My own tear slips over, the moment so poignant, so powerful. The love I feel for him prompting me to reach out, frame his face, and wipe his tear off with my thumb.

  He’s just about to put the candy floss in his mouth when the snort at the end of the alley has us both jumping.

  I freeze when I notice Brandon standing there.

  “She’s all yours, man. I mean, if cold-fish cunts are your thing.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Riggs

  I see red.

  Murderous red.

  The candy floss is disregarded.

  Camilla’s gesture is forgotten.

  All I can see is the bastard who hurt her.

  All I can feel is a rage so intense I never knew existed.

  And all I focus on is making him pay for what he did to her.

  I’m on him in a second. My fists flying, his face crunching against them.

  Then I’m straddling him. Each punch a little piece of redemption for Camilla.

  For hurting her.

  For assaulting her.

  For making her doubt the woman she is and the choices she made.

  With thoughts of this man—this gutless wanker—hurting Camilla. Assaulting her.

  I don’t hear the shouts.

  I buck the hands off me that are trying to pull me off.

  I see him hurting her.

  I hear her crying for him to stop.

  I see him spitting on her.

  I hear him telling her she’s a cunt.

  I’m hauled off him at some point. There’s blood. Everywhere. On my hands. On his face. On the asphalt. On my race suit.

  And cameras.

  They’re fucking everywhere right along with the spectators in the stands who have stopped to watch the show.

  I don’t care. I can’t see through the rage. I can’t see through anything.

  Cold-fish cunt repeats in my head.

  All I see is the smug fucking smirk on the prat’s lips.

  All I feel is the crunch of his cheek beneath my knuckles.

  Satisfying.

  Necessary.

  When I look up from everything, I see Camilla standing there. Tears are streaming down her face. Her body is pulled within itself. Her arms are crossed over her chest as if she’s protecting herself from him.

  It has to be from him, right?

  Not from me?

  She knows I wouldn’t hurt her, doesn’t she?

  I try to meet her eyes. I try to tell her I’m sorry. I’m yanked backward by two crew members before I can relay any of it.

  So I do the only thing I can. I mouth to her, “He can’t hurt you again,” seconds before I’m pushed into the garage by my team.

  And right into the waiting office of Carlo Moretti.

  He glares at me with a rage I feel but that he can’t understand.

  “What the hell was that, Riggs? Are you fucking kidding me?” He paces the small space, almost stumbles at one point he’s so focused on me, but rights himself. “Care to explain?”

  I stare at him. I can’t fucking tell him why. I can’t betray Camilla’s trust. I can’t explain a thing.

  “He had it coming to him.” It’s all I say.

  “What? Your ride in F1 wasn’t enough that you decided to risk it with some juvenile bullshit from some old grudge?”

  “I’ve got nothing.” Each word is like a dagger to my heart because I already know what’s coming next.

  But she is more important than this.

  I don’t know when that happened, but it did.

  “That’s your third and final warning. Grab your shit and get out. You’re no longer a driver for Moretti Motorsports. You’ve just embarrassed this team, this sport, and me as an owner. Do you have anything to say for yourself? Anything to explain why you just beat another team’s crewman within an inch of his life?”

  I clench my jaw so hard it might break.

  I can’t explain. It’s not my story to tell. I can’t hurt her any more than she already has been.

  I look at a man I admire and know if I had the chance again, knowing the consequences, I’d do it all over again.

  In a heartbeat.

  “Being in a relationship has a lot of parallels with being a good F1 driver. Always maintain your integrity, always show respect for yourself and your wife, and always win for the team. It’s all about the team.”

  My dad’s voice fills my head. One of his many interviews that I memorized comes back to me, right now when I need to remember it the most.

  Almost as if he’s somewhere watching. Almost as if he knows right now, I need to hear the advice he never had the chance to give me.

  Those words—that interview—never really made sense to me until now.

  Until this moment. Because right now, as I hear his words, I realize that is what Camilla and I have become—a team.

  And I know which team I must choose.

  So I look him in the eye, I nod, and I whisper, “Thank you for the opportunity.”

  And when I leave the room to go and gather my things, I leave my hopes and dreams there with him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Camilla

  “Where is he?” I ask the minute I see my dad standing in the room with his back to me, his hands on his hips, and his shoulders set.

  “Where’s who?” he asks without turning to look at me, but there’s a bite to his tone, showing me I’ve made a grave mistake. I just showed my cards, and he knows. “Where’s who?” he repeats but this time he turns to look at me with a scrutiny that makes my breath catch.

  Carlo Moretti is a kind man. A forgiving man. But fuck with him or lie to him and he is anything but.

  “He’s off the team and frankly, it’s for the better. All around.”

  He’s not good enough for you.

  That’s what his tone says. That’s how his gaze reads.

  “Dad. You can’t. You can’t.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because . . .” My voice is a desperate waver as I struggle with the adrenaline running through me. I need to get to Riggs. I need to see if he’s okay. All that blood. His anger.

  And my dad? His tremors? I refuse to load him with more stress right now by telling him something that happened six years ago.

  Later. I’ll tell him later. When more is resolved.

  “Dad. You have to listen. He had his reasons. He . . . you can’t do this.”

  “I can and I fucking will,” he thunders as he moves about the small space, his body slow and his tremors enhanced by the stress.

  “No. Please. He was trying to protect—”

  “He just disgraced this entire team over some school boy stunt for who knows what. I have more than just your boyfriend to think about.”

  “My boy—”

  “You think I don’t know every fucking thing that goes on with my team? I do, Camilla. I do and I’m hurt that you kept this from me.”

  Oh God. He knows. I hate disappointing my father.

  But I need to speak out here. Act now on this and then we’ll revisit this discussion later.

  “You’re wrong for so many reasons. Riggs was defending—”

  “So now you’re going to lie for him to defend him? Now you’re going to ruin your reputation—”

  “DAD,” I shout but he just walks out and slams the door behind him.

  Fuck. I can’t explain now. He’s too worked up. His Italian temper too triggered. Later. It will have to be later.

  I need to find Riggs.

  Thankfully, he’s in his driver’s room. He’s slamming shit around as he shoves it in a bag. “Riggs.”

  “Not now.” His back is to me, his hands braced on the table in front of him, and his head hung low.

  Defeated. He’s the personification of it.

  “C’mon. Talk to me. Please. How are you? Are you okay?” Nervous about the unknown, about how to fix this, I ramble. “I didn’t mean for you to—”

  “I’m fine. Fucking fine,” he says evenly. “I just . . . I need a minute.”

  Desperation rattles its way through me. “I’ll get him to hire you back. I’ll make it right. I’ll make it—”

  “How?” He turns to look at me and my heart breaks. There is blood on his knuckles. I can see it now. His own cheek has a red blemish from where Brandon must have landed one in defense. I want to reach out—touch him, comfort him—but the expression on his face tells me now is not the time. “The whole world just saw me bash the fucker’s face in. You wanted viral? You just got it with the ten cameras that happened to be filming. Congrats. I’m sure it’s good for the Moretti brand.”

  “We can make everyone understand. We can—”

  “How? Do you actually think I’m going to make you share with the world what happened? Why I reacted? Do you think so little of me that I’m going to throw you under the bus to save me?” He steps into me.

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “You know me better than that.” His smile is reticent and so sad. “You’re okay, right?”

  I nod.

  “I needed to see that for myself. I did. Now . . . I don’t know what the fuck I need.”

  His words are a quiet roar that weave into my soul and stick a dagger in my heart.

  “Please, Riggs.” I go to reach out and he yanks his arm away.

  “Just.” He holds his hands up. “Just don’t.”

  “I’ll get your ride back. I’ll—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He heaves his bag over his shoulder, gives me one last look—one I’ll never forget—and moves past me to the door.

  I turn to watch him. He stops and hangs his head, his back to me. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Even knowing the consequences. Just—don’t follow me. Respect that I need . . . to figure my own shit out. But just know, Cam, I’d do it again.” His last words are barely a whisper that rip my heart out and coddle it simultaneously.

  And as he leaves the suite, I stare after him until I can’t see him anymore, one thing abundantly clear.

  I’m in love with Spencer Riggs . . . and I think I just lost him too.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Riggs

  I see the nods sent my way as I make my way through the garage and out into the paddock.

  Moretti wants me to go?

  I’ll fucking go.

  But I’m not going to slink away in the back alley. I’m going to do it here, where the cameras are present. Where it’s obvious I’m not hiding.

  Yeah, I did something wrong. But it’s the reason I did it that has me holding my head high.

  I stride out into the main area and keep going.

  “Riggs.”

  I ignore the voice calling my name.

  Fuck Carlo if he thinks he’s going to chase after me and make a scene right now. If he wants to show everyone what a piece of shit I am.

  The only thing I’m guilty of is not killing that fucking guy.

  That’s it.

  “Riggs,” he commands, his voice closer. I don’t stop. “I watched the tape.”

  I falter but keep moving.

  “I saw what you said to her.”

  My feet stop.

  I turn to face Carlo Moretti as he rushes after me, the goddamn fucking camera crews close behind.

  There’s a buzz around him, the press moving in to watch the fireworks of Carlo Moretti firing the new driver.

  Too bad they don’t already know that’s happened.

  He closes the distance, his eyes on mine. His chest heaving. When he stops, he seems a little shaky on his feet.

  “I said, I saw what you said to her,” he says quietly, motioning for the cameras to back the fuck off.

  They do, but they’re still there, a little farther away, but still so very present.

  “So?”

  “It’s not my business, but it doesn’t take a genius to draw conclusions. To put the two and two together I’ve questioned for more years than I care to count. To be ashamed that you were able to defend my daughter when I didn’t even know she needed it.”

  “Sir? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, still unable to betray her confidence, but I make sure my eyes tell a different story.

  He nods. “I know you don’t. And I respect you for that more than I think you’ll ever know.”

  “Again, thank you for the opportunity.” Those are the hardest fucking words I’ve ever had to say before giving him one last look and turning to leave.

  “Spencer.” I look over my shoulder, and Carlo holds his hand out to me to shake it.

  The tremor catches me by surprise. It’s violent and obvious and, before the concern finishes flashing through Carlo’s eyes, I step toward him, using my body to block the view of the cameras. I take his hand in mine to shake, but don’t let go. Why is his hand fucking shaking? Why does he look like he’s . . . vibrating? He’s stressed, I get that, but—

  My dad was going through some health scares.

  That’s when I started flipping through the evidence.

  Camilla helping him in the conference room that day. His tendency to have his hands in his pockets to steady him. The cane he occasionally uses. The tremors that were slight but that I shrugged off.

  How did I not string the signs together?

  Just like my dad’s favorite actor and my mum’s Hollywood crush, Michael J. Fox, Carlo Moretti has Parkinson’s.

  He meets my eyes—surprise and gratitude heavy in them—as I hold on, waiting for it to subside. “You good?” I murmur.

  He shakes his head, his eyes darting to the crowd around us.

  I keep my hand in his and cuff him on the shoulder to prolong the connection. To help him camouflage what he’s been trying to hide.

  Another moment passes.

  “Thank you,” he whispers.

  I release his hand and we stand face-to-face. Man-to-man. A dad and his daughter’s lover. A gentleman and a fighter.

  As two men who love the same woman but in completely different ways.

  “We’ll figure it out, Riggs. We’ll make it right. God fucking knows how considering the FIA will be down our throats with fines. LeCroix’s probably going to press charges.”

  “I’ll pay the fines, sir. This is all on me.”

  “My ass you will. I take care of my family. God knows I clearly didn’t in this case.”

  “Sir?”

  “Head out. Let me fix shit. We’ll talk later. If you think I’m letting you off this team now, you’re fucking crazy. Yes?”

  My eyes well with tears I don’t want to shed, and I blink them back. “Yes, sir.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Camilla

  “I told him.”

  “What?” Riggs stares at me with disbelief in his eyes as he stands in my doorway mid knock.

  I may have been stalking him and waiting for him to get home. But when I heard his footsteps clomping down the hall and threw my door open, he was standing there, fist raised to knock.

  And now standing there with shock on his face.

  “I mean, I told him. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t make you take the fall. I couldn’t let you walk away from a dream you’ve worked so hard for, that you’d achieved because I was too chickenshit to face fear over—”

  His lips are on mine in an instant. Hands in my hair, body pressed against mine, his lips unrelenting with hunger.

  A kiss that wars are fought for and conquers all.

  And when he ends it, when our bodies are on fire and our lips numb, he leans back, hands on my cheeks and knees bent so we’re eye to eye.

  “Let’s stop playing this game, Gasket.”

  “What game?”

  “The no-strings one. I’m in love with you. Can’t you see that? Baggy clothes. No clothes. A Mount Everest of clothes, I don’t fucking care. You’re it for me, Camilla. The kind of it I never expected, I never wanted. I thought love was for weak men and saps. I’ll be the first to admit I was wrong. Hands down. Head over heels wrong. You drive me crazy but fuck if that madness doesn’t make me love you more. You challenge me. You make me the kind of man who would give up his dream because it’s the right thing to do. And that’s fucking saying a lot. Because I would. I did. And I’d do it a million times over if that’s what you needed, because I’m in fucking love with you.”

  I stare at him as my heart swells so much it hurts. Tears well and speech escapes me.

  Love isn’t supposed to hurt.

  Isn’t he the one who taught me that?

  It’s supposed to heal. It’s supposed to fulfill. It’s supposed to make you whole.

  “It’s the nickname, isn’t it, Gasket?” he asks. “You hate it so much that you can’t love me back.”

  I cough over my sob and wipe away the tears on my cheeks. “No. It’s perfect. Just like you are.”

  The tension in my chest eases for the first time, and the ache is filled by a love so poignant it’s almost hard to believe.

  But isn’t it funny how when you start believing, that you realize it’s actually real. That you know it can be real.

  “We’re a fucked-up pair, but my broken makes you whole. Your broken has made me whole. Now it’s time to let those breaks heal. For the scars to fade like nothing ever was.”

  I launch myself at him and kiss him again. I pour myself into it. I can’t get enough of it, of him, of this feeling, of this possibility.

  I frame his face with my hands and know that my grin must look as goofy as his does. “When did you know?” I ask.

  “Know what?” He plays dumb.

  “That you love me.”

  “It was my drunk night in your flat. When you thought I had passed out but you came back to peek under the blanket and check out my cock.”

  “I did not!” I slap at his chest and he just wraps his hands around my wrists and kisses the inside of my palm.

  “No, but you were thinking about it.” He chuckles. “Seriously? I can’t pinpoint one specific event. It’s like one minute you were kissing me in a bar and the next minute you were everywhere. And I liked that you were. You won me over. Heart by colored heart on the calendar.”