“Camilla, just come out and ask whatever it is you’re asking.”

  “I’m not asking anything. But if you expect me to believe—”

  “Have I dated? Yes. Have I had my time with one-night stands? Yes again. Have I ever had a serious girlfriend? No,” he says with a resolute nod. “I’m too busy trying to chase this dream. Too busy focusing on me and all I need to get here and stay here—that it wouldn’t be fair to someone to be with them, but to not make them my number one priority. Does that answer your non-asked questions?”

  “Um. Yeah. Sure.”

  “C’mon. Sit.” He tugs on my hand. “I’m starving.”

  I do and we begin to open and sample the varying things we bought. We know what some things are. Others not so much.

  “Oh my God. Whatever that is, get it away from me,” I squeal and shove a plastic container his way as fast as I can when I see some kind of clear jelly mixed with things I don’t want to eat.

  He takes the container and looks in it. “Jellied eels.” He shivers. “No. Thank. You.” And then he starts laughing. “My dad played a prank on my mum once with them. He put them under her pillow so when she slid her hands beneath it to sleep, she—”

  “No. Stop.” I cover my ears and squeal. “Your poor mom.”

  His smile is so damn bright and bittersweet. “I forgot about that memory. I thought it was so funny that I pointed them out to her in every store or restaurant we were in.”

  “I’m sure she loved that.” I study his profile as he relives the memory in his mind. “Are you two close?”

  He nods. “Very. She lives near Birmingham now, so I don’t see her as much as I used to with all the travel, but yes.”

  “She hasn’t been to any races, has she?”

  He twists his lips. “No. She doesn’t do well with them. Remember I said she has panic attacks?” I nod. “The track is the only place they happen.”

  “That must be hard for you.”

  I can’t imagine loving a sport that also took something so very vital and meaningful from you.

  He shrugs as if it’s no big deal but then drops the bomb. “We were there that day. When he had the accident. It makes complete sense why for her.”

  “There’s nothing I can say to even . . .”

  “I know.” He reaches out and links his fingers with mine. “I know.”

  We sit in silence for a few moments. There’s a siren in the distance. A loud wash of music from a car going by somewhere close by.

  All I can think about is watching the one you love die in a fiery crash and feeling absolutely helpless to do anything about it.

  And then the irony hits me. How different but how very similar our stories are. I’m doing the same with my dad. A helpless bystander, standing and supporting him, but unable to do anything to prevent the inevitable.

  The unexpected realization hits me like a battering ram.

  “You’ve been avoiding me,” he finally says, filling the silence with the truth.

  I clear my throat. I’m more than grateful when he gives me the time to gather my thoughts. “Belgium was a tough race all around. Andrew ended up in the wall on the last lap. You . . .”

  “I fucked up and didn’t follow Hank’s directive.” He nods but doesn’t look my way. “But we both know that’s not what I’m talking about, is it, Camilla?”

  Fuck. What I’d give to be able to share this burden about my dad’s diagnosis with someone. To have a shoulder to cry on with the one person I seem to spend more time with than anyone else these days. But I can’t betray Dad’s confidence. I can’t dignify his indignity.

  I can’t burden Riggs with more things than I already have. Because sex . . . the sex has been phenomenal between us and yet, after the orgasmic haze has lifted, I notice him studying me as if he’s afraid he hurt me.

  Yet another secret I’m not ready to share.

  But that’s not what he’s talking about.

  He’s talking about what he saw the other day after the race. The sliver of doorway he looked in. My dad’s acute attack where he lost his balance after tremors overtook his body. The episodes are few and far between but are violent when they do hit.

  I had walked by, saw him struggling, and rushed in to help, trying to prevent him from falling. My only error was not closing the door all the way.

  That and Riggs seeing us.

  “You trust me with your body, with the broken you think you are but really aren’t, but you won’t trust me with your thoughts,” he says softly, causing tears to well in my eyes before I blink them away.

  “You’re one to talk.” It’s a defense mechanism I learned . . . after everything. Deflect. Redirect. Dissociate.

  “Me? I thought we just were talking about me. What more do you want to know about me before you’ll share some of yourself, Cam?”

  “Tell me about your dad.”

  “You know about him. Everyone knows about him. It’s all I hear and it’s a blessing and a curse.” He shrugs. “I’m glad that his memory is still alive and well, but I’m also more than sick of being compared to his ghost.”

  “I take it the article bugged you then?” I ask. Moretti just landed a few large spreads in magazines and platforms that reach beyond the racing world. Elise worked her ass off to land them for us. To expand the brand into mainstream. Riggs’s AITA notoriety and daredevil antics helped us get those.

  The articles were humorous, insightful, and occasionally a bit harsh in their comparisons of where the sometimes revered, sometimes vilified Ethan Riggs was in his career at his time of death compared to where his son is at a similar age.

  “I’m sure you know about my father,” he says without answering my question.

  “I’ve heard he was funny and charismatic and—”

  “Reckless. You forgot to throw that in there. Gotta make that comparison or else you wouldn’t be like everyone else.”

  So it does bug him. How could it not?

  “Actually, I wasn’t going to say that. Clearly the comments and comparisons bug you, as they should. You’re your own man in a sport he might have raced but that has changed exponentially in the years since he was in it.”

  “Seventeen years. God.” The pain in his voice is heartbreaking and such a foreshadowing of my own future that it’s hard for me to hear. His sigh is heavy. Resigned. “I try to use the comparison to my advantage, but fuck yes, it bugs me. They use the word reckless like it’s a bad thing. Like it’s what led to the accident.” He looks over and meets my eyes, the grief still there after all these years. “We’re all reckless. We must be to be in this sport or we wouldn’t be any good, so stop using it as a negative. As a means to try and shame a man who was larger than life in almost every aspect that I can remember. There was so, so much more to him.”

  His voice cracks and hell if my heart doesn’t right along with it—for the man beside me.

  I have my dad. He’s been my rock my whole life. How lucky am I to get to say that? How incredibly naïve am I to have taken that for granted? How stupid was I to contemplate turning the opportunity down to work with him when someone like Riggs would kill for that chance?

  Nine years of memories with your dad isn’t enough to last a lifetime. That’s all Riggs gets though.

  God, I’m fortunate to have the chance to make more with my dad.

  “Tell me about him. The more people don’t know. I want to know him.”

  His smile is the most genuine I’ve ever seen. It lights up his face and his eyes and is so hauntingly beautiful. The love he has for a man he most likely barely remembers is clear. That, in and of itself, says volumes about how much his mom kept his dad alive for him.

  “Candy floss,” he murmurs. “I remember it at races. I’d get the package that had two colors—pink and blue—and eat them in that order. I’d try to measure it perfectly, a bite per lap, so that there was one bite left after he crossed the finish line. When he’d get out of the car, he’d rush over to me and pick me up in the biggest of bear hugs. I’d give him the last bite of candy floss and he’d say victory is sweet.”

  I let him revisit the memory in silence with our fingers linked.

  “He traveled all the time for the job, but it always felt like he was there somehow. With what I know now about the sport, I don’t know how he did it, but he did. And more than just birthdays. I’m talking silly school events, weird craft fairs that my mum wanted to go to, Monday night movie nights.” He smiles. “God, he loved his movies.”

  “What was his favorite?” I ask to keep him talking. To keep that beautiful, bittersweet smile on his face.

  “Back to the Future. We could recite all three in the series line for line. Watched them at least once a month. He liked the concept of being able to go back and fix things you’d done wrong. My mum just liked Michael J. Fox.” He chuckles and I immediately think of my dad and the illness he and the actor share. Riggs continues, completely oblivious to my connection. “He’s the complete opposite of my dad’s type so I’m not sure if she really liked him or was just trying to get a little dig in on my dad after he said he wanted to buy a DeLorean.”

  “That’s hilarious.”

  “The teasing between the two of them every time we watched it was epic.”

  “Must have been for you to remember it.”

  “Hmm,” he murmurs. “It was. To this day, she donates annually to Michael J. Fox’s Parkinson’s foundation in my dad’s name. A way to keep their joke alive almost two decades later.”

  I have similar memories of time with my dad. He might have been a busy businessman, but he always made time for me. Now, I wonder how he did it.

  “He sounds like he was a good dad. A good man,” I say.

  “He was. Sometimes I worry that I’ll get so wrapped up in the noise about him that I’ll forget stuff like that, you know? As time and memories fade.”

  “No one will be able to change your perception of him. You knew him. They didn’t.”

  “Yeah.” He falls quiet.

  “I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask if you’re worried about Suzuka? It’s coming up.”

  His whole body stills. His head dips down for a beat as he stares out at the city beyond. “Are you asking as a Moretti or as the woman I’m sitting beside and currently sleeping with?”

  “How about I’m whomever you want me to be?”

  He smirks, and I welcome the sight of it. “That’s an open-ended response that could lead to some serious roleplaying.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Hmm.” He leans over and presses a kiss to my lips. It’s unexpected, but so very welcome. He rests his forehead on mine for a beat before nodding, almost as if he’s fortifying his answer, before sitting back up.

  “The race. The race. The race.” He groans. “It’s all anyone wants to talk about. Or rather not talk about because they’d rather pretend they’re not thinking it and just stare at me like they’re waiting for . . . I don’t know what they’re waiting for from me.”

  “That has to be . . . hard. Intrusive. Annoying. All of the above.”

  “Yep.” He sighs and falls silent for a beat. “Does it cross my mind? Of course it does. How could it not? There’s a reason I’ve worn that track out on the sim. I mean . . . the only way to face this track is head-on. It’ll have taken me seventeen years to get there, but it’s probably about time.”

  “That still won’t make it any easier or the watchful eyes on you any less curious.”

  “I know. Believe me, I know. My plan? To be a robot. To block out all emotion. I’ve been a pro at doing that my whole life, so I guess I’ve been practicing for this moment. I don’t fucking know.” He runs a hand through his hair and purses his lips. “It’s easy to shut down when the one thing you loved more than anything is taken from you. I mean, I have a few close friends who’ve breached that wall. I guess, until you.” He smiles softly. “I mean, yeah. You. I don’t talk about this shit with anybody really.”

  He glances over at me and shakes his head as if he can’t believe it himself.

  “Well, I’m glad I can be that for you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Riggs

  Why is it so comfortable to sit in silence with her?

  Just why?

  Why do I find myself telling her shit I don’t even talk with my mates about?

  Granted I don’t fuck my mates either so there’s that.

  But she switched topics when I asked about her. Turned the focus on me. Asked me about my dad when clearly there are things going on with her dad.

  Maybe the rumors are true. Maybe she’s here to learn the ropes and eventually take over the company.

  But if that’s the case, then why not just tell the whole of Moretti Motorsports that?

  “This is perfect. The view. The night. The—”

  “Company?”

  “Yes, the company. Thank you for bringing me here,” Camilla murmurs from where she’s tucked against my side.

  I have so many ways I can respond to her comment, but fuck if it hasn’t been a pretty serious conversation for a night where I just wanted to laugh and not think.

  Maybe it’s time to change course.

  “It is.” I nod and decide to pull out the cheesy line. “But there’s something else I’d much rather look at.”

  She leans back, her arm still hooked through mine, and snorts. “Ah, it seems that someone is trying to flatter me so he can get some . . .” She narrows her eyes and squints. “What would you call this?”

  God. How is she reading my mind? How does she know where my train of thought is and prompt it?

  Then again, I am a guy. At any given moment, my mind is one thought away from sex.

  “Well, it sure as fuck isn’t paddock pussy, so I’m thinking it’s . . . scenic pussy?” I offer and then bark out a laugh when she nods her head emphatically.

  “Exactly. Scenic pussy. That has a nice ring to it,” she says as she shifts up on her knees and faces me. “Well, are you?”

  I don’t even fight my smile as I stare at her and welcome the devilish gleam in her eye. “Oh, is this where we roleplay? Where you are . . . what are you?”

  She bats her lashes and twirls a lock of her hair. “I’m just the lowly secretary trying to get my very important boss’s attention on my . . . work.”

  “Your work?”

  “Mm-hmm.” She leans forward and licks the seam of my lips. “My assets.”

  “I’m partial to those assets.” I palm the cheeks of her arse and pull her to me. She makes quick work straddling me so that we’re face-to-face. I’m not going to complain.

  “Oh, Mr. Riggs,” she coos breathlessly. “Whatever do you need?”

  I’m hard instantly as she wriggles over my jean-confined cock.

  “Me bent over the desk? Me on my knees? Me pressed against the window, ass out?” She breaks character and starts laughing.

  It’s the best fucking sound ever.

  In fact, I’ve come to love hearing it. At headquarters. At the track. Breathless in my bed.

  Who knew the woman I initially thought had a stick shoved up her arse would be someone whose banter, sense of humor, and quick wit, I’d Iook forward to spending time with?

  I lean forward and kiss just where her shirt is unbuttoned on her breastbone. “All I know is I’m really liking this new change. The unbuttoned shirt. The tank top. It gives everyone else a hint, but it’s a reminder to me what I’m tasting later.” I lick a line up the curve of her neck. The heat of her pussy through our clothes is my own personal heaven and hell.

  “You never answered my question, Mr. Riggs,” she says, falling back into character as she grinds over me.

  My chuckle vibrates through the night. “Ride me, Camilla. I want to watch you in the moonlight.”

  She pauses, her eyebrows lifted and her lips in a perfect fuckable pout.

  Yeah, that will be happening later too.

  “Well, Mr. Riggs. I’d love to comply with your demand, but it seems we have way too many clothes on to make that wish a reality.”

  “How about we make a bet?”

  She breaks character and looks at me drolly. “I do believe a bet is the reason we’re sitting here right now.”

  I bark out a laugh. “You’ve got a point.” I press my lips to hers. “I’m still proposing a bet.”

  “And what would that be, sir?” The breathless Moretti is back and fuck if it doesn’t make me rock hard.

  “Whoever gets undressed the quickest gets oral later.”

  A slow smile crawls over her lips. “But I have more clothes on. More to undo.”

  “Then you’ll get a head start.” We both rise to our feet. “Three. Two. One.”

  I have to hand it to her. Camilla can undress quicker than shit. It’s only seconds before we’re both breathless, laughing, and tripping as we step out of our jeans.

  “Victory!” she shouts as she raises both arms in the air, her tits bouncing as she does.

  I groan at the sight of her in the moonlight. I won. Even with the head start, I still won, but I’m not calling her on it. What man would miss the chance of licking her pussy? Of feeling it tighten around his tongue as she came? Of tasting that sweet tang of her arousal on his tongue?

  “Get over here,” I growl as I sit down and reach my hand out to her. She climbs onto my lap and straddles my hips so that my cock is right at her entrance.

  She leans forward and kisses me. It’s laden with a demand for more but a desire to take things slow. To enjoy. To savor. To give. To receive.

  My hands are on her breasts, thumbs rubbing her nipples as she slowly lowers herself down onto me.

  “Jesus Christ.” She swallows the groaned-out words as her body accepts me. As the warm, wet heat of her pussy takes me in and squeezes around me.

  Her head falls back from the sensation of me being inside her.

  My hands slide down to her waist, to hold her still for a second more so that her arousal seeps out and coats my balls. So I can feel her every-fucking-where I possibly can. I’ve never wanted to be more marked by anyone in my life than I do right now.

  “God, I love your cock,” she murmurs seconds before she starts to move. Her hands are on my shoulders as she rocks her hips back and forth over me. As she creates one angle on my cock for the ride down and another angle for the slide back up.