“Jesus,” Elise murmurs. “The camera loves him.”

  I nod, my opinions a weird list of contrasts. The kiss in the bar. The dare card and the hurt it caused. The trying to buy me off in the break room. The conversation in this very conference room where he tried to win me over with his wit and humor. The shock of later that day learning who he was—or rather who his dad was—and not knowing how to respond.

  Each one of those interactions brought out a different emotion, a different feeling, and I’m struggling with how to prioritize which ones I should feel when I see him next.

  Because seeing him is inevitable. I may have purposely been everywhere he’s not the past few days, but I can’t make that last much longer.

  Is he the villain or the hero, Camilla? Or maybe a little of both?

  I stare at his image looking back at me and give a resolute nod. “It definitely won’t be hard to push these,” I say.

  Ideas I’ve been mulling around start to take form. “I think we need—”

  A knock on the open door has both Elise and me looking up. And the image in front of us comes to life in the form of Spencer Riggs standing before us.

  Elise sucks in a quick breath beside me.

  “Ladies. Good morning.” He meets my eyes and nods before crossing the room and holding his hand out to Elise. “Spencer Riggs. Nice to meet you.”

  Elise is frozen in place, eyes wide, smile plastered on. “Hi. Yes. Hello.” She reaches out as he takes her hand, and she slowly melts from the touch. Or at least I notice that she does. “Nice to meet you. We were just studying your package.”

  Riggs’s eyes shoot up and he grins. “Well. If that’s what the new marketing campaign is—”

  “Oh my God. I mean marketing package.” She points to the pictures as I die of embarrassment for her. “Marketing. Pictures. Not your—you know—that package.” She buries her head in her hands as her cheeks burn pink. “I think I might be dying a slow, painful death right now.”

  Riggs reaches out and squeezes her shoulder, unfazed by the fact that she’s clearly crushing on him—and wins points with me for the action. “Don’t you hate it when your mouth betrays you?” he says and looks at me with a lift of his eyebrows as if to imply ours both have in the short time we’ve known each other. “You’re fine. See? I already forgot what you said.”

  “I still think death is a better option,” she says but peeks up between her fingers and meets his reassuring gaze. “But thank you.”

  He nods and then points to the image I like the best. “That’s the one you should use.”

  “Oh, are we a marketing expert now?” I ask, needing to put that wedge back between us that his kindness to Elise removed. And as I sit here and stare at him, I’m not sure why.

  I lie.

  I do know.

  Something about Spencer Riggs scares me. And scares me in all the best of ways that I don’t understand or am sure I want to. I’ve been in his presence a handful of times since we first met. While I purposely limited our interaction, it didn’t matter because each and every time, I’m left questioning my innate reaction to him and my sanity soon thereafter.

  His presence is like a feather skimming over my skin. It creates chills at the same time I want to brush it away. Or a better comparison would be the static electricity in the air before a lightning strike.

  It’s there. You can’t see it, but you can feel it. It makes my entire body take notice, react.

  None of the reactions are wanted and yet they happen regardless.

  Ignoring my comment, he moves in between Elise and me and braces his hands on the table to take a closer look. “Not a marketing expert, but I know what catches people’s eyes and that graphic will do just that.”

  I shift my chair to give me distance. I don’t need to smell his cologne. I don’t need to see the dark gray flecks mixed in the light gray of his eyes. I don’t need to feel his arm absently brush against mine.

  And by the way he looks at me when his eyes meet mine, he knows exactly what he’s doing.

  “Why?” I’m not sure if I’m referring to his graphics opinion or why he keeps touching me.

  A ghost of a smile paints his lips.

  He knows exactly what he’s doing.

  “We look like good cop, bad cop. The face they know and the new one who’s unproven. It’s the contrast people will like. We’re a team but we still look like we’re willing to battle on the track.” He shrugs. “Make me the bad guy. I don’t care. It’s always more of a splash when the villain triumphs.”

  “You’re new to F1 and you’re asking to be the anti-hero?”

  He shrugs. “Call it what you will. I’m just letting you know that I’m okay with however you paint me. It’s already going to be a battle to win over Maxim’s followers through no fault of my own. They’re loyal to him and I’m taking his place. Then there’s Andrew who never rocks the boat. And now there’s me—a new face they’re sitting back reserving judgment on. The men will love that I bring their wives and girlfriends into the sport and hate me for it all in the same breath.”

  “Wow. You do think highly of yourself.”

  “No, I know how this game works. Besides, I’ll prove myself on the track. I’ve promised you that.” He looks at me and nods. “That’s where I’ll answer all their doubts.”

  The yawn comes out of nowhere, as they often do, and I unsuccessfully try to stifle it.

  Riggs lifts an eyebrow as he stands to full height—of course putting his crotch right in my line of sight.

  “Pardon me,” I say as I try to focus back on the graphics.

  Riggs turns around and rests his ass on the desk, still between us, and meets my eyes. “Am I boring you?”

  “No. Sorry.” I give a quick shake of my head. “My damn neighbor kept me up all night. Loud music. People knocking on my door accidentally instead of his.”

  “We both know you don’t have a problem confronting people,” he says, “so why didn’t you march down there and give them a piece of your mind?”

  I glance over at Elise who has her brow furrowed, no doubt wondering how Spencer Riggs knows I don’t have a problem confronting people.

  “I just moved in. The last thing I want to do is piss people off. People who I might need help from, like getting my mail or whatever, since I’ll be traveling so much.”

  “Tell him your dad’s a copper. That he drives by often to check on his little girl or some shit like that.”

  “It might be easy for him to put two and two together who my father is once he learns my last name.”

  “True.” He rocks his head from side to side. “I still vote for telling him off. It seems you’re grumpy when you’re tired. That, and you need all the beauty sleep you can get.”

  I see the mischief in his smile and sense the banter that he’s searching for. Elise, on the other hand, doesn’t. Her eyes are shocked open and her jaw is lax as he makes his way to the doorway.

  I snort. “I guess that means you should sleep twenty-four seven.”

  “That’s not what the public thinks.” He winks. “Need anything else from me, ladies? My good looks? My witty charm? My unwarranted opinion?”

  “How about better driving skills?” I offer to which he hisses in a breath at the dig. Then the rich sound of his laugh fills the conference room as he turns to face us, his grin sinful.

  “No worries. I’ve got those in spades.”

  “I haven’t seen proof of anything yet.”

  “Bitch. Bitch. Bitch,” he singsongs while rolling his eyes playfully. “I can show you my skills firsthand.”

  Our eyes hold and no matter how impassive I try to keep my features, my smile wins. “I’d say you wish, but we both know you don’t.”

  “What is it they say? One man’s dare is another man’s pleasure.”

  “I don’t know who they are, but I think they have the saying wrong.”

  “They are me, and the saying is right.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Thank you.” He mock bows. “It must be brutally hard staying mad at me.”

  “Not hard at all.”

  He quirks an eyebrow, gives a suggestive purse of his lips, and rocks on his heels. I swear to God that smile has a mainline to something in me even I don’t understand. A slow, simmering ache that flutters about and makes me shift in my seat to abate it.

  He chuckles and heads out of the room with both Elise and me watching his swagger as he does so.

  “Was he just flirting with you?” Elise asks, tone awed. “Because I’m pretty sure that was flirting.”

  “It was bantering. And it’s . . . we met by fluke before.” I wave a hand in indifference as if it doesn’t matter. “It’s a long story. Chance encounter where neither of us knew who the other was.” Time to redirect. “Where were we? Oh. Right. Graphics. I think we all agree on which ones work best.”

  “You’re deflecting.”

  “Am I doing a good job of it?”

  She snickers and points to the graphic. “He’s right about the villain one.”

  “Let’s not give him any credit, shall we?” I joke.

  “Okay, but there’s something I want to show you. Something I think we can use somehow to the Moretti advantage.”

  “What’s that?”

  She shifts her laptop so we can both see the screen, types a few things in the browser until a social media site pops up, and within seconds, Riggs’s face is on the screen.

  It’s clear he’s been running. His shirt is draped around his neck and hanging over his pecs. His hair is wet, making it curl. His chest is misted in sweat, and his face is slightly red from exertion.

  “Another one that’s viral,” she murmurs.

  I can see why. The man is definitely not a hardship to look at.

  Riggs is holding the phone out as he takes the final strides up a steep dirt trail with lush greenery surrounding it.

  “Okay, so I was finishing up my run, a bit hungover if truth be told, so I’m trying to concentrate on anything and everything other than throwing up. And I got to thinking about some advice a friend asked for. Something I want your opinion on.” He pauses and takes the end of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face. He looks over his shoulder at someone and then grins at the camera.

  Very convenient placement of his bicep flexing, if I say so myself.

  “So this friend of mine was at a pub a few weeks ago, kicking back pints with his mates. A dare was made. Get a phone number of a woman. A woman who you thought would be going home alone that night. Why would she be going home alone, you ask? That was up for the friend to decide. To save his ego, the guy took the dare. He won. Charmed the pants off a girl he had no intention of really dating. She made the first move and kissed him. He made the next and kissed her back.”

  He’s talking about us.

  Fucking talking about us.

  My expression must be a dubious one because Elise pushes pause and says, “Hold on. I’ll make my point when the video’s over.”

  She pushes play again.

  “Look. The arsehole used her. Plain and simple. Then she found out it was a dare. Obviously, her feelings were hurt. My friend figured he’d never see her again so no harm, no foul.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw and the scrape of stubble can be heard right before his sigh. “But he did see her again. Is he the arsehole for not apologizing to her? Or is the victory, a victory, and he should just take it and run? Should he worry about her feelings and offer an apology or does he carry on like nothing happened? Is he the arsehole or not?”

  The video ends and begins to start again, but Elise stops it before it can replay. But even with the video stopped, we can see the number of views and likes ticking upwards.

  That’s not what the public thinks.

  So that’s what that comment meant.

  “The comments are insane. People asking their own AITA questions to him.”

  “AITA?”

  “Am I the asshole.”

  “Christ. Riggs has become a regular Dear Abby.”

  “Look at all these people asking for advice. Giving advice.” She stops and looks at me. “Wait. Who’s Dear Abby?”

  I laugh and shake my head. That just made me feel old. Granted Dear Abby was in my mother’s time, but I still know who she is. “Dear Abby was an advice column. People wrote in to a newspaper. She answered and they published it.”

  “Like online?”

  I hang my head for a beat and chuckle. “No. In an actual printed newspaper.”

  “Wow.” Her eyes widen. “So she’s super old.”

  “Something like that.” I can’t with her right now. I glance back to the screen and the static image of Riggs. “Why are you showing me this . . . oh.” I draw the sound out as it hits me. “You think we should have Riggs do an advice column. Interact with fans like that.”

  “Exactly. If he’s getting this much attention with one post, could you imagine how people would react if they knew that they could submit a question and possibly get the chance to have Riggs answer it for them?”

  I stare at her, my teeth sunk into my bottom lip as I contemplate her concept. “It could work. He definitely has the star power and charm to pull it off.” I pause, my mind running with the idea. “I definitely think we can use this to our advantage.”

  “Perhaps we can request he be shirtless.” She winks and then says, “What? You know that would only help the video to go viral.”

  She’s right but . . . how unprofessional is that to ask him to do that?

  “We need to find a way to tie it to Moretti,” I say.

  “Exactly. And we do that by having him give his advice while he’s shirtless, sweaty from working out or racing, and with say, a Moretti hat or boxer briefs on?”

  “We have Moretti boxer briefs?” I ask dumbfounded. Why? Just why?

  She laughs. “No, but I’m sure we can have some made up quickly if need be.”

  “Of course, we can.” I roll my eyes, hating that I’m picturing him wearing just those. Picturing him and liking what I see.

  He’d go for it. He’s arrogant enough that he’ll enjoy the attention, and I’m selfish enough that I want him to do it because I know it’ll work.

  Shit. When did I go from hating the guy to wanting to use those good looks that first attracted me to him to my company’s advantage?

  Talk about a shift in gears.

  Then again, that shift began that first night we met, didn’t it? When he chased after me in the bar because he cared that he hurt my feelings. It doesn’t mean I had to forgive him or even believe the words he said—at the time I didn’t—but that also shows he has a conscience.

  And now the more I get to know him—in person, through things my coworkers have said about their interactions with him, through the various interviews I’ve watched—is it so bad that I’m starting to believe he’s not just the jerk with the dare card? That he’s actually goofy, thoughtful, funny . . .

  This is not how this was supposed to go.

  “You’re overthinking this,” Elise says.

  “No, I’m picturing it. A shirtless Riggs in a Moretti hat or in the paddock with the sign behind him . . . something like that works for the visual, but we need to make a reason for people who don’t know him to come to his page and participate.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking something that you can’t buy.”

  “Quit stringing me along. What is it?”

  “An all-expenses paid trip to a race with guest privileges in the paddock.”

  “Shit,” she says. “You’re not playing around, are you?”

  I grin. “Nope. If we’re going to make a splash, we might as well make a big one, right?”

  “I love it, but uh . . . I’m leaving it to you to get that one signed off by—” She points overhead, presumably to my father’s office.

  I wink. “Leave it to me.”

  “See, you do come with benefits,” she teases. “I think this is a stellar plan, but you do know what a pain in the ass this is going to be, right? Sorting through a bazillion entries and figuring out which question for Riggs to give advice on?”

  “True, but that means a bazillion people are paying attention to us, and that’s a crap ton more than we currently have so it’s a win.”

  “You do have a point.”

  I lean back in my chair and fold my arms over my chest. “It also behooves us to have him keep his adrenaline junkie shit up that he posts. Stuff that doesn’t shove Moretti down their throats. So his page will grow organically and then we’ll sprinkle in some Moretti branding.”

  “His social media is a gold mine. Once you start watching it, you can’t help but keep scrolling.” She twists her lips with lines of concentration etched on her face while she thinks something over as I’ve learned she’s prone to do. “Now we just need to get the Moretti name visible in it somehow—if he’s okay with it since it’s his personal page.”

  “He’ll be okay with it. He’s trying to impress the new boss. Trying to extend this call up to F1 and turn it into a permanent gig somehow. He’s hungry to stay here so he’ll let us use that eagerness to our advantage.”

  She snorts. “And even if he weren’t, he’s an F1 driver. He’s all about himself like they all are. Of course, he’ll say yes if it means more attention, more adoration on him.”

  “Very true.” That’s one thing that hasn’t changed in my time away from the sport. The drivers are all the same. Selfish. Competitive. Skilled. Focused. “Let’s let him get his first race under his belt. We’ll work behind the scenes while he focuses on that. Then we can launch it the week after.”

  “So no bringing it up to him?”

  “Not yet. I’ll figure out when it’s best to approach him.”

  “Makes sense. So actionable items are you’ll approach him about AITA, and I’ll get with our team and see if we can refine this idea with graphics and slogans and how to facilitate it so we can hit the ground running.” She clicks away on her keyboard taking notes.

  “Sounds good.”

  “Do we need to pull Andrew into this somehow?” she asks.

  “Definitely. He has the same ego, but his is more the dark horse, quiet achiever vibe. The spotlight isn’t his thing like it is Riggs’s. Or . . . oh, maybe he does an ask a racer a question type thing. Something that’s a little less . . . if that makes sense, because he doesn’t flex as loudly on social media.”