And helpless doesn’t look good on any man.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Camilla

  I don’t know what I expected when Riggs came knocking on my door, but his quiet understanding and steady presence was not it.

  He listened despite the anger I could feel vibrating off him.

  He refrained from telling me what I should have done when I know he probably wanted to.

  He didn’t make me feel judged.

  And now as we sit propped against the headboard in my suite, watching the coverage of today’s race, all I feel is comfort and compassion.

  A graphic is flashed of the final race standings and it’s ridiculous how much I shimmer with pride seeing him so very close to the podium.

  “Do you know how rare it is for a rookie to finish in points consecutively like you have? It’s pretty incredible. You should be proud of yourself.”

  “I made fun of your clothes.” His words startle me.

  Here I am thinking about racing while he’s still thinking about me.

  It’s new to him. Fresh. Of course, he’s still thinking about it.

  Just like seeing Brandon across the paddock today startled me more than I want to admit. Especially after all this time. Especially because I thought I was so much stronger than today demonstrated.

  It’s almost as if I made the paddock my safe space, and one glimpse of him turned my world temporarily upside down.

  But Riggs righted it in the most unexpected of ways.

  “You didn’t know,” I murmur and mean it.

  “I know, but what a shallow prick. I made fun of you because you were covered up like you owed it to me and everyone else to show your body.”

  “You didn’t know,” I reiterate.

  “But I should have.”

  “Look. Don’t beat yourself up. You’ve done more for me than you ever could have imagined.”

  He snorts but presses a kiss to the top of my head.

  “It’s true. It sounds weird to many people, but after . . . everything, I wasn’t shy about having sex again. In fact, I wanted to, to prove I wasn’t broken. To prove that—” I almost slip and say the bastard’s name. A bastard that Riggs may or may not know. “He didn’t break me.”

  “I don’t understand what this has to do with me,” he says.

  “I felt nothing. No sensation, no pleasure, no anything. He’d won. He’d broken me . . . and then there was you. When I kissed you in the bar, it was like somebody had plugged me into an electric socket. I burned where I was supposed to burn. I ached where I was supposed to ache. I felt sensations. It was . . . insane.”

  He huffs on his knuckles and rubs them on his chest. “Glad to be of service,” he teases, and I love the levity he’s injecting into a rather serious evening.

  “I even tried to go out with someone else after the bar. I kissed him. I . . .” Why am I telling him all of this? He’s going to get spooked. I asked for sex to help me get through something. For sex without strings. And now here I am telling him he’s the only guy in years to make me feel something.

  Abort. Abort. Abort.

  Otherwise, he’ll do the same on this little agreement we have.

  “I . . . what? Finish what you were saying or did my mere presence knock out your train of thought?”

  “Yes. That’s it.” I look up at him and smile. “That’s exactly it.”

  “I knew it. I’m a jack of all trades. Race finishes. Kissing. Orgasms. A human headrest. Just ask me. I’ll tell you.”

  “And the ego returns.”

  “And the ego made you laugh.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Camilla

  The smell of coffee is as constant in my suite as is the silence that settles in around Riggs and me.

  Or rather, almost silence since it seems some of our crew has begun a conversation in the hallway outside of my room.

  Riggs and I have never slept together. Like sleep, sleep. In the same bed. We meet up. We hook up. We talk some. We part ways.

  It’s just how this whole thing has panned out over the past few months.

  But last night we must have fallen asleep watching television because I woke up with Riggs’s arms wrapped around me and my face nestled in the underside of his jaw.

  I froze.

  Like full on froze.

  And it wasn’t because I didn’t want to be there. It was because I did. It was because I woke up with strong arms around me and a sense of safety I haven’t felt . . . ever, I don’t think. Other than the unconditional safety I feel with my family.

  Clearly those were crazy thoughts.

  Still are.

  I allowed myself the grace to breathe Riggs in for a few moments. To feel the steady, even beat of his heart beneath my hand. To sink into the feel of his body against mine. To just be without thinking or wondering or . . . anything.

  Then just as I was about to try and slip out of his arms to prevent awkwardness, Riggs hooked his arm around my waist and murmured, “Stop thinking. We’re just sleeping. It’s not a big deal.”

  It’s not a big deal.

  His words replay in my head as I watch him make coffee in my hotel room.

  Then why did it feel like a big deal?

  Because you’re catching feelings for a guy who doesn’t catch feelings back.

  Because you feared that once he knew the truth about what happened, he wouldn’t want to touch you again. Instead, he pulled you in even closer.

  And he keeps glancing at me over the rim of his steaming mug and not saying anything.

  “Can you talk about something and stop staring at me?” I ask.

  “Someone’s not a morning person,” he says.

  “No. It’s more like you keep staring at me like I’ve grown a third head rather than actually talking to me.”

  “You snore in your sleep. It’s cute.”

  “What? I do not.”

  He just smiles and takes another sip of his coffee, eyes remaining on me. “Everybody does. And you haven’t grown a third head. Not that I can see. But you are kind of adorable with bedhead and your grumpiness.”

  “Are you trying to piss me off, Riggs?”

  “Nope. I’m thinking about the gala.”

  “Wait. What? You just went from bedhead to the charity event in Champagne?”

  He nods in regards to the event in France. “You going?”

  “Nope. I don’t like galas. I don’t dress up for galas. I don’t do galas.”

  “I have to go.”

  “Great. Good for you. I’m sure you’ll look ridiculously handsome in your tuxedo charming everyone in attendance.”

  “Come with me. Keep me company.”

  I level him with a look. “We both know that can’t happen.”

  “What can’t? A Moretti going with their driver? Pretty sure that’s allowed.”

  “Trying to bind me out of obligation, are you?”

  “Bind? I mean . . . I didn’t think we’d progressed that far in this—whatever this is here—but we can always experiment with that if you want.”

  It takes me a second to hear what he says and its intention. “Okay. It’s time for you to go now.” I laugh and point to the door.

  “What?” He feigns innocence and that sheepish grin has my heart twisting in my chest. “You brought it up.” He holds a hand up. “I’m just here. At your service. At your leisure. At your—”

  “About to get kicked out of my room is what you’re about to be so you can get ready for your—”

  “Hey. Omar.”

  We both startle at the voices in the hallway then fall quiet as a few more voices ring out.

  We freeze then move toward the door to listen.

  What we thought was our crew just passing through turns quickly into a powwow in the hallway.

  “Um,” I whisper and laugh. “This poses a problem. You can’t just walk out of here now.”

  “You’re going to have to tell Anya I’m running late for the interview then.”

  All I can do is chuckle as I text Anya and try to move quietly around the suite.

  Minutes pass.

  And more minutes.

  Riggs is standing across from me. We’re both mirroring each other’s posture as he leans on the back of the couch and I lean on the edge of the table, our arms crossed, amused but disbelieving smiles as they talk and talk and talk.

  “Clearly they have a lot to say to each other,” I murmur.

  “A lot.”

  “I wonder what we could do to occupy our time,” I say innocently enough but my body most definitely knows the answer.

  “No clue.”

  I make a show of walking over to the bed and pressing on it as if I’m testing the mattress.

  He lifts his eyebrows but hesitates. I can see it and then realize the comparison he’s probably making in his head. A suite. Alone. An F1 person. Me.

  That’s the last thing I want him to be thinking of.

  “Riggs,” I whisper.

  “Hmm.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me.

  His eyes darken and his fingers twitch as if he’s itching to touch.

  But he waits for me to make the first move. He waits for me to show him I want this.

  And there’s power in that for me.

  I turn to face him and shed my clothes in record time so that I’m standing before him naked with our crew outside the door, oblivious.

  He stands to his full height and his Adam’s apple bobs.

  “Occupy my time, Riggs.”

  “Oh.”

  “O is exactly right.” I smile. “I need some hearts on my calendar for today.”

  He moves toward me, his eyes devouring every single inch of me as he goes. When he steps into me, he leans down and brushes a kiss over my lips. “Your wish is my command. But you’ll need to be silent, Gasket. None of that screaming my name.”

  He winks and then I laugh as he dives between my legs.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Riggs

  Andrew’s losing ground.

  He’s sitting P4 and he’s losing pace. Is it his tires? His engine? What the fuck is it?

  I grip the wheel and sit just behind his right rear, ready to fend off attackers. The bane of my existence.

  My car is dialed. It’s quick and responsive and, “C’mon,” I shout.

  “I understand your frustration, but we’re holding,” Hank says.

  “Why?” I snap back. The podium is within reach. I know I’m faster than the driver at P3. My sector times prove it. “Are we free to fight?” I ask, hoping they’ll let me race my own teammate and try for the podium. “Let me fight.”

  Silence eats the connection.

  It’s my answer.

  It’s my rejection.

  “Hold, Riggs.” But by the time Hank finishes those words, I’m already overtaking Andrew and flying past him with the help of the slipstream.

  There is noise in my comms but I don’t pay attention. I know Hank won’t say much as every fan and every network can hear him.

  So I tune him out.

  I focus on the car in front of me. On reeling him in. On having the drive of my fucking life here at Monza.

  I’m sure he’s cussing me out. That Omar is standing with his hands gripping his headset so hard his knuckles are white.

  But Andrew’s car is competing while mine is dialed in. It’s either me protecting a slowing teammate and finishing farther down the grid or me trusting my skills, my car, and my team, and giving them a podium.

  The radio is silent for a stretch, but it doesn’t last long when Hank realizes that I’m on pace to catch and overtake Halloran.

  “Five tenths of a second back,” he finally says, his voice clipped.

  “Understood.”

  We pull in to a sharp corner and Halloran gives a sharp fake to the right before closing in tight to the chicane.

  But I know this move of his.

  I’ve gone against it when we karted against each other. He got me with it once. He won’t get me with it again. Not when it matters even more.

  He fakes right and I drive straight for his fake so that by the time he’s correcting himself, I’m already half a car length into him.

  And then I’m past.

  I don’t touch him.

  We don’t connect.

  But he overcorrects and, in a quick glance in my mirror, I see him spin out into the gravel.

  “Yes, Riggs. Yes,” Hank shouts, excitement in his voice. “You’re currently P3.”

  And P3 I finish.

  A podium.

  My first fucking podium in F1.

  My head spins with elation.

  I pull up to the marker and my chest aches from holding back the elation.

  I’m out of the car.

  I’m jumping into the arms of my crew.

  And then it’s all a blur. The trophy. The champagne spraying. The sting of it in my eyes. The ache of the smile on my cheeks.

  The whole fucking experience.

  I soak it in. Every damn bit.

  But as the adrenaline subsides.

  As the euphoria fades.

  I realize that my actions in the moment may have been justified—in my head anyway—but they sure as hell weren’t sanctioned.

  And when the cameras leave, when the press moves on to the next driver, I’m walking into a garage and a loaded situation.

  Fuck.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Camilla

  “You know what to do for me.”

  I look at my dad and hate the churning in my gut. I know what he’s asking of me and it’s so cruel in nature, but only because of who he’s asking me to do it to.

  I nod, wanting to ask him again if he’s sure he’s not feeling up to doing it, but know how that will look.

  Weak.

  Showing favoritism.

  Obvious.

  “I do.”

  “Hank already gave him the first warning. Moretti protocol is upper management gives the next.”

  Of course, it is. And of course, today is a day where my father’s illness is more present than not.

  “And you need to go down and address him in front of the crew. Right now. They need to know that we, the management, make the calls. That we stand up for them when their driver ignores their requests. That we notice it wasn’t their error in judgment.”

  “But . . . he took a podium. It’s not like he went against Hank’s direct order. Hell, he never even gave him an answer—”

  “Exactly.” My dad’s voice is like thunder in the quiet room. “Riggs didn’t wait for instruction. Last I checked, I own this team. Omar’s the principal. And Hank gives the instruction.”

  “But Dad—”

  “This is a team, Camilla. Plain and simple. And as a member of it, you’re to follow the goddam rules—even when you don’t want to. Rules like, don’t ignore your engineer. Like, just because you have an opportunity to beat your teammate, that doesn’t mean you can take it without Hank’s approval—especially when you’re the number two driver.” His tone reminds me of when I was a teenager and would question him. It says there is no room for discussion on this. “Or like how you need to go down and confront said driver for being in the wrong. Understood?”

  I don’t understand why he’s pushing this so hard. “Understood.”

  He raises his eyebrows and glances toward the door as if he’s waiting for me to do it.

  Every step down to the garage is painful. Riggs just took a podium. Something some of the other nineteen drivers in the field have yet to do, even though they’ve been at this level way longer.

  And now I have to go rain on his parade.

  Was he wrong not to wait for Hank’s response? Yes.

  Was he wrong to take matters into his own hands? Yes.

  But did his gamble pay off and turn out in his favor? In the team’s favor? Also yes.

  Couldn’t we just let this slide and as a team, celebrate a new driver and his incredible success?

  Of course not.

  I swallow down the discord and walk into the garage with my shoulders square and my spine ramrod straight.

  “Riggs,” I say loudly, causing the circle of crew around him to quiet as the whole of them turn to face me.

  Riggs’s brow furrows as he takes me in and the look on my face. “Yeah?”

  “First, let me congratulate you on your podium.”

  “Thanks.” The concern in his expression fades when his smile turns up the corners of his mouth.

  He thinks I’m here to congratulate him. The pride in his eyes says as much and makes what I have to do next that much harder.

  “For the record, just because you’ve had a few good results in the time you’ve been with Moretti, doesn’t mean you run this team and get to call the shots. He’s your race engineer,” I say, shoving my finger in Hank’s direction. “You’re the driver. Your whole team works hard to protect and guide you on the track. Hank directs you according to their input. That’s your job. The quickest way to see your way out of a ride is to not listen to your race engineer’s direction. That’s your second warning, Riggs. And as you know from your contract, there are only three warnings before the contract is terminated and you’re out of this team. Are we clear?”

  The garage is so damn silent you could hear a pin drop, and that’s saying something considering we’re at a racetrack with nine other teams still working about.

  “Crystal,” Riggs says, the muscle in his jaw pulsing and anger burning in his eyes.

  Not only was he just berated in front of his team, but it was done by a female. I know Riggs is an equal opportunity type of guy but being emasculated in front of his team has to be brutal. But he signed the contract. He knows the rules, and they’re in place for a reason. It’s not a new code to Moretti.

  But still . . . I hate this.

  Every part of me tries to tell him with my eyes that I’m sorry, that this wasn’t my doing, but I’m met with a stone face and steel in his eyes.

  “Are we done?” he asks, everyone still silent, unmoving, and by the furtive looks being darted around, clearly uncomfortable.

  I look around at our crew. Some seem like they understand why I just did what I did. Others are clearly pissed at me. I meet his eyes again and nod. “Yes.”