Page 93 of Off the Grid

And there go the panties.

How about the part where I want to do this—all of this—with you, but am terrified that I’m going to freeze up? That I’m not going to do or be what you need me to be? That I’m not going to feel anything? Again . . .

“I—uh—”

“Camilla?”

Riggs is already three feet away from me when the door is pushed all the way open.

“Yes?”

“Oh, sorry,” Heather says. “I didn’t mean to inter—”

“You didn’t.” I force a smile. Please make her believe it. “Riggs was just showing me his latest AITA video.”

She smiles. “Everyone is talking about them. Brilliant. Simply brilliant idea.”

“Thanks.”

“May I have a minute of your time?” she asks.

“Yes. Of course,” I say as Riggs moves toward the door.

“I’ll catch you later, Camilla. We need to finish this conversation.” He looks back and smirks. “My offers don’t stay on the table forever.”

Both Heather and I watch him walk away, but only one of us is shaking their head.

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CHAPTER THIRTY

Riggs

“It’s pulling to the right.” The whole car vibrates all around me.

I fight the wheel—been fighting it all fucking race. My arms ache and I keep trying to force my hands to relax.

A tighter grip doesn’t always mean a quicker reaction.

“We know.” That’s Hank’s equivalent to we fucking know and we’re no closer to having a solution. It’s race day. It’s way past the time where we can make any major adjustments. “Do your best, mate.”

“Understood,” I say, determined to muscle this thing to the finish line.

And while I might need to loosen my grip on the wheel, I sure as shit don’t stop gritting my teeth every time another driver—Rossi, Laurent, Cavanaugh, McElroy, Navarro, what feels like fucking everybody—passes me.

I challenge them when I can, but more than anything, I stay close to Andrew who’s sitting at P3. I help fend them off. It’s harder to overtake two cars at once than just one.

Because I sure as shit am not going to get a chance at a high finish, but Andrew can. And that’s good for Moretti. It’s F1 teamwork at its finest.

So I drive my arse off. No doubt pissing fellow drivers off while at the same time, earning their respect.

I’ve never worked harder for someone else than I do today.

And when Andrew places P3—takes a podium—when the team erupts into a torrent of cheers, I may be jealous as fuck, but I’m also proud and claim a small iota of the accomplishment for myself.

“Tough day out there. You did what you could, Riggs,” Hank says.

“Ten-four. Thanks for all your hard work, guys.”