have you always had simpering tutors?”

  She cocked her head to the side. “Not when I was in boarding school in Switzerland, but at college…yes?”

  “Did your father put his name on a building, maybe?”

  She winced. “Yeah.”

  “Mmm. Well, your father’s never going to know that I’m doing this, and if he did, he wouldn’t like it, so don’t expect me to treat you the same way the Dean of Princess Studies at Yale—”

  “Business at NYU—”

  “Honestly sounds the same to me.” Then he grinned.

  And she had to admit, it sounded the same to her, too. She changed the subject back to the topic at hand. “I know what a burnout is. Warming up the tires.”

  He nodded. “And how do they do that?”

  “No clue.”

  He told her about line locks and the different tire types as they waited for the next two cars to crawl out of the pits. When it got loud, he leaned in.

  “All right. Here we go. Now this is where we start to train our gut call instincts.” Josh’s hand brushed up her spine lightly as he shifted, sitting up straighter. “Is that little shitbox going to take the GTR?”

  She twisted her head to the side. “Is it?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  She licked her lips. “It looks light. Does that make it fast?”

  “You’re moving less mass. Think of how fast motorcycles can go. So it could be faster, yeah.”

  But the machine wasn’t a bigger factor than the driver, or the care that the driver put into the vehicle. As the track lights beeped, flashing down to green, she burst out, “I pick the GTR.”

  It was a lucky guess.

  But Josh was pleased, and that made her happy. She’d guessed correctly, and that was worth something. They spent the next hour watching race after race. Sometimes she guessed correctly, sometimes not, and when she was wrong, Josh asked her to guess what she thought the issue was. Sometimes it was a slow start off the line, sometimes it was pulling up too soon. Almost always, her guess was some form of driver error.

  Which Josh picked up on. “Some things are driver error, sure, but other times, the driver is making the right call to protect the car. That’s not a mistake.”

  “The most toxic Fischer trait of all is assuming that anything less than a win is some kind of catastrophic misjudgement,” she said, maybe a little too sharply.

  He nodded. “I am familiar with that energy, yes.”

  “Do you like working for my father?” She regretted asking it as soon as the words were out of her mouth. “Never mind. Don’t answer that.”

  He didn’t. He spread his legs a little wider and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. Hunkering down as if to get closer to the track. And for the next three races, he didn’t quiz her on what she thought. He just got lost in what was clearly pure enjoyment.

  “Hooked up and gone. Take that. What a beauty.”

  “Fuck yeah. Nice.”

  “Come on. You can do it… Yeah, baby! Go, go, go!”

  “No way you’re gonna catch him, bud.”

  “Awww, shit. That’s a tough start. Can she haul ass and get there? Can she? Yesss she can. Whew!”

  And she learned a little something from each of those races. From his reaction, from the tension in his body, then the thrilling release. Maybe not the lessons he meant to give her tonight, but ones she found wildly helpful, anyway.

  She’d tapped out a few of the things he said, for example, for Instagram quotes next week. She probably couldn’t say haul ass and get there, but maybe she could substitute dollar signs for the letter s.

  From a business perspective, understanding fan engagement was just as important as understanding the technical chances of a win on the track. And that was where she had a chance in hell of impressing her father—by demonstratively improving their social media numbers.

  If she did that, she might earn a seat at the table for things like advertising discussions and brand design.

  “What are you working on?” Josh glanced at her phone long enough to demonstrate curiosity, his favourite thing, but not long enough to be nosy.

  “Making some notes for the social media team. Things heard at the track. This is probably universal, right?” She showed him the lines she’d copied down from him.

  He laughed so hard his whole body shook. “Yeah, those are pretty standard for any race fan.”

  “Good.” She beamed. “Thank you.”

  His phone went off, an alarm, and he glanced at the time. “That’s my cue. I gotta go get in line. You gonna be okay here by yourself?”

  He’d explained they weren’t allowed passengers on the track. She nodded. “I’ll continue my market research until I see your car.”

  He smiled, amused. “Or you could just enjoy a few races, you know.”

  “That, too.”

  “I’ll try to race twice. When I’m finished, do you want me to come find you here, or do you want to come to the parking lot?”

  “I’ll come find you. I owe you that dinner.”

  After he left, she got up and wandered down to the railing, where she could better see into the pit lanes, where cars lined up two-by-two to enter the burnout boxes. She smiled to herself, pleased that she’d picked up that much specificity. Maybe she could convince Josh to come back on Wednesday. Or maybe he knew about other races she might find interesting.

  Spending more time with Hot Mechanic would definitely be educational.

  By the time she caught sight of his car, she was nervous. She didn’t know why. It was a recreational race. Nothing was really at stake here. But she’d seen how involved he’d gotten just watching other people.

  Something told her he didn’t need external stakes. Simply showing up and doing the thing, entertaining everyone and driving his car well, was what really mattered to him.

  She was torn between wanting to record him, and wanting to watch. She settled for filming him on her phone, but not watching the screen. He might want to watch it afterwards, if it went well.

  As he drove into the burnout area, she held her breath. He rolled forward, stopped, then his whole car rocked as the back tires started to spin—and the front tires did nothing. Smoke and steam swirled around the back end, then engulfed his car for a few seconds before he shot forward, emerging from the cloud like an avenging dark knight.

  She didn’t know the type of car he was racing. She couldn’t bet against him, though, even if the other car was good, so her only thought was Go Josh Go, haul ass, you beautiful man!

  The lights blinked, beep beep beep, and then it was green and he was gone, a rocket off the line. His whole car leapt forward like a panther on the chase, and she squealed and bounced and shouted things that probably made the video she was recording sound terrible, but she didn’t care.

  For ten glorious seconds, his roaring car was all she could see, until the track lights and maybe some tears in her eyes obscured the view of him fishtailing into the curve, and then he was gone.

  Josh got in line to race again. He didn’t see the Mustang he’d been eyeing up earlier, but his second race was a good head-to-head against a gorgeous Barracuda. The guy couldn’t beat him off the line, but it was still neck and neck all the way to the end of the track, just the way Josh liked it.

  By the time he made it back to the now slightly less full parking lot, Monica was there, waving him down.

  He pulled into a spot and parked.

  She did a double-take at his helmet and racing jacket when he stepped out.

  “Safety first,” he said after pulling the helmet off.

  “That was incredible,” she breathed. “Both races. Well done.”

  He grinned. “You liked that?”

  “So much.” She twirled in an excited circle. “And now I owe you dinner.”

  “You really don’t need to—”

  She caught his forearm, stopping him from waving her off. “I want to. I want to know everything about what got you into this.”

  He raised his brow. “Is that genuine curiosity I hear?”

  “You know it.”

  “All right.” He stalked to the back of his car and popped the trunk. He stashed his helmet and jacket, then peeled off his damp t-shirt. It was only after he pulled out a clean shirt from his duffle bag that he felt her gaze on his body.

  Slowly, he straightened up and tugged the new shirt over his head. Did he flex a little? Sure. He wanted her to enjoy the hard planes of his back and shoulders. He wanted to enjoy the fleeting attention of a woman who would otherwise never give him a second glance.