I glance over my shoulder and then back at her. “I need a distraction, Gasket.”

  “A distraction? I’d think going two hundred thirty miles an hour would provide plenty of distraction.”

  “Hmm. It does. But it also creates a whole lot of unused adrenaline in my body that needs to be released . . . somehow.” I step farther into the room and shut the door at my back. There’s a window in the door, but I’m more worried about what people will hear than see.

  I’m just a driver talking to his marketing manager. A discussion about the new endorsement.

  Not a lover telling his partner he has needs that he might be desperate for her to meet.

  “There’s a gym just down the hall. A treadmill. An exercise bike. Hell, there’s a whole track just beyond that door that I’m sure you could find your way to jog around.” A smile toys at the corners of her mouth that is anything but innocent like her voice hints to be.

  “I see how you are. You have demands and I met—meet—them regularly.” I brace my hands on the table across from her and smirk. “Isn’t it about time that I make my demands known?”

  She chuckles and leans back in her chair, crosses her arms over her chest, and meets my gaze with a challenge of her own. “Is that so?”

  I lift my eyebrows. “If this is a no one else situation, then, uh, you’re going to have to help me ease that abundance of adrenaline.”

  She twists her lips but it’s only to fight her smile.

  How did I think she wasn’t my type? Baggy clothes. Some clothes. No clothes. The woman is downright sexy as sin. “Please tell me you’re not asking me to fuck you in the paddock?”

  “They don’t call it paddock pussy for nothing.” I shrug as her eyes shock wide.

  She coughs over her own breath. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  I shrug and make a noncommittal sound, loving her stunned reaction. “There’s a lot of closed doors everywhere for a reason.” I glance behind me at the glass door to the conference room. “Too bad there aren’t blinds on this door.”

  “No. Not here. I cannot have sex with you here. I’m partially your boss. Your—”

  “I know what you are. And for the record, that makes it even more tempting. Even fucking hotter.” I groan at the thought.

  “You are seriously crazy.”

  I rest a hip on the table, never taking my eyes off hers. “I’m sure you’ve had a tough time getting some of the guys on board with listening to a woman. Especially since you seem to be stepping in for your dad every now and again. It might ease your stress if I let you have your way with me. Take control. Grab me by the cock and lead me around by it.”

  “More like lead it right into my mouth,” she murmurs, her cheeks flushing and eyes darkening.

  My grin is immediate. My cock hardens. “You think I’d complain about that?”

  “What I think is that you’re out of your mind.”

  “You’re the one who offered to pay me for sex.”

  “You’re the one who gave it to me for free.”

  We wage a visual war as the sexual tension virtually combusts in this room. I glance at the table she’s seated at and quirk my eyebrows. Definitely a useable surface. “Before the end of my . . . tenure here.” I almost choke on the thought of being relegated back to F2. “I’ll get you to fuck me somewhere in the paddock.”

  “I’ll be your paddock pussy?” she asks, amused. “You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

  “I’m a racer, Camilla. I live for the danger. I have to be sure of myself. And this? This I’m sure of.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Riggs

  “Box. Box. Box,” Hank says.

  I grit my teeth, my concentration unwavering as I chase after Evans.

  One more place.

  I want one more spot up the grid.

  It’ll be the highest one-two finish for Moretti in five years . . . and it’s just within my reach.

  If I shave off another hundredth of a second, I’ll be within DRS range on the next straight. I’ll slingshot past Evans, hope for a caution to save the tires, and end the race with the highest finish I’ve personally had for Moretti thus far.

  “Box. Box. Box. We have harder tires ready for you,” Hank says.

  “These are fine. Let me stay out.” My voice vibrates with the higher downforce of the car. I fight against the pressure it exerts.

  Evans is right there. Right fucking there to reel in. C’mon, fucker.

  My arms are tired.

  My legs strained.

  My eyes are burning.

  So goddamn close.

  “We need to box.”

  I’m flying down the last straight, trying to shave off that time, waiting for Hank to tell me DRS is enabled.

  Pit row is coming up.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Fuck. I hit traffic. Costas is there squeezing me out, our cars bumping and pushing me off to the outside as we take the corner.

  I grip the wheel, feeling for damage from the contact but not finding any.

  We come out the other side of the turn, and I go wheel to wheel with him. My temper gets the best of me. My only focus is passing this fucker and getting back the time he’s made me lose on Evans.

  I take the outside line, pushing the car to the limits . . . and subsequently miss my exit to pit row.

  Subconsciously? I don’t fucking know but Hank’s radio checking in my ear tells me he’s turned it on to say something and then turned it off. No doubt he’s keeping the cursing off the radio since it’s for public consumption.

  “Riggs.” It’s all he says. All he has to say.

  I just disregarded my race engineer’s directions. That’s not going to go over very well. Not at all.

  Later, Riggs.

  I pull past Costas and renew my effort to reel Evans back in. To close the gap.

  Think about it later.

  “You are within DRS range,” Hank says, ever the professional, leaving anything else he has to say off race comms.

  “Understood,” I say and push the button to engage.

  Go. Go. Go.

  I come around Evans. We’re wheel to wheel.

  I edge ahead.

  He tries to stave off my attack.

  I push harder knowing a turn is coming and if I don’t get him now, I never will.

  The car brings it. Speed and grit. I edge past Evans as we slow to take turn one. Just as I’m about to accelerate out of it, the car shimmies violently.

  Fuck. A tire.

  No.

  Fuck. No.

  I grip the wheel and hold on to try and control the car as it pulls and resists. As I struggle with it.

  Sparks fly out behind me.

  Smoke.

  Screeching.

  More smoke.

  “You okay, Riggs?” I hear through the headset.

  “Holding it, but fuck.”

  “Get across to the gravel trap.”

  “Yep.”

  This is on me. All fucking on me.

  It’s my fuck up. No points. A DNF. A damaged car.

  Moretti is going to be pissed.

  I limp all around the track to get into pit row then pull into the Moretti garage.

  Christ. This one’s going to hurt.

  I’m unclipped and climb out of the car into a very chilly reception by my crew.

  Hank is standing before me in seconds. “Back room. Now,” he commands, ever cognizant of cameras everywhere.

  Fuck.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I follow him, pulling off my balaclava and unzipping my suit as I go.

  The minute the door shuts, he’s in my face.

  “What the fuck was that, Riggs? You think your last name is Moretti now? That you own this fucking team? You think you know this car better than I do? You’ve been in F1 for a hot fucking minute. I assure you that you don’t. Not even fucking close.”

  I nod. It’s the best course of action as Hank’s face turns red and the tendons in his neck grow taut while he paces the room like a caged animal.

  I deserve the ration of shit being handed to me. Every goddamn bit.

  Self-preservation—the fear of going back to F2—has me wanting to place blame. On Costas for the dirty air. At Hank’s call to change the tires. At fucking everything.

  “The quickest way to lose a ride is to ignore your engineer, Riggs.” He stops pacing and looks at me. “You’re talented as fuck as you showed today by moving up to P4 from your P10 start. But that shit? Ignoring your team? It will be your arrogance that will send your ass back down to F2.”

  “Sorry.” One word. And he probably won’t even accept that.

  “I don’t want your fucking sorry. This is your first warning. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  He storms out of the room without another word, leaving me standing there staring at the anger left in his wake.

  I hang my head and take a deep breath.

  You fucked up, Riggs.

  You made a rookie mistake. A huge one. There are no do-overs. No retakes.

  You made a mistake on a public race comm that no doubt will be shared on social media like wildfire. It’ll look bad. It is bad.

  And all those teams I want to impress to give me a permanent ride will most likely see it too.

  I expect the knock on the door before it even comes. Anya peeks her head in before I can respond.

  “You good?” she asks.

  I look behind me. “Do I have any arse left?”

  She shakes her head and laughs. “If you had pulled that off you would have been hailed as a serious, seasoned F1 driver. But you didn’t hear me say that.”

  “I didn’t hear you say a thing,” I say, grateful for the vote of confidence but not so ready for the upcoming media questions.

  “But you’ll need to hear me say this. It was a bullshit move that you’ll be questioned about relentlessly. Harlan Flanders? You just gave him the material he’s been dying for. The people still doubting you? You just made it that much harder to win them over. When risks pay off in this sport, you’re a hero. When they don’t, the hole is hard to dig out of. Especially with your pit crew.”

  “I know.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. I suggest you do this presser and then go on an apology tour in your garage.”

  “I will.” Fuck.

  “C’mon, let’s go.”

  I follow Anya down the hallway, accepting the baseball hat and sports drink she hands me to replenish my electrolytes. We’re just about into the garage when we pass an open door and something catches my eye.

  Anya keeps walking, unaware that I’ve stopped. Through the cracked doorway, I see Camilla standing with Carlo. His hands are on her shoulders but shaking, tremoring, as she holds his waist and tries to what looks like, stabilize him.

  For the briefest of seconds, my fuck up is forgotten as I blatantly stare, trying to understand something that clearly isn’t my business.

  Camilla must sense me there because she looks up over her dad’s shoulders and meets my gaze.

  There’s a quick look of panic that flashes in her eyes and then a subtle shake of her head.

  What does that mean?

  What is going—

  “Riggs?” Anya calls me from the end of the hall. “We have media waiting.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Right.” I force myself to look away, to push aside what I saw.

  To not care even though I do.

  “You’re going to get a firestorm of questions. You need to . . .” She continues directing me on how to respond, while I just keep seeing Carlo and Camilla from moments before.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Camilla

  It’s late. The lights are off in most of the cubicles and the whole building is quiet.

  And Riggs is standing in the doorway of my office. He has his trademark black V-neck on, blue jeans, and ironically, Jordans. My shoe of choice.

  There are so many things that probably need to be said after what he saw after the race this past weekend, but I’ve been avoiding him so the chance to talk hasn’t been there.

  Doing other things with him occupy my mind instead. It’s so much easier to think about sex. To think about pleasure. To research ways to return the favor for him since I’m not exactly the most experienced lover out there.

  “You do know it’s not usual for a driver to be this present around headquarters, right? Most live in Monaco and only come in when needed.”

  He nods. “Yes. I’m more than aware. But seeing as I’m not a full-time contracted driver yet, Monaco seems to be an extravagant bet I can’t make just yet. Besides, I figure if I’m around more often than not, you guys won’t have cause to fire me. Maybe I’ll grow on you. Maybe you’ll want to keep me around. Maybe you’ll keep me on for next year.”

  “That’s why you’re here this late? Hoping I’ll want to keep you around?”

  He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m putting some time in on the sim,” he says. “My home module is having issues, and I didn’t want to skip a day.”

  “Look at how dedicated you are.”

  His grin does things to my insides that should be illegal . . . and yet I feel this weird, invisible wall between us.

  “You want to get out of here?” he asks.

  “What do you mean?” I ask because we don’t get out of anywhere together unless it’s the bed.

  “I’m asking you to get out of the office. To get out of our flats. And after this weekend—you’re avoiding me—again. Either because of my fuck up on the track or . . . other things.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and shifts on his feet. “We travel the fucking world together, Camilla, but we don’t do anything. You work and tell me what to post on social media. I drive and meet hundreds of people. But we don’t enjoy anything outside of that because we’re so focused. So let’s go do something. Anything.”

  I swallow over the lump in my throat. I don’t know why this simple request has gotten to me. “People know who you are now,” I say, giving a futile excuse I don’t really mean. “We can’t be seen together.”

  “Your point?” He points to the window. “It’s dark outside. There are plenty of places we can go where we can hide in the shadows. Where we can talk and laugh and just be.” He walks over to me where I’m sitting at my desk and holds his hand out to me. “Please, Gasket? I’m going fucking stir-crazy.”

  The expression on his face—earnest, hopeful, playful—sticks with me as we make our way through town after town. The top is down on his convertible, and the warm night air whips around as the stars above grow brighter and brighter.

  We stop for some food from a local delicatessen that’s just about to close. One look at Riggs and the owner’s eyes grow wide, and his hand about to flip the closed sign pauses. We buy some of everything he has left, determined to make his few extra minutes of time worth it. Then we head out to a popular park area that’s closed at this time of night.

  Riggs takes my hand and leads me to a closed gate.

  “Riggs!” I whisper as if someone is close and can hear me. “It says closed. We can’t go in there. It’s breaking and entering or whatever it’s called here.”

  “It’s not breaking and entering.” He chuckles and then starts to put in the combination on the lock to open it up, while I look at him slack-jawed.

  “What are you—I mean—” I look all around us. Clearly, he knows the combination, but that doesn’t mean this is allowed. “Riggs.”

  He puts his hand on the back of my neck, pulls me against him, and meets his mouth to mine. His kiss has a dizzying effect on me. My head spins and my body tingles.

  Does this ever stop?

  I mean, it’s new for me—like everything has been awakened—but does it fade at some point? Do you just get used to feeling and that high-frequency buzz becomes a low-grade meh?

  “It’s okay to break a few rules, Gasket. Relax. You’re earning your nickname right now.”

  “But—” His kiss cuts me off again.

  “Keep arguing and I’ll keep kissing you.”

  “That’s a win-win situation for me, Riggs.” I smile against his lips as his chuckle rumbles against my chest. “I just might keep arguing.”

  He leans back and brushes hair off my forehead, his eyes meeting mine under the moonlit night. “Then you’ll miss the best view in a one-hundred-kilometer radius.”

  “Oh really?”

  He nods. “Oh really.”

  “How do you know the code?” He quirks an eyebrow and glances at my lips in warning. “Just a question.”

  He picks up the bag of food, the blanket he had in his trunk, and leads me through the gate, locking it at our back. “My mum used to work for the local municipal department here. She’d bring me here when I was a kid. It was our place to go after . . . after everything.”

  Our hands find one another’s as we walk. We lace our fingers like it’s the most casual thing, when to me, it isn’t.

  It’s . . . intimate in this setting. The dark night. The stars above. The privacy.

  We walk for a while, the night noises filtering around us. The rustle of trees. The songs of insects. The fall of our feet. And when we clear a ridge and Riggs steps aside, I understand why we’re here.

  The whole of London is laid out before us in the distance. She’s beautiful with her twinkling lights and her domed churches, and the chimneys interrupting the skyline.

  “Wow.” It’s all I say as I take it in.

  “I know.” He lays out the blanket. “I haven’t been here in a long time. I forgot how incredible it is.”

  “Just admit it. This is your go-to spot where you bring women to impress them.”

  “Huh. Never had to impress a woman until now,” he jokes.

  Or at least I think he jokes, but the look on his face says otherwise.

  “Seriously. You’ve never brought a girlfriend here before?”

  “Nope. Never had a girlfriend to bring here.” He takes a seat.

  “You’re full of shit.”

  He’s never had a girlfriend? With those looks and that charm? And the skills in the bedroom?