“This isn’t a joke. I’m serious.”

  “So am I.” I lean my arse against the table and once again mimic her posture. “What’s it going to take to prove to you I’m worthy of the ride?” My quirk of an eyebrow at the innuendo a mere habit. Possibly not.

  “Points. A podium. A win.”

  “All in that order? I mean, that’s a pretty fucking hard bargain you drive.”

  She shrugs. “It’s my job to make this place known again. Those three things will get it known.”

  “I’ll get it known.”

  Her smile is wide and borderline mocking. “I get you have to be confident to drive two hundred miles per hour—”

  “Two hundred thirty at times if we’re going to be accurate.” She hates the correction. Perfect. “And I can deliver on that.”

  She snorts. “That’s a pretty lofty goal for someone who’s never raced F1 before.”

  “Your dad has no qualms about my ability.”

  “Why are you here? Are you capable?”

  “What?” I ask as I move closer to her. Close enough to see the pulse fluttering in her throat and to hear her quick inhale. My eyes flicker down to her lips and her kiss I don’t want but still remember, and then back up to her eyes that are a little wide and startled. My voice is low and even when I speak. “I’m here because I’ve proven myself. Am I capable? You bet your arse, I am. Am I sorry for hurting your feelings earlier in the break room? Regretful for not telling you that you’re gorgeous with or without changing your style? Yes and yes. What else do you have for me, Moretti?”

  Our eyes hold as she opens her mouth and then shuts it—then steps back abruptly, a chuckle of disbelief falling from her lips.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask. “You were just thinking about kissing me again, weren’t you? Is it the ChapStick? It makes my lips super soft and kissable. I’d like to think it’s more my skill though—”

  “Oh my God. Will you stop it? Please?” She holds her hands up and is met with my grin.

  “Why? I was just about to tell you about the little hearts you’re going to draw all over your calendar.”

  Her neck startles like whiplash. “What?”

  “On the days you get to see me. You’ll be so excited that you’re going to color in little hearts on the day—fill the whole square full of them—to annotate it.”

  She shakes her head, clearly at a loss for how to handle me—which was exactly my goal. “This has been . . .”

  “Enlightening. Frustrating. Stimulating? Do you need a thesaurus?” I tease.

  “Argh!” she says, and I laugh as she moves toward the door. “I have to get back to work.”

  “I thought this was work.” I narrow my eyes and play dumb. “Is it not?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. I hope you have an excellent rest of your day.” I grin as she meets my eyes one last time. “Hey, Moretti?” She stops at the doorway but doesn’t turn around to face me. “I’ll get you to draw dreamy hearts on that calendar yet.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Riggs

  Power.

  It’s beneath me.

  Behind me.

  All fucking around me.

  The difference of three hundred eighty or so horsepower between my F2 car and the Moretti F1 car doesn’t sound like much, but it is. There’s a major difference between going two hundred miles per hour and going two hundred thirty.

  Plus everything about my new car is just . . . smooth. The suspension. The ride. The way it takes corners. The way it flies along the straights.

  And complex. The telemetry. The readouts. The amount of information my race engineer has on my car from a few laps around the track. The way he can use it to help me drive better.

  And things I need to make adjustments to. My molded seat. How I come in to box—because while the cars are similar, there’s still a difference in handling and a difference in personnel. The steering wheel and the car’s reactions to it.

  It all feels familiar but new at the same time. Exciting and intimidating. Overwhelming but right.

  “Good lap time, Riggs,” my race engineer, Hank, says as I veer toward pit row and the paddock. “I think once you get a better feel for the car, we’ll shave more time off.”

  “It felt good. Fast. Just need to feel this car more. Work on my spatial awareness. How quick it responds. What the different tires feel like.”

  “Hopefully we’ll get an array of weather so we can try the different variations and you can test with them.”

  “Fingers crossed.”

  “The team is working overtime on your seat. Should have it in the next two days,” he says, referring to the seat that is essentially molded to my body. It hugs where it needs to hug and props me up where I need to be propped up since we essentially lay down as we drive.

  That and the seat is removable so in case of an emergency and they need to remove a driver from the car without injuring them further, they can take the whole seat out with them.

  “Thanks. A lot of people are working hard to help make this happen. I appreciate it.”

  “Just doing our jobs.”

  “It’s still appreciated.”

  “We have all week reserved so we’ll get you familiar with everything. We’ll go over all the readouts in a bit, once the crew finishes up their tasks.”

  “Thanks, Hank.”

  I pull up to the pit marker and cut the engine. Crew members mill around the car, but I just sit a minute. I don’t unpin the steering wheel. I don’t undo my harness. Instead, I sit with my helmet on, my hands on the wheel, and the visor strip dark enough to hide my eyes as I close them and let this sink in.

  Every frustrating DNF. Every karting event where I fought my second-rate kart and the expectation and damnation that came with my last name and still crossed the line before everyone else. The wearing doubts. The endless dedication. The podium victories.

  I’m finally fucking here. Part of the ultimate dream.

  Don’t get used to it. Isn’t that what Ari reminded me? Isn’t that what I fucking know firsthand? To not get used to it because it’s harder when you know what it’s like and it’s yanked away than to imagine what it’s like but never get a taste of it.

  But it’s not going to get yanked.

  It’s not.

  This feels too good. Too right. And yes, I have nerves rattling through me and no doubt will puke before the first race, but I’m finally living the dream.

  Let Maxim get better. Fine. Great. Let him return to his seat here, to his place here, but only after everyone gets a chance to see what I can do.

  There are rumors that two drivers might retire at season’s end. I want one of those spots. I’m going to fight like hell to get it.

  Hands reach in to help unbuckle me. I hold on to my thoughts with a determination as fierce as the one that got me to this point and unfold myself from the car.

  Helmet and balaclava off and hand scrubbing through my hair, I wait for the team principal, Omar, to approach. “How’d it feel?”

  “Fast and loose and I say that in the best possible way.” I have a feeling I’m going to be getting this question nonstop until I hit some unspoken lap time that makes them all feel more secure in their decision to offer me the call-up. “It flies on the straights. I need to get used to the grab of the brakes. I was a little timid in the corners but that’s just because I want to get more confident in knowing where it is spatially before I cut closer to the wall.”

  “That’s good feedback. All normal for someone stepping into it.” He adjusts his hat on his head as we walk deeper into the garage.

  “Another few days and I’ll be good to go. You’ll see more time shaved off my lap times.”

  Omar nods and pats me on the back. “That’s what I like to hear. Now let’s get inside and look at the metrics. You’ll see the data will allow us to make the tiniest of adjustments that will make differences.”

  “I’m eager to learn more.”

  “You say that now. Just wait till you’re falling asleep and all the data keeps running through your head, keeping you up.”

  “I won’t complain,” I say as we cross the alleyway from the garage to the paddock. Normally this is where our logistics crew sets up our hospitality suites, but it’s not a race weekend so our whole building is no doubt being transported to the next race on the circuit.

  “They’ve let us set up an office back here,” Hank says as he pushes open a door where numerous computers sit on desks with headphones at each table. “Let’s start reviewing before Anya whisks you away.”

  “Anya?” There are so many people and names being thrown at me so fast my head is spinning with trying to keep everyone straight.

  “Your PR minder. You haven’t met her yet? She’ll be your right-hand. Recording all your interviews. Overseeing your schedule. Minding where you need to be.”

  So my new Fontina, but with a much bigger scope.

  “I glanced at your schedule. You’re quite the busy man. Physio after Anya. A team meeting to review boxing. Sim time to practice the next circuit. You up for it?”

  “Been waiting for this chance my whole life.”

  “Now go get that thing off,” he says, referring to my dark blue race suit from my old team. “We only like red around here.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Riggs

  “To our brother from another mother. To our friend. To the man who just got the ride of his life. We wanted to take this last opportunity to party with you before you have to be on the straight and narrow for the rest of the season,” Micah shouts from where he stands on one of my chairs to the crowd of people filling my flat.

  Some I know.

  Some I don’t know.

  Some are . . . who the fuck knows.

  “Straight and narrow? Me?” I snort although that’s exactly what I’ll fucking be.

  This is my last hurrah. One last kiss goodbye to partying and drinking for a while. Not like I do it much anyway but in certain instances, I’ll let myself cut loose.

  And then I’ll pay the price because cutting loose doesn’t mean I skip cardio and training the next day. It means I do it twice to punish myself for it.

  “Your straight and narrow will last three days tops,” Junior says.

  “Maybe five,” Micah chimes in, “but what you’ll lose in hangovers, you’ll gain in F1 perks.”

  The F1 perks: more horsepower, more money, rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous, learjets for travel, five-star hotels to stay in, and pussy galore. That was what we’d decided I was gaining with my step up earlier during our preparty party.

  “True, but don’t worry, we’ll drink for you in the meantime. We’ll party for you. We’ll fuck for you—”

  “Whoa! I can still fuck for myself, fuck you very much,” I shout out and get a roar of cheers from everyone in the room.

  “I volunteer as tribute,” a voice yells out toward the back of the room causing another round of laughter to sound off.

  “Promise us one thing,” Wills says as he empties a lager and sets his glass down.

  “I’m not promising you shit. The last time we did that I almost ended up with a tattoo of Tinkerbell on my arm,” I say. The damn dare cards.

  “But this . . . this is important.”

  “Lay it on me, mate,” I say.

  “Your first major success in F1 must be celebrated with us. Here. Another party like this. Right here.” The whole place erupts into cheers and hoots and hollers. “It’s paramount to celebrate the victories. Even little ones.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say. I’m not promising shit to him. Will I allow myself one night to cut loose? Probably. Many of the racers I’ve looked up to over the years have expressed how important it is to give yourself a release every now and again.

  That even elite athletes need a break occasionally.

  “In all seriousness,” Micah says, raising his shot glass again and changing the topic—which I more than welcome. “We can’t wait to watch you fucking kill it at the Spanish Grand Prix.” Wills lifts his shot and we all follow suit. “This is our send-off, be safe, win a race, we’re proud of you, party for you. Sláinte, mate.”

  “Sláinte” is called out by the thirty or so people filling my new flat. It’s going to be a fucking disaster in the morning, but hell if I don’t have the money now to hire someone to clean it up.

  The glass goes up. The burn goes down. And my head fucking dizzies as I make my way around the room, wanting to sit. Needing to sit. But getting pulled every which way by so many people.

  I’m slipped more numbers than I’ve ever been before. I’m asked for more favors to get people into races than possible. I lose count of the number of drinks I consume.

  It’s not many. I just don’t drink that much during the season so it hits me a lot harder.

  How in the hell am I going to get up in the morning for cardio? At eight a.m. no less?

  Fuck me.

  Should have thought of that beforehand, Riggs.

  I stumble and Micah’s laugh barrels through the room. “You look like hell.”

  “Thanks.” I give him the thumbs up. “Bedtime.”

  “But it’s only two thirty,” Junior says, slapping a hand against my back.

  “Exactly.” I take a sip of water in my hand. “You fuckers can keep going. I’ve got to sleep.” I wobble on my feet as the room does some weird Salvador Dali-like thing in my head. “Just make sure everyone’s out of here before you pass out.”

  “Ah, man. What’s the fun in that?” Micah slurs through his smile. “We’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks and . . .” I try to find my words but my head is so fucking fuzzy. “Thank you for this. It was pretty damn cool of you.” I fist-bump both of them and stumble into my room.

  Shut the door.

  Fall into bed.

  And then feel a warm and very naked woman slide up behind me.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  F1 perks, indeed.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Camilla

  “I haven’t been here long enough to begin Operation Glow-Up. Can you give me at least a few more weeks?” I beg Gia who has been all over me today with texts and calls.

  “You’re going to keep saying that. But I’m a tenacious bitch. I’m not going to let this go.” Her laugh is rich as it floats across the line.

  “I know that. Believe me I know that. But I’m in the middle of so much chaos. Let me get my bearings before you start changing me.”

  She sighs but I know she’s going to cave. “Fine. Whatever. But you know what would get me out of your hair?”

  “What?”

  “You do your own glow-up. Surprise us. Then we’d be so shocked we might forget about the setting you up part of our plan.”

  “So bribe you then.”

  “Whatever it takes. Or you can bribe me with one of your hot racers. I’ll gladly take one of them as a consolation prize.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “I know and I love it.”

  “Goodbye, Gia.”

  “Goodbye, love.”

  I hang up the phone with a smile on my lips. A smile that sticks with me until the afternoon hits and my constant yawns replace it.

  “Tired?”

  “Exhausted.” I look up to Elise as she moves into the conference room where I’ve set up camp for the time being. Her hands are filled with folders, her laptop, and what seems to be her always-present Starbucks. She has a pencil tucked behind her ear and the myriad of bangles on her wrists clink together with every movement.

  She’s stylish in the boho-chic way that I once attempted but never looked good in.

  “How’d the meeting go?” I ask.

  “Good. Great really. We’ll see what their proposal is when it comes across.”

  “Thanks for taking that for me.”

  “Not a problem.” She points to the various things laid out all around me. “Maybe you should call it a day. Get some sleep.”

  “Too much to do.” And there is. I can list ten things off the top of my head right now.

  “Considering you’re here before I arrive and still at your desk when I leave, I’m thinking maybe your exhaustion has to do with you working too hard.” She unceremoniously dumps her files on the table with a thud. “Give it a few more weeks and everyone is going to ignore your last name and know you’re here because of what you know and not because your dad’s sitting on the top floor.”

  “That’s the hope. Thanks. But today’s lethargy is more due to an obnoxious neighbor with no courtesy.”

  “Ugh. That sucks.” She plops down and takes a long sip of her cold brew. “My old flat was like that. Such a nightmare.”

  “I’m hoping this was a one-time thing.”

  She holds up her crossed fingers and smiles. “I have good news that might help. New shots of the drivers are in. The camera loves both of them so it’s going to make our jobs that much easier.”

  “That’s always a bonus.” I stifle another yawn and eye her coffee. I definitely need a caffeine hit myself.

  “It is. I already had the team create mock-ups with their photos. Kimberly is picking up the samples and should have them up here in the next thirty minutes. Once you decide and approve, I think we should get them pushed out as soon as possible.”

  “Agreed. We’ll prioritize that first. Then I want to go over a list of possible campaign ideas we can begin with little planning or involvement with outside forces so we can get some attention to this team. Some may work. Some may not. You know as well as I do that social media is a crapshoot in getting things to take root.”

  “A definite crapshoot.”

  We spend the next thirty minutes filling each other in on what we’ve accomplished. When Kimberly delivers the graphics, we switch gears and turn our focus on them. The pros and cons of new photos of the drivers. Andrew is a good-looking man—the classic looks of his Swedish heritage—with blond hair and blue eyes, but the man looks bland when standing next to his teammate. Riggs looks dark, edgy, and dangerous, but that is contrasted against his vibrant smile and piercing eyes.