Racer restlessly pulls off his Nomex down to his waist, and grabs the water I hand him. He just waits, as if he expects them to do it.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, his eyes meeting mine for a moment before he goes back to look at the car with a look of concentration on his face.

My eyes travel along the back of his neck, the way his hair is standing up a little messy—not only because he just took off the helmet, but it simply seems like that dark hair is always perky.

I can make out the darker points of his nipples under the white shirt, and his hard chest muscles.

I try not to notice his muscular shoulders, his narrow hips, accentuated by the waistband of the Nomex suit, and I’m not sure anything this blazing hot has ever been in my eyesight before him.

I realize that my brothers are arguing, and he’s still there, waiting …

As tall as my brothers, but very defined and with a presence that makes you pause and stare and have trouble to stop yourself from staring.

After they work on the changes for over an hour, he suits back up, slides on his helmet, eases into the car, and roars back onto the track.

A thousand knots are in my stomach. He does one lap. A second lap, even faster. I can’t look away now. He hasn’t lost control, and Kelsey feels completely at ease in his hands. Hell he makes it look easy, even though I know it’s hard as fuck.

“Time!” my father barks.

“One minute twenty-six point nine,” Drake says with the chronometer in his hand, eyes wide.

Behind us, Clay speaks to him on the headset. “Keep it up. A millisecond from the fastest lap.”

When he finally pulls back into pits and gets out, my brothers are speechless, the three of them staring at him sort of with godlike reverence.

Drake is the first to speak. “Welcome to HW Racing.” Drake shakes his hand and looks at me, and smiles.

I smile back, and when my eyes slide to Racer, I realize he’s pulled off his helmet and holds it dangling at his side and is looking at me with a proud, male look in his eyes.

I start to flush.

“You killed it. I don’t think we’ve ever seen a rookie go this fast in a new car, in a new-to-him track,” Clay says.

He tucks his helmet under his arm, fists his hand and smashes it into his palm. “I knew it.”

“How did you know it?” I ask.

He smiles at me as his dimple appears. “Because I’m here to stay, crasher.”

I feel my toes curl a little under his smile as he storms to the motorhome, and I realize that Drake and Clay are both staring at me while Adrian gets busy with the motor fixes.

“Lainie, he’s an illegal street racer, okay. Don’t get too attached to him, you hear?” Drake starts to ramble. “Not personally, and not because he’s in our team. The moment the other teams catch onto him, they’ll be offering more money than we could ever compete against.”

“Don’t say that, Drake.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“You’re being a pessimist and I’m too happy today to come down from my party in heaven. Cut me a break. This is good. We had a good day.”

“Lainie …”

I watch Racer come over from the motorhome, taking the steps down two at a time, running his hands over his sweaty head. I leap to my feet and feel a little unsteady because my heart leaps a little too. “You thirsty?”

He just nods and grabs the bottle I pull out of the cooler, taking less than a minute to down it all. He gasps as he finishes it, exhales and looks at me. His nostrils flaring. “Car felt good.”

I nod, breathless. “You looked pretty good out there.”

“Yeah?”

I nod fast. “Yeah.”

And I realize all my three brothers are staring, frowning. I look away and head to the motorhome, aware of Racer following me inside, where it’s a little less windy and we can get out of the sun.

“Your brothers wanted me to do better?” He drops down on one of the couches, and he’s frowning. Clearly puzzled.

“No, they’re thrilled with qualifying.”

He raises his brows as if he’s confused about their way of showing it.

“Really. They love it. They don’t know that you’re here to stay.”

He pulls his Nomex out of his arms and lets it drop at his waist, and the white shirt under his suit is plastered to his chest so much I see his small brown nipples. I pull my eyes up, gulping when I realize he asked me a question. “Where do they think I’m going?” he asked.

“They don’t want me spending time with you.”

He laughs at that, then looks at me quietly, his blue eyes twinkling.

“Because they don’t feel you’re a good influence and want us to keep things professional at all times.”

He reaches out to touch a strand of hair with one finger. “What’s wrong with having a little fun?” he asks, his voice a little guttural as he looks down at me intently.

“It’s not the fun they’re worried about, it’s you and I having fun. Together.”

He grins, I’m laughing, can’t believe I said that.

Heat spreads over me when his eyes fall to my chest, and I see him checking out my breasts before pulling up his gaze, his lips curving sardonically at the corners—a dimple popping out in a half-apologetic, half-not-apologetic smile.

I pull in a long breath, breathing in his scent and wondering why I find it addictive, why it makes things inside of me ball up with wanting. Wanting to smell him from up close, to taste him, feel him, touch all of his male-scented body.

There’s a rap on the door before it swings open.

“Tate. We’re working fast on it and we can fit in another session.”

I see the heat in his eyes before he comes to his feet. I follow him outside, and there it is, that heat in his eyes as our eyes lock before he lowers his helmet, lowers his visor, and he’s back out again.

I feel my cheeks burn and am aware of my brothers still fucking staring.

I hum softly, as if there’s nothing going on, and go take a seat next to my dad as he holds his chronometer.

Okay so obviously my brothers are concerned about Racer, and maybe I’ve been staring too much. I really need to work on that.

And maybe it wasn’t that good an idea to commission me to keep the guy out of trouble, because I clearly have no control over the guy and he’s as wild as they come, but I can’t help a kick of my heart every time I see him around the track.

I can’t help but feel myself perspire when I hear his voice around the tent, I can’t seem to stop feeling the little hairs on my arms rise at attention when I feel him nearby. I can’t help but feel my stomach knot up as he climbs the car, and I can’t help but feel extra nervous when he’s out there on the track, zooming past us in a car that—as of two days ago—he’d never driven before.

The fastest vehicles in the world.

That evening, after a successful test, my brothers stay working on the car, and while Dad heads to his room to rest, I linger downstairs with Racer, giving him a tour of the hotel facilities.

I step outside to show him the pool—it’s vacant at this hour, since it’s actually close to midnight—when I see his whole face just light up with devilish interest.

“I wouldn’t mind taking a dip in that blue-as-shit pool,” he gruffs out.

He looks really virile in his racing suit—but in jeans and a navy-blue T-shirt, his hair in organized chaos like he always wears it, he looks terribly raw and masculine. And when his eyes slide to me, my whole stomach turns to knots.

“I wouldn’t mind a dip in that blue-as-shit pool with you. Lana.”

His gaze is riveted on my face, then runs over my body slowly. It stops on the creamy skin of my midriff exposed by my top, and I have to suck in a breath.

I have to fight the overwhelming need to scoot closer to him.

He smiles, his dimple showing; I tug my top a little nervously.

He steps closer and pulls up his shirt and before I know it, he’s bare-chested as fuck. Bare-chested as fuck and flipping open his jean button.

“What are you doing?”

Racer lifts his head. “What does it look like I’m doing?”