“VidShort.”

  “Oh,” I say of the social media giant where I upload most of my videos to. The platform of choice right now for almost all age demographics.

  “Yep. They’re loving your videos. The attention the app receives when you post. Camilla approached them about a potential sponsorship, and they were more than interested.”

  “Wow. Okay.”

  “Turn the charm all the way on. Let’s do this.”

  We enter the room and I spend the next hour or so meeting people. Learning about them. Trying to figure out what answers they want me to give.

  And smiling. A lot.

  What I don’t expect is to look up and see Camilla across the room. We haven’t really “seen” each other or spent time of any quality since the press box and the champagne.

  The few moments we might have been able to steal a quick conversation during the buildup to race day here in Montreal have been interrupted—most of the time by her. So I’m beginning to think she’s purposely avoiding me.

  I’m not a fan of the feeling.

  And I’m even less of a fan of the man who sidles up beside her and slides a hand onto her back. He leans in and whispers something in her ear. She looks up at him and blushes, her eyes alive and lips curved up into a smile.

  I don’t like it.

  I don’t like it at fucking all.

  And I like it even less when the man turns to face the room and he’s none other than Steele Pennington—the latest actor to be cast as James Bond.

  They look cozy. Chummy even. With his hand still on her back and her leaning into him every few seconds with that smile.

  “Riggs?” Anya calls to me and it pains me to look away.

  “Hmm?”

  “Over here?” She lifts her eyebrows and looks toward yet another fucking sponsor.

  If this room is full of sponsors, what is he doing here with her?

  “Yep. Sure.” I move to where Anya stands with several others as Camilla’s laugh carries across the room like a cold draft causing goosebumps on my skin.

  This is ridiculous.

  “Spencer Riggs, this is . . .” Anya goes on and I claim my spot in the dog and pony show like I respectfully need to do.

  But the next time I look their way, they’re not there. I scour the room just in time to see them leaving out the front. His hand still on her back.

  I roll my shoulders as the door shuts.

  Jealousy isn’t a feeling I’m used to.

  Hell, it isn’t a feeling I should even be feeling. It’s Camilla. She’s her and I’m me and there’s nothing between us. Nothing but a few kisses and the memory of how I wanted to kiss her the last time I was with her.

  And yet . . . I look back toward the door they just walked out of and I still feel it.

  I want to walk after her and see what the hell she’s doing with him.

  I don’t want to acknowledge that all these games between us just might be getting to me when I don’t want them to get to me.

  You have a job to do, Riggs. A huge fucking end game to accomplish. Focus on that.

  Not on Camilla Moretti.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Riggs

  “Jesus. Is Moretti so desperate for followers that they’re using your social media now?”

  I look over toward Cruz Navarro and his shit-eating grin and raise my middle finger. The fucker and I have known each other as long as I’ve been karting. He may have been the one who pulled up in a rig full of extra parts and fancy graphics—an F1 legacy’s son in every way that I’m not—but he’s always been a decent friend to me.

  Not the kind where we talk every day but the kind that when we do talk, it’s like no time has been lost.

  “Not desperate. They just know a good thing when they’ve got one and want to use every facet of mine to do so,” I say.

  “Sounds like what I did last night. Used every facet of the chick I had over.” Cruz waggles his eyebrows and my middle finger goes up again. “What? Don’t give me that. You and I both know you’ve had every chance possible to do the same since being called up. Hell, I saw you in Montreal. The track bunnies following you around like a new shiny toy, dropping their phone numbers for you like they’re wanting to drop their skirts.”

  “Perhaps.” I shrug. My grin says I just might have taken advantage of it.

  But I didn’t.

  Isn’t that the crux of it?

  I fucking didn’t, and I can blow smoke up my own arse and say it’s because I’m busy concentrating on making my name known, but if I believe that smoke, it might simply be because it’s easier than believing the truth.

  There’s one particular woman who has taken up residence in my mind.

  “It’s so painful at the top, I think you should volunteer to go back to F2.”

  “That’s where I say fuck you. I love you, but fuck you.”

  He barks out a laugh and pats me on the back. “I’m glad you’re here even if that means I’m going to have more competition in the female department.”

  “Whatever. I don’t think you’re hurting in the least.”

  “Never.” He takes a sip of his water. “Shit, man. Look at the two of us, racing against each other like our dads did.”

  “Crazy, huh?”

  “Yeah, except that you’re chasing ghosts you want to catch while I’m falling short of the perfection expected of me.”

  “Lucky us,” I murmur as memories of the great Dominic Navarro belittling his only son for not crossing the finish line high enough flash through my mind.

  “Lucky fucking us.” He gives a shake of his head. “But you’re liking Moretti?” he asks and brushes his thick mop of hair off his forehead before setting his Gravitas Racing hat back down onto it.

  “Good. Fine. We’re still making adjustments to the car—just like it seems we all are. But I think it’s getting there. It’s quick as shit.”

  “Not quicker than me.” He lifts his eyebrows and smiles.

  “Not yet, but there’s time, Navarro.”

  He barks out a laugh. “Keep chasing and I’ll keep waiting for you on the podium.”

  “Fucker,” I mutter playfully.

  “Yes, I am.” He winks. “But seriously? You good?”

  “Dude, I’m just happy to finally fucking be here. And Moretti is solid. Their crew. Their technology. Their engineering. They really have taken care of me.” Unlike Camilla Moretti, who I’d love to take care of me. Because I’ve come to realize she’s hot in all the right ways.

  “They run a good outfit over there. Courted me a time or two but my contract with Gravitas is rock solid. If it wasn’t, I would’ve considered it.”

  “I’m still getting to know everyone but so far so good.”

  He licks his lips and lowers his voice. “Have you talked to Maxim at all?” he asks cautiously.

  I avert my eyes and shake my head subtly, embarrassed by my answer. “He’s still not taking calls. I’ve tried.”

  Silence falls between us and Cruz sighs heavily. “Yeah, man. So have I.”

  He meets my eyes and throws his hands up. We’re probably both thinking the same thing, feeling the same way. Glad he’s not taking visitors because then we’d have to see him and see what we could become. And feeling horribly guilty for feeling that too.

  It’s fucked up all around and we both know it.

  Voices come down the hallway and past the door where we’re sitting. The interruption welcome. “So F1. What’s your biggest challenge being up here?”

  “Fuck, man. Can I opt for all the above?” I ask and we laugh.

  “Yes, but from what I hear and see you’re catching up to speed faster than most.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. It means a lot.”

  “It’s the same but so very different, right?” Cruz asks.

  “Pretty much. The main thing I fear is screwing up. Not knowing the car enough that I end up causing a crash. Hurting people. That kind of shit.”

  “Hey, my competition is fair game. I’m not.” He jokes as he rises from his seat and pats me on the shoulder. “Time to go face the cameras. Let’s hope that ugly mug of yours doesn’t break any of them.”

  “Is that all you’ve got, Navarro?”

  “Nah. That was a warm-up. I’m just getting started.”

  “Great. Fucking great,” I say through a laugh as we enter the press room.

  “If I don’t get a chance to tell you tomorrow, good luck. Finish high but finish behind me.” He belts out a laugh as we take a seat and Q&A with the reporters begin.

  Most questions are asked to the established guys. How’d they feel last race? What adjustments are being made to their cars if any? How do they feel their chances are this weekend?

  Benign questions.

  Softballs being tossed up for them.

  It’s weird sitting up here, with the F1 backdrop and the banners in front of us. Many of my dad’s interviews that I memorized were taken with a setting of this sort.

  It makes me think of him, smile, and wonder how he felt about pressers. I know how he answered the questions, but did he mind being asked them? Did he roll his eyes at them or was he so focused on the task at hand that they didn’t matter?

  “What about you, Riggs? Are you ready to put the third race under your belt tomorrow?”

  “I am.”

  “This was a great track for your dad. He had a lot of fortune here. Does that cross your mind at all?”

  Every damn time I get in the car.

  I have to overcome the fear. The expectation. The history with its invisible strings, the people in this room, and the memories that restrict me.

  “How can it not?” I smile and answer as honestly as I can.

  “It seems you’re fitting in well with Moretti. The fans have taken a liking to you with your advice column posts.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with having a little fun and interacting with the fans. They love this sport as much as all of us on stage do,” I say and I can see Anya’s smile widening in the back of the room, clearly pleased with my response.

  “Are you afraid it’s going to distract you and your focus from racing and the safety of the other racers?”

  And there it is. The question they’ve tiptoed around for the last few weeks. And no surprise it’s Harlan fucking Flanders.

  “Are you asking me if I’m my father?”

  Harlan meets my gaze and doesn’t blanche. “I’m asking you what I asked you. In F2, you pushed the envelope in situations when others wouldn’t. You took risks and those risks can have consequences for every other person on the track.”

  “Uncool, man,” Cruz says under his breath. Only those on the stage can hear it.

  “And those risks got me where I am today.” My smile is a fuck you with love to him. “If you want to make comparisons, make them. But don’t hold back my potential because of something my father did. I have enough ghosts to face when I’m on the track that I don’t need you adding more to the pile. Look at each race as they happen. Judge me on those, and I won’t judge you by the loaded questions you’ve asked in the past and the smear campaign you continue to wage without just cause.”

  When I set the microphone down and look over at Anya, the look on her face this time around is puffed cheeks and raised brows.

  Guess she’ll have to clean that one up.

  Or I just place higher than last time and shut them up.

  My money’s on that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Camilla

  “I know. I’m a busy bitch, but I can’t,” I say as I push the door open and leave the office.

  “Can’t or won’t?” Isabella asks.

  How about both?

  “Can’t. I have a sponsorship event tonight. I have to go impress bigwigs.” I adjust my bag on my shoulder and start across the parking lot toward my car.

  “You are a bigwig and you’re bluffing.” She tsks. “I know you too well.”

  “Let’s shoot for when I get back from the next race. I’ll do drinks with him then,” I say with no intention of doing drinks with anybody, let alone a blind date she picks for me.

  “No, you won’t. But I’ll badger you. Then cajole you. Then stalk you from afar to make sure you show up.”

  “Perfect. I don’t expect any less.”

  “Later, Cam. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  I breathe out a sigh of relief. Dodged that bullet. Let’s hope I can keep dodging it.

  And just as I drop my phone in my tote I hear, “Hey, Moretti?”

  Footsteps fall heavily behind me as Riggs jogs after me. As much as I want to keep walking, I stop and turn to look at him.

  Jesus. The man knows how to wear a pair of jeans.

  And when I see the jeans, I think of my dream. Of the perfect V of muscles they’re covering. Of his cock springing free.

  And this—your ridiculous fantasy—is why you’ve been avoiding him every chance you can.

  “Hey,” I say and smile. “What’s up?”

  He slows to a stop in front of me, his grin lighting up his face. “You’re everywhere and nowhere. I just wanted to say hi. See how you were doing.”

  I eye him. What is going on? My cheeks stain pink as my mind goes to crazy places—like there’s no way he could know about my dream.

  “Good,” I say cautiously.

  “I have some ideas for the AITA thing.”

  “Okay. I’ll have Elise set something up to go over it with you.”

  “I want you in on the meeting,” he says, brow narrowing.

  “Um. Okay.” I chuckle. “Why?”

  “Because you’re avoiding me, and I don’t like to be avoided.”

  Shit. He knows.

  “No, I haven’t. I’ve been . . . busy. Kissing up to sponsors. Trying to get these new campaigns everywhere. And a whole lot of other stuff.”

  “A whole lot of other stuff. Is that a technical term?” he asks.

  “Yes. Very technical.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He glances over his shoulder.

  “You had impressive results last race. How are you feeling with everything?”

  “Good. Fine.” He tilts his head to the side and studies me. I squirm under his scrutiny. “I saw you with Steele Pennington in Montreal. What’s that all about?”

  Oh.

  Oooh.

  Is that jealousy I detect from Spencer Riggs? Jealousy that has no business being there. And why do I kind of like it?

  But why is he jealous? He doesn’t like me. Dare cards and everything with them.

  “Camilla.” He groans out my name.

  I freeze. My name. The tone in which he says it. The odd desperation laced in it. I swear to God it sounds exactly like my dream. My body sparks to life—not like his presence didn’t already do that, but it’s tenfold now.

  “What? What did I do?” I sound as guilty as I feel.

  “Why was he there? With you?”

  “Steele likes racing. He’s an avid follower.”

  “And he just happened to be what? A guest of yours to the race?”

  This is quite amusing. He’s fishing and it’s adorable.

  “Of my father’s. They’re acquaintances.”

  “But you left with him. From the event. Out the door.”

  The way he says out the door is hilarious.

  My smile deepens. “I did.”

  Ask me where I went. Prove my theory right.

  He rocks on his heels. “Cool. Okay.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve got sim time scheduled. I should get going.”

  “Okay. Have a good training session.”

  He takes a few steps backward. “I will,” he says but he doesn’t turn to go. He just stands there looking at me. Lips pursed and eyes narrowed. “So where’d you go with him?”

  It takes everything I have not to burst out laughing.

  A part of me thinks it would serve him right if I just shrugged and walked away—leaving him wondering.

  The other part of me is finding this way too amusing and endearing. It’s yet another side to Riggs that I never expected.

  “Why do you care?” I ask.

  “I don’t.” He shrugs.

  “But you asked, so you do care.” I fight my smile as he stands there, clearly flustered and by his body language, not totally comfortable with his own questions.

  “Yeah. Whatever.” This time he does turn on his heel and walks away.

  I watch his backside. The strong shoulders. The nice ass. I wait until he gets to the entrance of the building before I yell, “I was taking him over to find his girlfriend. That’s where we went.”

  Riggs pauses. One foot on the pavement, the other on the curb. He hangs his head and his laugh carries to me.

  And then he walks inside, leaving me to wonder, what the fuck was that?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Camilla

  I’m surprised I can hear the knock on my door over the bass pumping against my wall. Or the round of cheers that goes up every so often that sounds like a full-blown cheering section.

  Party Guy is in full swing again next door and seeing as it’s been a nonstop weekend at our home track, Silverstone, I’m tired—mentally and physically. I’m cranky, despite being thrilled with a fourth and a sixth place finish for Moretti. And all I want to do is sleep in my own bed. Bask in my own silence. Maybe eat my takeout order whose delivery man is probably at my door without . . . all this extra noise.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  “Coming,” I shout but doubt the delivery person can hear me above the noise.

  But when I open the door, it’s not my food. It’s two incredibly gorgeous but clearly drunk women. Their eyes are glassy. Their laughs are too loud. Their expressions take a second to transition from party mode to confusion.

  “Hey. Where’d the party go?” the one in the pink, barely-there dress asks. She looks behind me as if I’m hiding what sounds like fifty-plus people.

  “Next door.”

  “Which way?” the one in the black dress asks, her head swiveling back and forth as if she can’t tell which direction the commotion is coming from.

  I shrug and smile. “How about where the noise is.”