I’m scrambling to bring him something to drink, an assortment of bottles in my hand, when I fall splat on my face. Fuck! Oh my god. The water bottles roll around.

“Jesus, Lainie,” Clay rants, kicking a bottle back in my direction so that it gently rolls closer to where I lie.

I’m praying he didn’t see it when I feel him come close and hunch down before me.

I start to reach out for the drinks.

Racer takes my face and forces me to look at him, and the center of my universe is suddenly immersed in blue.

“I can get my own drinks,” he gruffs.

He’s soaked, his sweat smelling of soap and salt and guy, and something in my chest moves when he then grips me by the elbow and gently rises to his feet, pulling me up with him.

I am used to being bullied by my brothers, to us fighting a little more than to them being, well, tender to me. Racer’s unexpected concern for me makes me feel vulnerable and weak, and I don’t like it. I pull my arm free and snatch up the water bottles.

“Okay then, I won’t,” I say, shoving the Gatorade and the coconut water, the ones closest to me, into each of his hands before starting to storm away.

My brothers are hauling the car up from pits to bring it to our tents, but I know that they didn’t miss a beat of what went down. The three are scowling deeply, a fact that Racer ignores as he just comes to his feet, cracks open a coconut water, and chugs it down, his keen blue eyes watching me—laser into the back of my head, actually—as I head into the motorhome.

I’m panting when I walk into the motorhome and then just sort of sit there, horribly embarrassed.

I rub my face and sigh, warm all over. Then I head into the bathroom, splash water onto my face, and look at myself in the mirror.

“Just because he seems to do it all right doesn’t mean that he doesn’t fuck up sometimes. You’re human, you fell, you’re fine.”

I feel a little recovered from my humiliation when I step out of the bathroom and nearly crash into his chest.

I squeak in surprise, and his arm flies out, his hand grabbing my wrist to catch me from stumbling again.

“God. Stop doing this to me,” I grumble, snatching my wrist away as I glare.

He chuckles, sounding puzzled. “Doing the fuck what.”

“What you’re doing. Unnerving me. I’ve never fallen like that in the track before. Plus for your information, bringing drinks to the team is part of my job!” I part yell. “If I worry a little overmuch it’s because I want this year to be perfect. I want this team to be perfect.”

I stop myself from saying more, but something about the way he looks at me—as if he can already tell there’s more—prods me on. “My dad is not quite well. And I want him to be unstressed, for everything to be right for once in our racing career.”

His eyes linger thoughtfully on mine for a moment, and I feel like stuffing something into my face to shut myself up.

“I mean, he’s doing fine, but … I like to take care of my loved ones,” I ramble, sitting in one of the couches as I start to pick up invisible lint on my T-shirt.

He takes the opposite seat from mine and he shifts forward. “Your dad’s sick?”

“I … that’s what they say,” I say.

He keeps watching me, starting to frown.

“Who says that?”

“The doctors,” I admit. “He’s sick.” I drop my gaze at my admission, my throat suddenly very tight. I try to make my voice sound level, but it breaks. “There’s nothing they can do about it. He doesn’t want to spend his last days in a hospital. So …” I bite down on my lip and look away.

Silence.

“I’m sorry.”

It sounds so truthful that I look back at him, his face a little blurry through the tears in my eyes.

There’s something about the way he looks at me that unnerves me, as if he knows how much it hurts, as if he knows more about me than even I know or maybe anyone on this planet knows.

“He’s my dad, you know.” I blink the moisture back and I swallow the bile in my throat, rubbing my lower lip with my thumb. “My mother calls once a year. She’s emotionally unavailable, I guess. She was never satisfied with what he did, always wanted more, never showed even an ounce of gratitude for everything he tried to do to please her. I guess I resent her for that. For hurting my dad.”

“And you.”

“Mm?”

“For hurting you,” he says, staring deeply into me.

“Oh, yeah, maybe.” I shrug, surprised that he thinks this immediately. That his immediate concern was me. “I don’t know why I always think that her hurting my brothers and dad hurts worse. Me? I can take it.” I shake my head. I glance out the window. “My dad’s my everything.”

Silence.

I lift my head. “Maybe you think it’s childish but …”

“I don’t think it’s childish.”

“Oh.” I stare at him.

“You care about your family,” he says, smoothing his thumb along my brow.

“I’m sorry, it’s just … I’m sometimes too much a pleaser. And with you it’s worse.” My eyes go round when I realize what I said. “It’s just that I care, for some reason, what you think of me.”

He smiles in bemusement, and I smile and duck my face to hide my blush, then I scowl at him because he is driving me crazy.

He chuckles, then softly, admiringly, “Come here, crasher.”

I go to his seat and Racer slides his arms around me.

“I get hugged all the time, I’ve been a very loved girl,” I inform him, but even then, for some reason, I’m still letting him envelop me in his.

And oh god.

It feels like heaven.

I’m enveloped by him all of a sudden. It’s probably the best hug of my life.

I can smell his soap on his shirt and skin.

“How am I doing?” he gruffs in my ear.

“Poorly. A little tighter,” I say greedily.

He tightens his hold and pushes my hair back and stares into my face. “This tight? Hmm?” There is a way that he holds me, a little tighter than my dad and brother, more possessively. I meet his gaze and close my eyes and inhale his neck, and we just hug then, his chin in my hair and his hand wrapped around my hair.

Drake walks in, and I jerk back in surprise, so fast Racer slowly lowers his arms in puzzlement.

“Hey,” Drake says, eyeing me.

Racer looks at him levelly. “Hey,” he answers, looking at him directly. Almost challengingly. I remain mute.

Drake just stares, and I stand up.

“It’s past lunchtime. The food should be here soon,” I tell them both, as if I hadn’t just been caught snuggling up with our driver.

I hurry outside and absently trail my fingers along my arms across the places that tingle after Racer’s arms were possessively around me.

Racer

“So your dad, Remington Tate? Is he glad you’re racing?” Lana’s father asks me as we sit in a set of tables around the tents, lunching on chicken-and-spinach wraps that Lana ordered from a Shanghai food delivery service.

I sip on my Gatorade, having finished two wraps already while the rest of them seem to still be working on their first.

“My mom doesn’t like the risk I take. My dad always wanted me to be a fighter like he was,” I explain. I don’t tell them that my dad doesn’t trust me behind the wheel of a car knowing I’m BP1. That he’s concerned I might lose control, or not make the wisest choices.

He doesn’t get that cars make me feel better. Keep my brain sharp.

“I used to race little go-karts when I was young,” Mr. Heyworth says with a reminiscent look on his face. “I stopped when I married. My wife …” he smiles a regretful smile, “let’s just say she didn’t want my attention on anything that could detract from my attention to her. I set my dreams aside. She left, and I decided it was time to chase my dreams before it was really too late.” He lifts his water bottle in a toast. “You’ve got what it takes, kid.”

I lift my Gatorade. “Thanks, sir.”

His phone rings, and he tosses his wrap away, and I watch Lana follow him to the chair with a heavy sensation in my chest, a frown on my face. She didn’t say what he had, but she looked completely wrecked about it.