“Well, we may want him here, but he’s going to have to earn his place, just like I have to.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Camilla

  As exciting as it is starting new somewhere, it’s also downright exhausting. The names to remember. The cubicles to map out so you go to the right one. The current marketing plan to review to understand the overall picture of where Moretti is and determine places that it needs to go.

  My dad was right. Their marketing is in the dinosaur age. There is so much room for improvement but when something is as aged as this, resistance to change is going to be real. I have a feeling that resistance is going to come from most, not just a few prickly employees. Let the uphill battle begin.

  The only way I can think to navigate this—and it’s something I pondered while packing—is to use the team drivers to modernize the brand.

  They’re young. They’re handsome—well, Andrew and Maxim are. I don’t know about this Riggs guy. Let’s hope I have something to work with when it comes to him.

  It’s an obvious plan—something that is technically already being done. But I plan to tweak that with the Camilla Moretti flourish and innovation.

  “So we’ll need to get new shots of the drivers. I even have permission to freshen up the company logo before we slap it on everything we visibly can. We need to look at this through the eyes of people even younger than us. We want the early twentysomethings and teenagers who share posts and then reshare to make things go viral. They’re going to be who carry the sport on to the next generation.”

  “I agree. I think this list we’ve compiled is comprehensive and leaves enough room for interpretation but not enough that we can’t act on it.” She taps her pen on the desk. “We’re off to a strong start.”

  “And it’s only going to get stronger.” I nod to Elise, a pleasant surprise to say the least. She’s young, knowledgeable, and more than receptive to my ideas. Frustration was her go-to word about Moretti’s marketing so at least we’re on the same page. “You’ve had some great input. Thanks for that.”

  “I’m excited about this. This plan blows everything out of the water that we’ve done since I’ve been here. It’s fresh and hip and doesn’t appeal to old men in their mid- to late fifties like everything else we’ve done has.”

  “True.” I chuckle and scoot my chair back. “I’m going to go grab a drink,” I say.

  “I’ll be here.” She raises her hand over her cubicle wall as a joke.

  “Want anything?”

  “No. I’m good. I think a fourteenth cup of coffee might be pushing the lining of my stomach too far.”

  I laugh. “Yeah. Probably. When I get back, I want to go over both Andrew and this new driver, Spencer. Do a deep dive on their socials, on them in general, and see how we can target this new campaign around them specifically.”

  “You don’t waste time, do you?”

  I stop and smile at her. “I’ve got a lot to do and a short window to do it in to prove everyone wrong—that I’m not here due to nepotism. Besides, with Maxim’s name in the media right now, it’s a good time to capitalize on it. I know that’s borderline poor taste, but that’s the nature of the beast.”

  “Agreed. All around.”

  “You sure you don’t want anything?”

  “Nah. I’m good.”

  I take the long way to the break room, letting the nostalgia of being back here take hold.

  I thought it would be weird. That just the proximity to this world would have me clamming up and freaking out. But neither have happened thus far and that gives me hope that it will continue to be that way.

  Being at a race, in the paddock or garage, however? That’s a whole different ball game. And something I’ll deal with when the time comes.

  The break room for the floor is empty when I enter it—which is a miracle in and of itself considering how many employees are in the building at any given time. I welcome the moment of silence.

  With its bright sets of tables and chairs, a few couches, a gaming system in the corner, not to mention a wall lined with baskets and shelves that house every snack imaginable for the staff, the space is welcoming.

  And holds so many memories.

  As a little girl, this used to be my favorite reason to come to work with my dad. Endless snacks and sweets to a kid are like Disneyland.

  They’re still enticing as an adult.

  I’m perusing the selection, my back to the door, when I hear, “Oops, this isn’t the conference room.”

  I turn around and freeze when a pair of gray eyes meet mine. Gray eyes that are part of a very alluring package that I know to be a farce.

  “What are you doing here?” we both ask at the same time and then stop as if scripted.

  “Oh look, it’s Baggy Bar Girl. What are you doing here?”

  Baggy Bar Girl?

  “Oh look, it’s I’m the Asshole or do you prefer Dare Dick? And I could ask the same of you. But hell, I’m surprised you’re even acknowledging my presence without needing a dare card in your hand to do so.” My smile is as sarcastic as my tone.

  He snorts in response and then looks me up and down with a discernable expression. It only serves to piss me off, to remind me of how mortified he made me feel . . . and to make it seem like I can feel each and every goosebump as it forms before they chase across my entire body.

  And there it is. Again.

  I grit my teeth and hate myself for having any reaction other than loathing toward the man standing before me.

  I left the whole situation that night in a place of power. I refuse to let him bring me back to anything other than that.

  “I’m waiting for an answer,” I say.

  “Ladies first.”

  “Oh, look. He does have manners.” I tsk. “Too bad I know they’re all for show.”

  “You’re entitled to your own opinion. Just like I am mine.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “Just my luck you work here, huh? Let me guess, you’re in customer service. A nice voice behind a faceless phone.”

  I take him in. The chinos. The Moretti Motorsports polo shirt. The wide eyes. The parted lips that turn into a slow crawl of a smile when he thinks I’m still checking him out.

  I stutter mentally as two things become abundantly clear.

  One, there’s only one logical reason that he’s dressed like this. And it’s not because he’s an overzealous fan who’s broken in here for a quick thrill.

  Fucking hell.

  He’s Spencer Riggs. Our new driver. He has to be.

  It’s the only reasonable explanation, seeing as I’ve met every damn person in this building—and he wasn’t one of them. Plus, he’s wearing a driver’s polo shirt.

  And two . . . he clearly doesn’t know who I am. That I’m a Moretti.

  “You’re staring.” His dimple deepens the smugger his smile becomes. “That must mean I’m right about your job or . . . you’re still interested in me.”

  “No. Wait. What?”

  He chuckles. “You are the one who kissed me.”

  “You are the one who kissed me back,” I counter and then realize my statement proves nothing more than the fact we have chemistry. Chemistry I’d prefer to deny. “And you are the one who was a prick.”

  “I already explained it to you. It was a dare. You were there so I acted on it. We shared two intense kisses that we both enjoyed. Case closed.”

  “How do you know I enjoyed it?”

  His smirk turns lopsided. “I didn’t see you pushing me away when I went in for a second one. Seemed to me by your hands fisting in my shirt you liked it . . . but what do I know?”

  He has me there. Has me when I don’t want him to in any capacity, and I’m more than ashamed to admit it. I use my confusion and turn it into anger because it’s so much easier than to acknowledge how this large space suddenly feels so very small with him in it.

  He glances at his watch and curses. “Look, I get that this is the surprise of all surprises, but I have a meeting to get to.”

  “Yep. Go right ahead,” I say.

  “Great. Thanks.” He nods and takes a few steps back.

  “One more question,” I say, unable to help myself.

  “What’s that?” He stops and meets my eyes.

  “Why me at the bar?”

  “I told you. Convenience.”

  “Bullshit,” I say, and the widening of his eyes says as much. “And the reason I know it’s bullshit is because you felt guilty when I found out. You chased after me. You showed a stream of conscience when it would appear you don’t have one at all.”

  “What do you want me to say? That you’re right?”

  “No. I want you to tell me what it is about me that made you single me out.”

  “Christ.” He blows out a breath and looks over his shoulder as if he expects someone else to be standing there before looking back to me. “It was nothing in particular, okay? You’re pretty. Beautiful. But that doesn’t mean you’re my type.”

  Give this conversation up.

  Walk away.

  But I don’t listen to my own advice. “And what is then?”

  “Let’s just say I like women who have a little more confidence. Who own their sexuality rather than hide from it.” He looks me up and down again—my baggy jeans, my oversized button-up shirt.

  Fuck. Direct hit. Nice work . . . asshole.

  If he only knew how many times I tried to ignore the little voice in my head telling me I was being ridiculous. How many panic attacks were triggered when I tried to prove to myself that I was. How I hate that I’ve felt the need to hide for so many goddamn years.

  “And?” I prompt, clearly a glutton for punishment.

  “Nah. I think I’ve said enough.” He glances over his shoulder before meeting my eyes.

  “Why stop now, right?”

  “Look. I’m not sure if you’re doing this so you can further bury me in a hole you’re digging for me or if you’re trying to beat yourself up some more. Neither appeal to me.”

  “Or maybe I want to see what others think when they look at me. I happen to know for a fact that you have no problem making people feel like shit.”

  His sigh resonates, and I almost feel bad for putting him on the spot. Almost. But now that my request is out there, I want him to answer it.

  The problem is he’s damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. Reject my request and he’s an asshole. Fulfill it and he looks even shallower.

  A pained expression pinches his face.

  “A guy’s opinion is all I’m asking for.”

  “We barely even know each other. This isn’t cool of you to ask me this.”

  “Just like the dare card wasn’t cool. Humor me, will you?” Why do I keep pushing this? Am I trying to punish myself for suddenly feeling? For liking the hum that vibrates beneath my skin when he’s near?

  “Look.” He draws in a fortifying breath. “You’re gorgeous. Your face. Your features. Your eyes. But it’s more than clear by the clothes you’re swimming in that you hate your body.” My skin heats at his scrutiny. “You may have something against curves, but I assure you, no one else does.”

  Tears well in my eyes, and I blink them away as quickly as they come. I sniff and nod.

  He wrestles with internal emotions I can’t name. It’s in the depth of his eyes and the pulse in his jaw. Almost as if he just grew a conscience and realized his words hurt.

  “You happy? Got your answer? Can I go now?” The words and tone he has differ vastly from the expression on his face.

  “You’re an absolute prick.”

  I don’t miss the roll of his eyes. He glances at his watch again and swears as I try to comprehend the change from contrite to arrogant. He clearly wants to leave this conversation. So do I. “Look, is this going to be a problem here? The whole bar thing? Because it can’t be. I’ve got too much riding on this to fuck it up.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “What will it take for you to head back to your cubicle and pretend like that night never happened? Money? Signed shit you can auction off? Me giving you a shout out on one of your socials? On my social? Name your price.”

  There are so many ways I could screw with him right now.

  So many ways I could mess with his head.

  But I think I know an even better way.

  I give a slow shake of my head. “I don’t want anything from you. No worries there. I best be getting back to my cubicle now before my boss thinks I quit.”

  He eyes me warily. “So we’re good then?”

  I nod. “We’re good.”

  And I just can’t wait to see how good he feels when we meet next.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Camilla

  God, he’s hot.

  Those three words have fallen out of Elise’s mouth more times than I care to count over the past hour. If she’s noticed the narrowing of my eyes each time she says it, it hasn’t fazed her.

  We’ve continued adding to our list of possible marketing angles. The current focus entails studying the drivers’ social media. Andrew’s is basic and boring. Riggs’s on the other hand? The man knows how to make a splash in marketing himself.

  It’s one viral video after another. Skydiving on a tropical island. Fresh out of the shower with just a towel around his waist. A silly prank on his team engineer in Formula 2. Sweaty during a workout with his shorts snug and shirt plastered to his chest.

  And that smile of his. Each time he flashes it, I think Elise melts even more.

  But me on the other hand? Each video we watch only serves to irritate me more. The fact that he is charming and good-looking only adds to it.

  “Like, Maxim is a great guy,” Elise says as she puts her phone down, “but he has the personality of a doormat. No charisma. All racing, all the time. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I didn’t mean—”

  “You’re fine.” I laugh. “It’s way easier to market someone who gets it. Spencer—I mean, Riggs—gets it.”

  “Have you met him yet?” she whispers almost as if she’s not allowed to ask. “I hear he’s in the office today for meetings.”

  I nod. “He is. Pretty sure he already did his uniform fittings and had the custom mold of his backside made for his seat. He’s currently meeting the physio guys and going over a game plan for that. Then he’ll meet with the nutritionists and eat. Have more meetings to get to know the crew and their jobs.”

  “All that before he heads to the track later?” Elise asks, eyes wide.

  “Yep. He’s being thrown into a blender for the next few days until it spits out the newest Moretti team driver.”

  “Jesus.”

  “You got that right,” I murmur, still confused by the sudden change in his demeanor earlier.

  It’s not your problem, Cam. After what he did to you? The bar and the comments today? It’s most definitely not your problem.

  “We’ll have to scour his bio to see what we can pull from it or if there are any angles we can play off.” I pat the thick manila folder on the table next to me. “That’s my next deep dive.”

  “You haven’t looked him up at all yet?” Elise asks me, her expression curious.

  “No? Is there something important I should know?”

  “Yeah. His dad was—”

  “Cami?”

  We both look up to my dad’s assistant, Halle, standing in the doorway of my office. She’s one of those too cute, too bubbly for her own good types of people but she’s so damn nice you can’t be mad at her for it. You can only wish you had a tenth of her everything for yourself.

  “Yeah?”

  “Your dad asked if you could come up to the conference room.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I say as she walks away, and Elise squeals.

  “You’re going to get to meet him right now, aren’t you?” she asks.

  The only thing I can do is chuckle because while she may be excited, I may be plotting the perfect way to walk into the room and shock him. No doubt the hour of watching him shirtless and being charmed by his antics have helped fuel the little crush she has for him.

  “Most likely.”

  “I bet he smells good. And that he’s even hotter in person.” She catches herself and her cheeks heat. “I promise I’m professional.” She laughs and then says low and playfully, “Way to make a first impression with my new boss by lusting after our new driver.”

  “It’s actually a good sign. You’re the demographic we want to target so if he can elicit that reaction from you, that means we have hope of overhauling our image.”

  “Really?” she asks.

  “Really. I think you’re going to be a huge help in getting us there too.”

  “Awesome.” Elise preens with a huge smile and wide eyes. I remember being new at a job and hoping to be noticed. In wishing that my boss would look at me and see potential rather than a younger kid who didn’t know what they were doing.

  It’s only when I’m on my way to the conference room that I realize Elise never got to finish telling me about Riggs’s bio. I’m regretting not picking up the folder when I left so I could peruse it on the way up.

  Can’t blame a girl for wanting to be informed while she shows someone up.

  When I arrive, the meeting is already in full swing, so I stand in the doorway and wait to be pulled into the conversation. Spencer’s back is to me, his shoulders broad, hands clasped on the table in front of him, and his head nodding as my dad talks.

  Is he nervous? Excited? Cautious? Worried about failing again? Probably a mix of all four and then some.

  And why do I even care?

  Because I have to.

  Because my dad is hanging his hopes on this new driver, who I don’t want to like, but it seems everyone else does.

  My dad laughs and pulls my attention to him where he’s perfectly in his element. The CEO part of Moretti is what he does but it’s this—talking to the drivers, discussing the sport, being hands-on with the people who make this world happen instead of behind his desk—that he loves more than anything.

  And the expression on his face confirms that.

  His smile widens when he notices me. “Cami. C’mon in.” He holds his hand out to usher me in while my eyes are one hundred percent fixed on Spencer Riggs.