He lifts his brows, then scans around. “Think the coffee shop is open. Be right back.”

“I was kidding.”

“No you weren’t—stay put now.” He eases out of the pool, and my mouth drops when I look at his perfect male ass. A perfect male ass with a tattoo on his butt with an RT on it. Oh my god. He scours around the pool for one of the towels they offer the bathers during the day and wraps it around his waist, then he comes back with two coffee cups, and a muffin for me.

“I can’t believe you brought me a muffin and coffee. Thank you,” I say.

I hear him whip off his towel and slowly lower himself back into the pool, and every atom in my body seems to electrify just by sharing the water with him.

“Feels like you’re always feeding me.”

“Purely selfish reasons. I get hard watching your mouth do anything at all.”

I nearly choke.

“Racer!”

He chuckles, his eyes dark and glowing in the moonlight, reflecting the pool lights in those baby blues.

“How did you feel in the track today?” I ask as I eat.

“I felt good. I’m fired up.” He smiles, and though he doesn’t say much more, I can tell he’s fired up, the energy around him is so strong and vibrant, like a hum of an incoming storm.

“So the Clarks are the reigning champions. They’ve got the best cars, best sponsors, best budget, best driver,” I explain.

He raises his brows over the best driver comment, and I laugh. “Best after you,” I tease.

He chuckles.

After taking coffee and wading in the pool for a while discussing the other teams, we head up to our rooms. “Goodnight,” I say, and Racer reaches out to slide his hand on my nape, lean down, and press his lips to my temple. “Invite me in,” he breathes, taking an inhale and growling softly before he presses a kiss to my temple.

“I … I can’t. It’s not that I don’t want to, but you’re in my team, and I have to keep you out of trouble.”

He clenches his jaw but nods his head, “Fair enough,” he says, glancing at my lips before letting me go.

He walks to his door, cracking his neck restlessly.

I head inside and take a shower. I slide into bed, somehow acutely aware of the sounds in the room next to mine. There’s a lot of noise, as if he’s doing exercise. I wish I could blame that on my inability to fall asleep, but it’s a faint sound, and really nothing compared to the chaos Racer has left in my body. He hasn’t touched me today. He hasn’t kissed me. He’s not even in the room with me. But he sure makes a lot of noise in my body.

Lana

It’s qualifying day, the first official day to start off the season. The Formula One Grand Prix championship consists of approximately 20-plus drivers, all of them competing every few weeks for a total of 20 Grand Prix races. Each race earns them points for the championship, and to be serious contenders this year, we must try to end up in the top five in every race. That hasn’t happened to us in forever. Not since Seth won third place in the championship in our debut year. Plus to even try to finish in the top five of each race, we need a good qualifying, which is why today matters quite a bit.

Also, today matters because we have never done something like this before.

I scan the track another time, hoping to see Racer. Disappointment washes over me when I can’t spot him. I check the time, then ask Clay, “Have you heard from Drake?”

“No.”

“What if Racer doesn’t show up?” I ask.

“That would be unfortunate.”

I exhale. “Right. Thanks.”

There’s a dip in my stomach when I suddenly see a dark figure walking forward—next to Drake.

Racer Tate.

In all his glory.

I know everyone in the track is staring at him. He’s not only the novelty, but I think the guys can tell that he’s someone to watch. His presence, the way he carries himself, the way he walks, sort of lazy—like a wild cat who knows he’s the king of the jungle and doesn’t need to strut. His T-shirt clings to his chest and arm muscles. His gorgeous blue eyes blaze bright as he looks at me standing across the tent, sort of gaping at him. His dimple appears as he slowly begins to smile. “Lainie.”

“Racer.” I nod, blinking and inhaling to try to calm down the rioting in my body.

There’s a tingle in my tummy when he smiles, and we smile at each other for a hot second.

He squints up at the sunlight, then down at me and playfully tugs my cap down a little.

“That’s not gentlemanly to do,” I say, shoving him playfully although it’s as impossible as shoving a wall and expecting it to move. It doesn’t.

“I’m not a gentleman.” His eyes gleam as he reaches out to cup my buttocks slightly, looking down at me.

“You okay?” he asks.

I’m surprised that he noticed anything wrong. Oh god. Did my makeup not cover the circles under my eyes?

I try to keep my voice level. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I look at you.” He tips my chin back and studies my face.

Sometimes I wonder if I have wanted someone to ask. So that when I say my usual answer, “I’m okay,” they would know that it’s not true, that I’m not okay.

He pulls me into the motorhome.

I follow, nervous.

He’s scowling deeply. “Did you stay awake at night?” he asks as he pulls out his gear.

“Yes,” I admit.

His stare is nerve-wrackingly intense, and I’m at a loss as to how to explain, because—although Racer makes me nervous, he also makes me calm deep where it hurts, his presence both soothing and exciting at the same time.