Page 74 of Off the Grid

“Turn the charm all the way on. Let’s do this.”

We enter the room and I spend the next hour or so meeting people. Learning about them. Trying to figure out what answers they want me to give.

And smiling. A lot.

What I don’t expect is to look up and see Camilla across the room. We haven’t really “seen” each other or spent time of any quality since the press box and the champagne.

The few moments we might have been able to steal a quick conversation during the buildup to race day here in Montreal have been interrupted—most of the time by her. So I’m beginning to think she’s purposely avoiding me.

I’m not a fan of the feeling.

And I’m even less of a fan of the man who sidles up beside her and slides a hand onto her back. He leans in and whispers something in her ear. She looks up at him and blushes, her eyes alive and lips curved up into a smile.

I don’t like it.

I don’t like it at fucking all.

And I like it even less when the man turns to face the room and he’s none other than Steele Pennington—the latest actor to be cast as James Bond.

They look cozy. Chummy even. With his hand still on her back and her leaning into him every few seconds with that smile.

“Riggs?” Anya calls to me and it pains me to look away.

“Hmm?”

“Over here?” She lifts her eyebrows and looks toward yet another fucking sponsor.

If this room is full of sponsors, what is he doing here with her?

“Yep. Sure.” I move to where Anya stands with several others as Camilla’s laugh carries across the room like a cold draft causing goosebumps on my skin.

This is ridiculous.

“Spencer Riggs, this is . . .” Anya goes on and I claim my spot in the dog and pony show like I respectfully need to do.

But the next time I look their way, they’re not there. I scour the room just in time to see them leaving out the front. His hand still on her back.

I roll my shoulders as the door shuts.

Jealousy isn’t a feeling I’m used to.

Hell, it isn’t a feeling I should even be feeling. It’s Camilla. She’s her and I’m me and there’s nothing between us. Nothing but a few kisses and the memory of how I wanted to kiss her the last time I was with her.

And yet . . . I look back toward the door they just walked out of and I still feel it.

I want to walk after her and see what the hell she’s doing with him.

I don’t want to acknowledge that all these games between us just might be getting to me when I don’t want them to get to me.

You have a job to do, Riggs. A huge fucking end game to accomplish. Focus on that.

Not on Camilla Moretti.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Riggs