“My gut is knotted right now.”

He laughs.

I see the laughter reach all the way into his eyes and I ease.

“Clayton’s on the radio with him?”

“Yep.”

“Tell me when it’s over.”

I hear the wheels spinning—the car roars out of pits, and I am not sure I’ve ever heard Kelsey sound so angry and so fired-up.

I inhale, and then hear my dad inhale too. Before he says, looking at his chronometer, “Decent as fuck time.”

I open my eyes and look at Dad. I’m seeing something I recognize as hope in his eyes, and it makes my stomach knot up even more—this time with something similar to excitement.

I turn my head and watch as Kelsey speeds like a demon on Red Bull down the track.

“He’s a natural, Lainie baby,” Dad whispers, looking at me with pride.

“He’s so good, Dad,” I admit, something in my heart swelling in ways that it doesn’t even swell when I get complimented myself. “On my way to the US I kept praying for me to find someone like Seth. I didn’t—I found someone better. He was too rare to leave alone.”

People really have no idea how difficult it is to drive at 225 mph with a shit ton of G force pushing back at you. You need to be extremely fit to endure that for hours.

After the cars circle around and their times are adjusted and their cars are adjusted, qualifying is wrapped up with Clark in first, the Clark’s second driver in second,

“AND RACER TATE IS THIRD,” the announcers are saying. “QUALIFYING FOR P3, a great great comeback for HW Racing this year.”

When Racer pulls into pits and hops on the scale, I take note of his weight and notice he’s lost 10 lbs of body water in sweat. I hurry to bring him a bottle of Gatorade, coconut water, lemonade, or plain water, tucking them all in my arms so that he gets to pick.

“P3. Not fucking bad!!” I hear my brothers cheer, slapping each other. I hurry over as he climbs out of the car for his interview.

He grabs the first drink I offer, a Gatorade, and is attacked by the press before we even reach the motorhome.

“Racer Tate, you’re the year’s only rookie and are taking no prisoners, already you’ve set the internet ablaze with your talent. What’s the difference between racing out on the streets versus a track like this one?” the attractive reporter asks as she puts the microphone up to his lips.

“I get to hear whispers in my ear,” he grins, and Clayton laughs behind us.

“Is the horsepower too much …”

“Not too much. I like the power. It’s the walls I need to watch out for—not a lot of those off the track. Usually trees.”

Laughter.

“So when we asked for this interview and how on earth the team at HW Racing found you, Lana told us she found you … by accident, literally …”

I groan inside as the reporter continues,

“… Is she a good driver?”

“We’ll work on that,” Racer says gruffly, his dimple appearing as he winks at me and he takes my elbow with a little crackle in my skin as he leads me away.

“That’s Racer Tate,” the TV lady says to the camera as we walk away, “live from the F1 track in Australia.”

“I can’t believe I told them that,” I groan, brushing my fingers over the spot he touched.

He’s eyeing me speculatively, his blue eyes shining so bright under the sunlight, I can’t look away. “Lucky for you, you now have the best driver in the world at your disposal,” he growls.

He sounds dehydrated. And mischievous.

“Ha! I’ll be the judge of that. Plus I’m not sure what you’re implying I do with him.” I shoot him a scowl.

He laughs, and shakes his head. “Anything you want. Free of charge. Driving lessons. Petting sessions.”

“Really?” I frown. “I don’t believe you.”

“Believe me, Alana.” He stops me, his eyes twinkling as he frowns down at my mouth as if he wants to take a bite out of it and is annoyed that he can’t. His voice lowers. “I’ll stop by tonight for a kiss, for P3.”

My lungs suddenly feel like rocks in my chest, but I try to sound stern as I say, “You can knock, but that doesn’t mean that door is going to open.” I see his dimple deepen as he watches me walk away, my whole stomach buzzing in a way it has

never

in my whole damned life

buzzed before.

Racer

I’m hyped and wired, not one bit tired after the day. P fucking 3.

I’ll take it.

Not bad for a first timer. I’m planning to work myself up from there, get to know the car better. The wheels. The turns.

I’m freshly showered after hitting the hotel gym for an hour, and rather than strip and hit the bed, I’m pulling on a pair of jeans and a fresh T-shirt.

Some Clark guy is after her.

I don’t want anyone touching her. Looking at her. Kissing her.

I want to kiss her again, deep this time, figure out what she tastes like in every hot spot of hers, draw out more and more of that taste, and add a little moan or two. I’m working myself to a lather over the idea of it, my cock already taking to the idea—fast and hard like I like it—and immediately I clench my jaw because I’m being a selfish prick. No girl should need to live with my bullshit. Hell I even try to spare my mom; she’s got enough with my dad.

But I head over—needing a look at her.

I knock on her door.

She opens in a little pajama that makes my cock thick.

She blinks.

“Hey.”

She exhales, looking at me, and I look at her and see her nipples, want to touch them, suck them, and I can’t snap out of it for a long time. I know she’s worried we work together and I shouldn’t kiss her, but I don’t have any qualms about that.

I want to take it easy on her, though, so I just stand there and get a whiff of her scent. What is that?

She’s talking to me.

My eyes feel heavy as I pull them up from watching her lips speak to looking into her eyes. She’s saying—

“Racer, please.”

I open my mouth to correct her, to tell her to call me just Tate. That’s my preference. I snap it shut. Frown down at her.

Well shit I kind of like my name coming from her mouth. I kind of like the idea of her saying it when she’s coming.

I’m fast in all things but not in this. Hell I don’t even know what this is. I reach out. There’s a slight widening of her eyes, and I can see it. Interest. Lust. Whatnot. Whatever you want to call it.

This girl’s hot for me; her eyes say it so much. And I’m burning like fuel at full speed.

“You want to try saying it again.” I feel my lips curve into a smile.

“What? Racer?” she asks, confused.

“All of it.”

“Racer … please.”

“Please what.”

“I …”

“Please what.”

“Please make me look good. No more of this.” She starts shaking her head, and I lean down to peck her lips.

Like I knew, she knew, I would do.

“Tell you what, Alana,” I rasp, cupping her face and teasing her with her bullshit name. “Tell me you’re fixing my car because you know I’m the best driver in the world, and I’ll go back to my room.”

“Tell you what, Racer,” she says, pushing me at arm’s length. “Go get some rest. Keep trying to achieve your dreams. And maybe when you get there, I’ll be close to admitting that.” She grins, and as she starts to close the door, she kisses the tip of two fingers and places them on my jaw.

I laugh, and scrape a hand down my jaw where she just set the sweetest fucking kiss on me.

Racer

I’m fired up. I hit the gym at midnight, worked on my stamina, upper body, killed my legs, worked my arms.

I snatch up a coffee early morning, get one for Lana, and head out to the track.

I spot her with her brothers. Her eyes widen when I give her a cup of coffee, and she has a shit ton of coffees on the table beside her. “Oh. I brought you one too.”

I nod, and eye her as I watch her take mine and drink it in silence before I head to the drivers’ meeting.