Who would have thought shoes could do that?

  “She does like them. She keeps staring at them,” Gia says as I break from my thoughts.

  “I’m getting used to them, is what I’m doing.” If I tell them my epiphany, they’ll have a whole new wardrobe picked out and delivered for me by the time I get home. It’s best to let me digest this a bit more before I let them in on it.

  And telling them about my experience has been on my mind many times over the past few weeks. If they knew what Brandon did—the assault, how it affected my sense of safety, my self-confidence, let alone how I feel about my body—then maybe they’ll understand why I dress how I do.

  And with that revelation, no doubt will come massive guilt on their part. For not knowing. For trying to change my clothes when they had no understanding why I wear what I wear. The last thing I want to do is to make them feel guilty.

  So one day soon I’ll tell them.

  Not today though. Today is for fun—and apparently strappy shoes.

  “You’re right. She does like them.” Isabella’s grin is bright enough for the three of us. “First shoes, then who knows what else is next.”

  “I know what else,” Gia says, turning her whole body toward me and lifting her eyebrows.

  “What?” Oh, shit. Not that look.

  “I think there’s something you’re not telling us,” Gia says.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Do you think we don’t follow Moretti and its racers? That at some point we wouldn’t recognize that one particular racer is the same man who you conveniently ran into in the bar that night? I mean, great job marketing; his face is everywhere. And bad job covering it up—because his face is fucking everywhere.” She laughs and narrows her eyes at me. “You played us, Moretti.”

  “I didn’t. I swear.” I hold my hands up. “I promise. It was just as much of a shock to me that he was the new driver as it is to you.”

  “Uh-huh.” Gia does not sound convinced.

  “You know the excuse is going to be that he’s an employee now so she can’t fuck him.” Ever subtle Isabella strikes again.

  “Yep. She snowed us. Freaking snowed us,” Gia says.

  “Hello. I’m right here.” I wave my hands back and forth to prevent them from carrying on.

  “We know you are, but we also know you bullshitted us into thinking you had something going on with that Spencer guy.”

  “Riggs. He goes by Riggs,” I say.

  “Of course, he does,” Isabella says.

  “And we’ve kissed,” I offer.

  “We know. We saw you in the bar.” Gia rolls her eyes.

  “And a couple weeks ago. And almost at the race this weekend.”

  That got their attention. “Ooohhh?” It’s a collective sound made by both of them.

  I nod and suddenly want to spill everything to them—the teasing, the panic attacks, how he slept on my couch, the jealousy, the innuendos—but they’ll think I’m crazy for not acting on it. It’s not necessary to keep the dare card a secret anymore. I’m completely over it . . . and Riggs is definitely not the guy I thought he was the night we met. Time has proven that to me.

  So I tell them.

  About the dare card.

  “Wait,” Isabella says, holding her hands up. “Does that have anything to do with the viral post he did about this?”

  Don’t lie.

  They’ll know.

  I nod. “Yep.”

  “Okay, so that was top level, I want your attention because I was a prick, but I’m a guy so I don’t know how to apologize type of apology.” Gia purses her lips. “I’m not convinced. He needs to grovel more.”

  I tell them about the first race and the bathroom—our mutual panic attacks and his quiet understanding.

  “Hold on.” Isabella’s eyes shock wider. “Didn’t he do an AITA—one about kissing the boss’s daughter?”

  “And that was after you created the segment—so he knew you were going to see it.” Gia’s skeptical tone suddenly turns more cheerful.

  I nod. “And I confronted him over it. Which led to an almost kiss and champagne and—” The two of them exchange a look with smug smiles. “What?”

  “Someone likes him,” Gia singsongs.

  My cheeks heat. I shrug. “I do. Especially after the other night.”

  “What happened the other night?”

  I explain about the party. About the kiss. About the naked man standing in my apartment.

  I leave out the frequent dreams he stars in. Riggs on his knees between my thighs. His tongue—a treacherous thing to my sanity—that worked me into oblivion in the most sinfully decadent way. Having an orgasm wake me from sleep as it’s rippling through me.

  And I most definitely omit that part about how Spencer Riggs is the first man to make me physically react and feel things. I save that for another discussion I know we’ll have soon.

  Isabella raises a finger as she takes a long sip of her drink. Hopefully she dismissed my flushed cheeks as embarrassment rather than getting hot and bothered over the memory. “You’ve seen the goods, Cami. You like the goods. Go forth and finally fuck the goods.” Her last sentence is a shout that has people turning their heads and me ducking in embarrassment.

  “Jesus. Will you quiet down?”

  “Nope.” She grins devilishly. “You like this guy. Like, really like him, despite the rocky start.”

  “And he works for the company,” I say.

  “So what?” Gia throws her hands up. “You said he was a contract driver, right? Temporary for race to race? Are you really going to pass up something with a guy who might not be in the Moretti employ for much longer?”

  “You guys are making a bigger deal about this than it is,” I say.

  Another exchanged look before I get the mom look from both of them.

  “Camilla. Our sweet Camilla.” Gia smiles softly. “There hasn’t been a guy since I’ve known you who has made you get the look you have on your face right now. Even guys who you’ve had lasting relationships with haven’t put the fire in your eyes.”

  “But—”

  “The guy left his own party because you didn’t want to be there. He slept on your couch. He does social media advice columns about you. Um, hello? He’s into you.”

  Isabella’s comment sticks in my mind as I walk into the office—yes, with my heels still on.

  Gia and Isabella made sure of it when they took my purchases and my Jordans with them when they dropped me off.

  They know me well enough that I’d have changed out of them immediately.

  I enter my office and pull up to a stop when I see my dad sitting in one of the chairs opposite my desk.

  “Dad.” It’s a startled word. “What are you doing here?”

  He grins. “I do kind of own the place.”

  “Funny.” Did he find out about the kiss? Did someone record it and post it on social media? Are rumors flying about the conference room when Heather walked in? “I mean, to what do I owe the pleasure?” I ask in my sweetest voice possible.

  He chuckles. “I saw the girls drop you off, so I figured I’d meet you down here rather than have Halle call you up.”

  I move around my desk and take a seat facing him. There are no visible tremors today. In fact, there have been very few that I’ve seen lately.

  I know the lack of them doesn’t mean his diagnosis has changed. I’m not that naïve. But it is a good sign that having family around and less stress is a good thing for him.

  “You look good. Like really good.”

  “I feel good.” He nods and looks out my open door to make sure that Elise isn’t still there before continuing. “That change they made to my meds has helped a lot. In a month it might be different, but for now, I’m just taking it one day at a time.”

  I nod and chuckle nervously. “So . . . what’s wrong?”

  “Why? Do I have reason to be worried about something?”

  “No, but I’ve been here almost three months, and this is the first time you’ve been in my office, waiting for me with that cryptic look on your face.”

  “You always were the worrier.” He laughs. “Nothing is wrong, Cam. In fact, everything is good. Both cars have finished in the points four out of the last five races. We got a podium. I watched a driver become a team player with that race. The public is loving the duo of Andrew and Riggs. Maxim’s making strides to return. He’s slowly increasing his mobility. Oh, and merchandise sales have skyrocketed with that whole A-I-T-A thing you’re doing.”

  I bark out a laugh at the way he spells out AITA, like it’s a foreign language. “Dad, do you have any idea what AITA means?”

  His blank stare tells me he hasn’t made the correlation between the posts and the acronym.

  “Um, Andrew is the Animal?” He scrunches his nose up. Even he knows that sounds ridiculous.

  “No. Definitely not that.” I glance out the window of my office where Elise has since returned and see her snickering. “It means Am I the Asshole. That’s why Riggs says it with every post.”

  “Oooohhhh.” He shakes his head. “Your generation and your YOLOs and FOMOs and FMLs or my personal favorite, WTF.”

  I’m afraid to ask if he knows what that stands for. “You sound so old.”

  “I am old.” He pauses and smiles. “I just wanted to come down here and tell you that you and your team are doing an excellent job. It’s unusual for profits to reflect marketing changes in such a short amount of time and yet it’s trending in the right direction.”

  “Thank you.” I can barely get the words out, my throat is so tight. “That means . . .” Everything.

  “It’s me who should do the thanking.” He purses his lips. “You’ve kept pretty tight-lipped on your opinion about Riggs, other than your initial criticism. He has five races under his belt now with Moretti. Have your thoughts changed any?”

  Am I walking into a trap?

  Am I the asshole for wanting to kiss her right now? For wanting to prove to her that I’m good at it?

  I take a moment to think before I answer. “He’s still a little rough around the edges, but I think that edge gives him an advantage. He’s racing well and shows he has the skill to rightfully be in F1.”

  “True.” He nods and runs his finger and thumb over his chin in thought. “FIA wasn’t thrilled with his overtake in Hungary.”

  “They weren’t thrilled with Rossi’s either.”

  He nods in contemplation and then says softly, “Yeah, well, Rossi is . . . Rossi. The exception to all the rules.” He chuckles and then gets a wistful look in his eyes. “Spencer’s dad—Ethan Riggs—was . . . really something special to watch. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. Larger than life. Commanded attention on and off the track. Reckless in a way that you were afraid to look away for a second because you might miss something incredible—good or bad. We were close in age, and I remember being slightly jealous that he got the fun job.” His smile is bittersweet.

  “Do you think the comparison the media is making is fair?”

  “I think it’s natural. It doesn’t help that they’re spitting images of each other. It makes the comparison easier to make.” He shrugs. “The same will probably happen when you take over for me someday.”

  “True.” I’m not ready to think about that. “But I don’t think it’s fair. The comparisons I mean.”

  “Agreed. He seems pretty unflappable though. He bites back when need be.”

  “I’m sure that thrills Anya.”

  My dad grins. He always did like a rebel. “It does, but that keeps her on her toes.”

  “She’s hinted as much.” I glance over to the small side table where the posters are laid out. Riggs in his Moretti red and that devastating grin look back at me. “I know all drivers say they’re fearless, but they have to get scared sometimes. A hard crash. A near miss. Do you think that fear is different because of his dad?”

  “Funny you should say that. Omar approached me the other day about something. Maybe that’s why I came to talk to you. To get your opinion.”

  “About?”

  “It’s been seventeen years since the accident. All the tracks have been updated or the circuit changed to a new location. Every track except for Suzuka, where Riggs’s dad died.”

  “Oh.” I think of the Japanese track and picture it in my mind. Such a peaceful setting—as almost all the tracks are—but with the potential to wreak so much devastation.

  He nods, his lips twisting. “It’s coming up soon. He’s never raced there so it’ll be a first. Do I let him? Do I talk to him and give him the choice? Do I task the new reserve driver we just signed on with taking the wheel there? I don’t fucking know.” He scrubs a hand over his face and for the first time I see a tremor. Clearly, he’s been agonizing over this.

  I stare at my dad, thoughts flying through my head. The bathroom scene during that first race flashes back to me. Riggs vomiting. My panic attack.

  Was it nerves in general or was it the fear he’d end up like his father?

  Isn’t that the same thing I’ve wondered myself? My dad’s illness? Do I carry the same gene mutation that has made him sick?

  How would I feel if someone held me back from something because they’d prejudged me as having it?

  “What did you tell me when I asked you why you were hiding . . . everything?” I ask quietly with a quick glance outside my office. “That it’s your choice if and when you decide to tell people about your diagnosis. That keeping your dignity is important. I know it’s not even in the same realm, but don’t you think the sentiment is similar? That Riggs probably feels somewhat the same? That it’s his decision?”

  “Yeah. I know. I agree . . . I just . . . Maxim’s accident wasn’t that long ago. The last thing I want is a driver with an unclear head in the car. I don’t need, want, or wish upon us another bad accident.” He still carries guilt over Maxim’s accident. That much is evident in the tone of his voice and the lines etched in his face.

  “No one ever wishes that, Dad. It’s the sport. It’s dangerous. The drivers know that and isn’t that part of the draw for them? The thrill?”

  “I know, Cam, I know.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Camilla

  It’s been a long, very strange day. Shopping with the girls. The talk with my dad. Not killing myself in these heels. And now this.

  The Cosmopolitan magazine on my floor where it must have been stuffed under my door. The same magazine that Riggs sat on the other night and that I swiftly moved after he fell asleep—mortified that he read it.

  You’ve seen the goods, Cami. You like the goods. Go forth and finally fuck the goods.

  My issues have never come from not wanting sex or not being attracted to the person I’m with. That is simple. It’s the fact that when it gets to intimacy, the spark you’re supposed to feel? That snap of a live wire when the other person touches you? It doesn’t happen. Sex for me is like going through the motions for the sake of going through them.

  One should never dread intimacy and yet that has been exactly how I’ve felt since Brandon.

  Do I know what an orgasm feels like? Yes, and only because I’ve given myself one by my own hand to prove to myself that I’m not broken and actually do feel.

  But has a man ever physically helped me achieve one?

  No. Nope. Never.

  Well . . . no man except Riggs. Or rather, the dream version of Riggs.

  I pick up the magazine and fan through it. Is this magazine here because he thinks he ruined mine or because he’s renewing his offer?

  Seconds pass as I stare at the bound pages, my nerves building.

  What part? The you wanting to kiss me or the me wanting to do so much more with you?

  I drop my purse and my tote bag on the floor just inside the door and stride down the hall toward his door.

  Each step my confidence wanes and my nerves dance.

  A part of me hopes he doesn’t answer the door when I knock. The other part wonders what the hell I’m going to say to him if he does.

  And as if on cue, he opens the door, shirtless, and in a pair of gray sweatpants.

  Of course he’s wearing that.

  “Well, hello there.” He smirks and narrows his eyes, clearly aware that I’m worked up about something.

  “Hi. Yes.” Oh shit. I stride past him and into his flat. I falter for a minute as I take in the rich colors and weathered wood. It looks so very different—emptier—than the last time I was here.

  “You were saying?” Riggs asks, prompting me to turn around and meet his amused eyes and arms crossed over his chest that makes every muscle visible. Bulge. I drag my eyes up to meet his and his raised eyebrows.

  Breathe, Camilla. Breathe.

  “Here’s the deal. I have what you want, and you have something I need.”

  “Here I am, baby,” he teases with his arms out, a cocky grin deepening his dimples.

  “Exactly.”

  “What?” If whiplash were a meme, it would be the snapping up of Riggs’s head and the shocked opening of his eyes.

  I hold a finger up to stop him from talking just as he starts. “You want a full-time F1 ride. Your perks. For me to put in a good word for you with another team when Maxim comes back.”

  “Yes.” He draws the word out, that cocky smirk now fading as his eyes narrow. “I’m not following you. I mean I am, believe me I am . . . but make it make sense.”

  “I’m working through some things.”

  “You’re going to have to give me more than that, Gasket.”

  I emit an annoyed sigh at the silly nickname, failing at making myself believe that a part of me doesn’t find it endearing.

  “Cat got your tongue?” he eggs on.

  “Sex.”

  “A three-letter word. Starts with S. Is a noun but personally I think it should be a verb considering there’s a lot of action going on when you have it. And clearly something that makes you blush. What am I missing here?”

  “I need to have sex.”

  He coughs over a laugh. “Need or want? Need’s a very strong word.”

  The amusement in his eyes says he’s enjoying toying with me—almost as if he knows why I’m here and is going to make me go through a whole spiel to get it.