This time it takes everything I have to not choke on my own breath.

  * * *

  The garage is buzzing.

  Like electricity snapping, excitement ready to explode.

  And it does—a raucous roar of cheers goes up—when Riggs and Andrew walk into the garage after qualifying for P3 and P4 starting grids for the race.

  The highest one-two punch for a start that we’ve landed in two years.

  And Riggs missed P2 by two hundredths of a second.

  They both pull off their helmets. Grins wide. Hair disheveled. Sweat beading on their skin.

  But it’s only one racer I’m staring at from behind the darkness of my sunglasses.

  There’s only one person I want to run and hug fiercely.

  There’s only one man I’m slowly falling for.

  And that was never supposed to happen.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Riggs

  I don’t even get a second to process my P4 finish.

  Just off the podium, but so damn freaking close that I can all but taste it.

  Just off the podium because I defended my teammate’s position, so he didn’t have to.

  I did what a number two driver is supposed to do. Fight for my team’s overall success rather than just mine.

  For a man who is hell-bent on proving he deserves to stay here, would I have liked the podium for myself? Hell yes.

  But will showing how much of a team player I am endear me to other teams for a possible contract next year? Definitely.

  It’s the long game I’m forced to play in a constricted time frame. Prove I can be successful myself while proving I am a team player. It’s a dichotomy that isn’t always fun to have to weigh against each other.

  What it comes down to is the fact that I contributed to Team Moretti in the way they needed me to. When Hank asked me to defend, I did.

  And now we’re sitting higher in the overall points standings because of it.

  “Brilliant driving, Riggs.”

  “Another finish in the points, man.”

  “Way to be a team member, mate.”

  Comments are called after me as I’m thrown into the washing machine of press quicker than usual for one reason or another. Anya explains the reasoning behind it, but I don’t really process it between the pats on the back and the hands being offered to shake.

  Seven races in Formula 1 and I’ve finished in the points in all but one of them.

  That’s better than some of these drivers with permanent spots have accomplished this year.

  Carlo’s happy. Omar is happy. Hank is happy.

  I can see a future for me here. I don’t know what path it’ll be on, but I’m starting to see one with the track record I’m laying down.

  “Okay. We have you set up right here,” Anya says, leading me to a cordoned-off area with the Moretti banner behind it and a half-moon of reporters waiting. She gets her recorder out, because every interview we give is not only noted by the reporter but is recorded by our staff.

  It’s an attempt to prevent a reporter from misquoting the driver and creating their own narrative for the headlines.

  I spend the next ten minutes fielding questions. Some by reporters I like. Some by reporters I don’t care for. Some by ones I don’t really know.

  But I do know when I look up halfway through and spot Camilla across the way, watching me, that I stand a little taller.

  “Talk to us about that near miss with Evans at the start of the race.”

  I explain the situation but am definitely preoccupied.

  She’s wearing heels. Sexy boot-type heels that I can imagine digging into my arse as her legs wrap around me.

  “And how are you feeling having to fend off the field to protect your teammate?”

  Like it was bullshit. Like I could have leaped past Andrew and gunned for my first podium.

  I swallow down the selfishness and respond with the company line. The one that’s expected but that still feels like acid on my tongue.

  A glance back over to Camilla has me noticing her outfit. Her jeans are a bit tighter, her shirt different—not the classic button-up she hides behind.

  Talk about a welcome distraction.

  Fuck. What’s Rossi stopping to chat with her for? He’s the only driver on the grid I want nowhere near her.

  “Riggs?” Anya prompts, pulling me from Rossi and Camilla to the here and now.

  I smile at the journalist through gritted teeth as she asks her next question.

  “The jump from F2 to F1 has appeared seamless to outsiders. What is your comfort level in the car right now? Do you still feel there is room for improvement?”

  “There’s always room for improvement. I’m still trying to better my reaction times. My skills. My everything. I’m pretty comfortable in the—” My words falter. Rossi’s gone. No complaints there. But even with the distance separating us, it’s plain to see something startles her.

  Her expression pales. Her face falls—that’s the only way I can describe it—as she shakes her head ever so subtly back and forth before rushing in the exact opposite direction of Moretti’s position in the paddock.

  What the fuck?

  I’ve never seen Camilla with that expression on her face, and I hope I never do again.

  “Excuse me but—”

  “Riggs has room for one or two more questions, before we head to the multi-driver press briefing,” Anya says, cutting me off.

  Fuck.

  I can’t get out of that.

  And as I’m directed away, I look over my shoulder, hoping that Camilla’s okay.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Riggs

  I don’t expect her to answer her hotel room door when I knock, but I try it anyway.

  My texts haven’t been replied to. My calls unanswered.

  She wasn’t in the paddock when I finished with the media. Then with the team debriefing. Then with Omar over a few quick things.

  Meeting after meeting and all I can focus on is where the hell Camilla is and what the hell happened.

  Or am I seeing shit and making mountains out of molehills?

  But here I am in an empty hotel hallway. The team is out celebrating but I couldn’t. I needed to be here. I needed to know what’s going on.

  My first set of knocks goes without a response.

  I want to call out to her to open up. That I’m not going anywhere. But in the off chance that a team member decided to head back to their room, I can’t look like a jilted lover trying to gain access.

  So I do the next best thing. I take a picture of me standing outside her door, alone, and text: I’m not going anywhere. Either let me in or the crew will find me sitting against your door. Talk about having to explain.

  Seconds pass.

  I think she might not be in there.

  And right when I’m about to walk away, I hear the lock on the hotel room door clink, the door pulls open, then her footsteps pad away.

  I enter her room. It’s exactly the same as mine. No one can claim that Moretti skimps on its accommodations of its drivers and crew. She’s sitting in the small seating area. Her bare feet up on the table. Her head is resting against the back of the couch, eyes are closed.

  She’s a picture of beautiful melancholy. Of quiet strength. Of unspoken despair.

  And I’m at a fucking loss of how to approach her.

  But I have to try.

  I take a seat on the table, beside her feet, and pick them up and move them onto my lap. Needing something to do with my hands, I begin to rub them.

  At first, she tenses up, but then she moans softly. Her eyes still closed.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, tough shit.” Her eyes flash open, and I nod. “You avoided questions the other night. I talked instead. I let you in. I trusted you. Now it’s your turn to do the same, Camilla.”

  She inhales a shaky breath, and the sound makes my chest ache. To carry something with you so powerful that it hurts to talk about it? That must be brutal.

  “Who did you see in the paddock today?” I ask softly, not expecting an answer. “Because I can draw some conclusions for you. Conclusions I made while I was in press conferences and debriefings and who the fuck knows what because I was so worried about you. About the look on your face when you bolted out of the paddock. Do you want me to share my thoughts?”

  “Yes.” The single syllable is barely audible.

  “Remember when I told you that we all have a secret that holds us back? That hurts us? I think yours has to do with why you walked away from F1 years ago. I think it has to do with why you needed to work through ‘some things.’”

  I feel like an arse even saying that to her. But of course, I’ve considered and reconsidered that various reasons or events could have caused her insecurities, her . . . inability to trust a man during sex.

  I’ve tried to talk myself out of believing the only conclusion I come to time and again.

  But the talking myself out of it doesn’t negate the facts that add up the same way no matter how I stack them.

  Someone hurt her.

  Possibly assaulted her.

  And I hate him with every fucking fiber of my being.

  I’ve debated having this conversation with her a hundred times. The timing never seemed right. I don’t want to be another person to hurt her. The excuses go on and on.

  But after today, after that expression on her face, I hope she’ll tell me. I hope she’ll trust me enough to let me in.

  “And . . . I think the man who hurt you remains a part of this very small community.”

  Her brown eyes flutter open and well with emotion. But the slightest of nods tells me I’m right.

  Fuck how I wish I weren’t.

  My fists ball. My teeth clench. And every part of me wants to punch a fist through the wall at the thought of someone hurting her.

  Who is it?

  Whose face can I go rearrange?

  Whose body do I need to go bury?

  And then the thought hits me. Is it another racer? One of this band of twenty brothers?

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  What. Then?

  I swallow down every demand I want to make of her. Calm down, Riggs. Your anger is the last thing she needs considering she’s already upset.

  “Tell me only what you want to tell me.” Those are the hardest words in the world to utter because I want to demand she tell me everything. Want to shake answers out of her. But I keep my cool.

  She’s silent a bit longer. Her breathing even and measured. “You’re right.”

  Which part? About what?

  “I was almost nineteen years old.” She pauses. “It was my gap year. I was . . . busy being young and wealthy and not having to worry about tomorrow. Sounds ridiculously entitled, but true. I lived at the track. In the paddock during race week. There was a group of us who were friends. I was the youngest by far, but they didn’t mind. The guys were old enough to get jobs with various teams and travel the world. We had this weird bubble of a life that no one understood except for us. We grew close. We hung out during downtime. We went out when we were off the clock.”

  “Is he a driver, Camilla?” I have to ask. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t. And I’m more than fucking proud of myself for keeping the murder out of my voice.

  She stares at the ceiling and ignores my question. “We all went out. There was a club. There was drinking. There was fun. I felt safe.” She meets my eyes for the first time. “That’s what I remember more than anything. Being with my friends and feeling like I was safe.”

  And then she resumes her position looking back at the ceiling. She can’t look at me and tell me, can she?

  That guts me.

  “We ended up back at one of the team hotels. We’re hanging out, having a few more drinks, playing music, just being young and having the time of our lives. There were a lot of us in the room . . . and then there weren’t.” She shifts on the couch, but I keep rubbing her feet. Needing the connection. Needing her to need it too.

  And that’s a first for me. I’ve never felt that with another woman, like I need to be her strength. The one she can confide in.

  “Christ,” I sigh, knowing what happens next.

  “He started kissing me. I was more than buzzed. He was cute, and I was over the moon that he liked me. But then his hands were under my shirt and under my skirt and I tried to push him away. I told him no. I screamed no. To get off me. Sure, I’d messed around with guys before, but—”

  “But your past, your experience, doesn’t factor into this at all. The only thing that does is that you told him no.”

  She nods but keeps her eyes on the ceiling. The lone tear falls from the corner of her eye into her hairline. It’s fleeting but I see it and I dread hearing the next part.

  “He shoved me onto the bed. Pinned me down. Told me that if I didn’t want sex, I wouldn’t dress like I did.” She pauses, and I keep rubbing her feet.

  I feel helpless. Gutted. Sick to my stomach.

  “I fought him. I tried. I screamed. I said no. The music was too loud? People don’t pay attention to screams in hotels? I don’t know, but no one came to help like I prayed that they would. He was far from gentle. He was so crass, telling me I was getting exactly what I deserved for dressing like the little slut I was. Mentally, I went somewhere else. Had to—”

  I need to move. To walk. To abate my rage. But if I get up, if I let go of her feet, will she think my disgust is with her and not her rapist?

  So I remain where I am with a jaw clenched so tight, I’m surprised my teeth don’t shatter.

  “When it was over, when he was finished, he released my hands and I clawed at his face.” Her body tenses from the memory while I silently cheer. “The scratch I scored across his cheek earned me a backhand to mine. Then as he buttoned up his pants, he spit on me and told me what a lousy fuck I was. That I was no better than a cold-fish cunt. Then he left, telling me I better be out of his room when he came back and if I went to the cops, he had enough pictures of me all over him all night long. That he’d pull the lovers scorned card and no one would believe me.”

  “Camilla.” Her name is all I can manage.

  “I know.” She shifts in her seat, so she has no other option than to meet my gaze. “I know.” Shame swims in her eyes. “I was young. Dumb. Drunk. Alone in a hotel room with a guy. I knew how it looked.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I say softly.

  “I know that now. I knew it then, but I was scared. My dad was . . .”

  “He was what?”

  “My dad was going through some health scares. Had just taken over running the business. I . . . the last thing I wanted to do was be a burden to him.”

  “I see the way he looks at you, Camilla. You’re his world.”

  “Exactly.” Her smile is sad. “If he knew . . . how would he have looked at me then? With shame? Embarrassment? Like I should have known better?” Emotion floods her voice.

  She didn’t go to her parents. Not because they wouldn’t believe her, but because she didn’t want them to look at her differently. Because she didn’t want her father to look at her—his world—and see damage.

  Christ.

  Fucking Christ.

  My skin feels like it’s tightened on my frame as I fight the fury coursing through me. As I struggle to keep the defeat out of my voice. As I try to figure out how to be the man she needs right now.

  “There’s nothing I can say to make it better and as a man, that’s a hard pill to swallow. We’re supposed to fix things. We’re supposed to make them better. I can’t do any of those things for you, but I can tell you it wasn’t your fault. I can tell you I understand your reasoning, but I disagree with it. And I can tell you all of that is probably the wrong thing to say, but I don’t know what the right thing to say is.”

  “There’s nothing to say. To fix.”

  “You saw him today, though, right? He’s still part of F1? Of this community? I can fix shit real quick.” My smile is quick and cruel as she nods and worries her bottom lip between her teeth.

  “And you’re not going to tell me who he is?”

  “It won’t do anyone any good. I’ve moved on. You’ve helped me move on. Isn’t that enough?”

  I grunt. That doesn’t mean the fucker isn’t or hasn’t done it to someone else though.

  “It was hard enough living with myself most days. Walking away, changing my course . . . you have to understand that.”

  She sits up, her feet dropping to the floor, and cups the sides of my face, her eyes holding mine. “You’re the only person I’ve ever told the whole story to, besides my therapist.”

  “Thank you for trusting me.”

  “I never intended for anyone else to know. I refuse to be the victim ever again. Me talking about it makes me that.”

  “I disagree . . . but I understand.” Is that the right thing to say?

  She runs her thumb back and forth over my bottom lip. “Thank you for listening.”

  “Of course. Cami . . . anytime.”

  She nods and smiles softly again as I shift to sit beside her so she can curl up against my side.

  We sit like this for some time, her head on the crook of my arm, and my fingers laced with hers.

  We settle into the silence of a new norm that I’m not quite sure I understand yet but know that I like.

  This woman walked into my life—a life I’ve dedicated to racing and myself for so damn long—and made me reconsider that decision to shut everything else out.

  She made me look forward to something other than racing—her. Sure I’ve dated people on and off, but there’s never been someone I wanted to pick up the phone and call to tell something.

  She did and I do.

  Fuck, man.

  She got to me.

  And then she made me care. And now this.

  I thought it would be better knowing the truth.

  Truth be told, it’s almost worse.

  Because now I know there’s a nameless, faceless fucker out there, who I can’t hurt or make pay for what he did to her.