“He’s my dad, he has to say things like that.”

  Her laugh floats through the line. “Actually he doesn’t. There have been plenty of times over the years that he has griped about you—”

  “Hey.” I laugh.

  “You asked. I answered, but I’m serious. He’s so impressed with what you’ve already brought to the table.” She falls silent for a beat, her voice softer when she speaks again. “Thank you, Cam. I knew this was going to make a difference to him, for him . . . but I had no idea how much. In the short time you’ve been here, I’ve seen him relax considerably. Just know, I’m so very grateful that you are making this sacrifice for him.”

  Tears blur my vision of the blue sky, and I swallow over the lump in my throat. “I’m at work. Don’t make me cry.”

  “Sorry.” She laughs through what I can tell are her own tears.

  “Truth be told, I’m enjoying it more than I thought I would.”

  And at the exact moment I say that, Riggs looks up to where I’m standing and grins. Yep, that was my uterus tightening up. That was a full-body ache zooming right in on the location between my thighs.

  How much longer are we going to play this game?

  “Did you just say you’re enjoying it?” She sounds surprised.

  “I did. I am.” Look away from him. Step back from the balcony. Save your sanity—and your panties. “I miss home and everything that’s there—”

  “This has been your home too,” she says. And she’s right. It has. The Moretti family has always split its time between Italy and the United Kingdom, but after college, I chose Italy. I chose to be as far away from the racing part of our family as possible.

  “It has,” I say and smile. “But not like this. Not with such a permanence. But I think the change has been good. I didn’t think that it would be when he asked me, but it’s been good for me.”

  It’s incredible how I’ve already begun to create a whole new life here in only a few months. Same friends—just added some new ones. Have discovered new places—vintage shops, hole-in-the-wall pubs, quaint but postcard-worthy gardens all about.

  And then there’s work. I love the challenge of it. Of having to prove myself. Of trying to bring Moretti to the industry’s forefront again.

  “Speaking of change,” she says in that voice that has me taking notice.

  “What?” I ask cautiously.

  “I have to find out from social media about the new hair? It looks incredible.”

  I automatically reach up and play with its ends. We didn’t do much, but it’s amazing how some shape and subtle low lights freshened up my hair. “How did you know?”

  “Isabella and Gia are so very proud of their feat. They may have posted several times about it. Dare I ask what they had to bribe you with?”

  Of course, they posted about it.

  “Nothing. Well, I take that back. It was the lesser of many evils. Hair. Shoes. Wardrobe. Being set up.”

  She laughs. “Wow. They really hit you with all the things you hate.”

  “See? I picked the easiest two.”

  “Hair and shoes?”

  I nod and smile. “Hair and shoes.”

  “Well if the hair looks that good, I can’t wait to see what the shoes look like.”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. I’ve been roped into agreeing to go shopping with them on Monday.” I say it like I’m dreading it, but only the shopping part. Not the being with them part.

  They add a little spark to the week, and I can’t deny I always leave them feeling in a better mood.

  “Ohhh, send pics. Or better yet, enough of these quick stop-ins for a hug and to raid my fridge.”

  “You’re never home.” I laugh.

  “I am too. Just not the hours you frequent.” She laughs. “I’ve been busy, but fingers crossed that all of my cases are coming to a close in the next month,” she says of her volunteer position as a child advocate for those in the foster system. It’s been her passion project for as long as I can remember. It gives her purpose and helps others at the same time.

  “All at once? How’d that happen?”

  “I don’t know. A stroke of luck? Fate knowing my baby girl would be moving here so I could shower her with all my love instead? Which is the perfect segue for me. We need to go to lunch. You and me. We need to make our own girl time. I promise I won’t force you to shop or anything.”

  I smile. “I’d love that.”

  “Good. Now make sure you tell the girls they’re invited too. I love how much they love you.”

  “Me too,” I murmur, her comment still on my mind long after the call ends.

  I love how much they love you.

  The same sentiment has been on my mind a lot lately. They check in on me constantly. They send food my way when they deem I’m working too hard. They kidnap me for surprise massages.

  Maybe it’s time I just tell them why I don’t want to change my wardrobe.

  Maybe it’s time I finally let somebody in.

  The question is why though? Why do I feel like that now?

  A noise behind me has me turning, has me looking right into the light gray eyes and devastating smile of one sexy Spencer Riggs.

  The man who looked at me, protected me . . . and showed me that Brandon LeCroix is the exception, not the rule.

  And then it clicks.

  Oh, the irony.

  Because of Riggs, the man I’d thought egotistical and self-centered, I believe I can finally share what I’ve kept hidden emotionally for years.

  Wow. I hadn’t expected that.

  Now if I can just bring myself to act on that—with both my friends . . . and with Riggs.

  Baby steps.

  “Hi. You’re sweaty.”

  “It’s not sweat. It’s called sex appeal. And my offer still stands.” His grin turns lopsided as he shuts the door behind him and moves into the room.

  I was hoping he had forgotten that whole offer bit. I haven’t, but I was hoping he had.

  “No, it’s not,” I say and roll my eyes. “It’s called sweat.”

  He shrugs. Smirks. “That’s what happens when you get your heart rate up. Exert yourself. You should try it sometime.”

  “I should, huh?”

  He looks up and down the length of my body, his eyes lighting with as much suggestion as his tone does. “Yep. There are all kinds of ways one can accomplish an increased heart rate.”

  “There are?” I play coy when my body’s reaction says it knows exactly what he’s inferring.

  “Oh, Camilla,” he murmurs, “there most definitely are.”

  He reaches to the side of me, his body skimming mine as he does. “What are you doing?” I demand.

  I freeze.

  My nerve endings are ablaze at his touch.

  His face is inches from mine. His lopsided smirk front and center. “Grabbing a bottle of water.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I go to jump out of the way only to realize the table is at my back and he’s at my front. I turn to see where he’s looking only to bump into him again. “Wait. That’s my wa . . . ter,” I say as he upends the bottle and gulps the entirety of it.

  His arm is up so his bicep is there—in my face. His chest is at eye level, the striations in the muscles clear as day. And then there’s the small amount of water that falls from his mouth and slides in a rivulet down his neck and then drops to the floor below.

  Kiss him.

  Grab him and kiss him, Camilla.

  My angel and devil war with my libido shoving both aside and telling me I better act or it’s going to riot.

  “Riggs.” His name is breathy. Strained.

  He takes his time setting the empty bottle down and then looking at me with a quirked brow and a ghost of a smile. “Is there something you wanted?” he murmurs.

  You.

  One hundred percent you.

  I gulp as my heart beats a punishing staccato in my chest that I swear he can hear.

  “Yes,” I croak, my fingers itching to touch and my lips desperate to feel his again.

  “Speak up,” he says moving even closer, his eyes locked on mine. “I couldn’t hear you.”

  “This is getting ridiculous,” I whisper.

  “What part? You wanting to kiss me or me wanting to do so much more with you?”

  And there go the panties.

  How about the part where I want to do this—all of this—with you, but am terrified that I’m going to freeze up? That I’m not going to do or be what you need me to be? That I’m not going to feel anything? Again . . .

  “I—uh—”

  “Camilla?”

  Riggs is already three feet away from me when the door is pushed all the way open.

  “Yes?”

  “Oh, sorry,” Heather says. “I didn’t mean to inter—”

  “You didn’t.” I force a smile. Please make her believe it. “Riggs was just showing me his latest AITA video.”

  She smiles. “Everyone is talking about them. Brilliant. Simply brilliant idea.”

  “Thanks.”

  “May I have a minute of your time?” she asks.

  “Yes. Of course,” I say as Riggs moves toward the door.

  “I’ll catch you later, Camilla. We need to finish this conversation.” He looks back and smirks. “My offers don’t stay on the table forever.”

  Both Heather and I watch him walk away, but only one of us is shaking their head.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Riggs

  “It’s pulling to the right.” The whole car vibrates all around me.

  I fight the wheel—been fighting it all fucking race. My arms ache and I keep trying to force my hands to relax.

  A tighter grip doesn’t always mean a quicker reaction.

  “We know.” That’s Hank’s equivalent to we fucking know and we’re no closer to having a solution. It’s race day. It’s way past the time where we can make any major adjustments. “Do your best, mate.”

  “Understood,” I say, determined to muscle this thing to the finish line.

  And while I might need to loosen my grip on the wheel, I sure as shit don’t stop gritting my teeth every time another driver—Rossi, Laurent, Cavanaugh, McElroy, Navarro, what feels like fucking everybody—passes me.

  I challenge them when I can, but more than anything, I stay close to Andrew who’s sitting at P3. I help fend them off. It’s harder to overtake two cars at once than just one.

  Because I sure as shit am not going to get a chance at a high finish, but Andrew can. And that’s good for Moretti. It’s F1 teamwork at its finest.

  So I drive my arse off. No doubt pissing fellow drivers off while at the same time, earning their respect.

  I’ve never worked harder for someone else than I do today.

  And when Andrew places P3—takes a podium—when the team erupts into a torrent of cheers, I may be jealous as fuck, but I’m also proud and claim a small iota of the accomplishment for myself.

  “Tough day out there. You did what you could, Riggs,” Hank says.

  “Ten-four. Thanks for all your hard work, guys.”

  For the first time ever, when I pull into the garage, Carlo isn’t there waiting to greet me.

  It’s not because you didn’t finish in the points.

  It’s because you helped someone else do just that and so he’s over celebrating with them.

  You’re not getting your ride yanked.

  I reiterate all the reasons he might not be there—over and over—but there’s still underlying panic.

  Ari greets me though. “Hell of a drive, mate. Not your fault the car wasn’t where it should be. But you battled. You drove a race you should be proud of. Congrats.”

  I shake his hand, still thinking I could have done better, but deep down knowing I couldn’t have.

  A little humility goes a long way.

  I turn to hand my helmet off to someone and am surprised to see Camilla down in the garage. This typically isn’t her place. And it most definitely isn’t hers when Carlo isn’t here.

  But what catches my attention isn’t so much that Camilla is in the garage—although my ego more than likes that—it’s the expression on her face as she looks into the crowd milling on pit row.

  The crowd being crew members of various teams and team dignitaries.

  Her face is pale, her expression—the only way I can describe the look on her face is spooked.

  I try to find where she’s looking—see what she’s seeing—but only see a shit ton of people. And when I look back at her, she catches me watching her and buttons her emotions up quicker than shit.

  I narrow my brows at her, curiosity owning me when I should be worried about the points I didn’t earn.

  She just shakes her head, offers a tight smile, and then before I can think much more of it, Hank pulls me away.

  “So describe the car to me. What it felt like. How the pull on the right front felt.”

  I’m so grateful that it hasn’t taken too long for the crew and me to gel. To find our groove and work well together. To communicate in ways we both understand.

  “Felt we had some issues with graining on corner number four. Front end isn’t gripping hard enough, so it’s sliding, burning through my grip. Some understeer.”

  “Yeah, I’m thinking we went the wrong way with the tires,” Hank says. “We should have changed to medium instead of hard.”

  “All right.”

  “Good work supporting Andrew out there.”

  “Thanks, mate.” I head across to physio as I wouldn’t mind Tori looking at my right shoulder.

  I can’t get across the paddock and into the Moretti hospitality suite fast enough.

  I all but collapse onto the physio table.

  “Where’s the pain, Riggs?” Tori asks.

  “Right shoulder down into my bicep. Think I tweaked something.”

  “Okay. Let me see what I can do for you. Then you’ll need heat and then ice on it.”

  “You’re the boss.” My groans and whimpers follow soon thereafter as Tori and her incredible hands work the knots out of my shoulders and neck.

  “I could kiss you,” I murmur, my face pressed into the donut of the table.

  “If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I’d be rich.”

  Her hands feel like heaven. Firm but soothing as she kneads and presses and works the muscles in my back.

  “Let’s throw caution to the wind. Run away with me, Tori. I promise we could have a good life.”

  Her laugh rings out—no doubt her husband and four kids would disagree with me—and then she falls silent. Someone else has entered the room.

  “Go away,” I mutter and wave a hand in the direction of the door.

  A throat clears. Anya. “A few things,” she says.

  “Buzzkill.”

  She chuckles. “Your phone?”

  Shit. “Yes. Thanks. I didn’t think to bring it. Should I worry about the texts you’re seeing on there?”

  “No. Do you want me to read them to you?” Her feet make noise as she moves farther into the room.

  “Only the clean ones,” I tease.

  “Right. Your mum said ‘Great job working for the team. That’s how it’s supposed to be done.’ Wills said, and I quote, ‘Sorry about the car. We’ll drink in your honor tonight.’”

  “Of course he will.”

  “And Dee texted.” She pauses. “She said ‘Maxim said to tell you, it wasn’t your fault. Shit happens. Not to worry, he’ll stay injured longer so you can redeem yourself.’”

  I smile. I genuinely fucking smile because that’s Maxim. He sounds like he’s back. “Awesome.”

  “Oh, and he said he wants to see you soon.”

  I lift my head up to look at her. “He did?”

  She nods. “He did.”

  My smile turns into a grimace as Tori hits a particularly sore spot and I put my head back down.

  I let my mind drift.

  No points today.

  But not a DNF. I fought the motherfucking car. I made a good showing with what I had.

  I’ll take that as a rite of passage. As my own personal win.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Camilla

  “I’m going to trip and break my ankles in these.” I look down at the strappy heels on my feet and know I’m going to have one—most likely several—of those moments where you lose your balance and look like a five-year-old wearing your mother’s heels. Your foot goes one way, your ankle the other, and then you fall face first to the ground.

  That will be me.

  Just give me a few more minutes.

  “Rule number one of being fashionable? Suffering is a must,” Isabella says with the wave of her hand.

  “Awesome. Please, remind me why I agreed to this again?” I ask, wishing my water was wine, but one of us has to go back to work after our lunch date.

  “We can always take the shoes back and go for the clothes makeover instead,” Gia says over the rim of her glass of merlot.

  I hold my hands up. “No complaints here. None whatsoever.” I laugh and look down again at them and the four bags of designer shoes I agreed to purchase on our shopping trip.

  Or rather, their shopping. My feet to try said shoes on. My credit card to slap down for payment.

  I’d never admit it to Isabella or Gia, but there is something to be said about how these shoes make me feel. Feminine. A badass. Strong but delicate.

  If you didn’t want it, then maybe you shouldn’t have tempted me, Milla. That dress? Those tits? Your body? Don’t blame me for taking what you were offering.

  Even all this time later, I can still hear the condescension in Brandon’s tone as he stood over me buttoning his fly.

  Did I “ask for it” by flirting with him? Did I invite it by wearing short skirts and tight tops that showcased my body just like every other girl my age did?

  No.

  I know that now. I knew it then. But it didn’t stop the trauma from making me believe differently. From changing how I presented myself to the world.

  But these shoes . . . it’s like the slightest touch of femininity has made me acknowledge the power it holds.