Page 113 of Crash Course

Tonight, the commercial track is stripped down and quiet—floodlights humming, empty grandstands looming, the asphalt still warm from the day.

Jameson drives straight onto the infield and parks.

We sit on the hood of the Ferrari, eating our dinner and staring up at the sky. After the pressure of the hotel party, this feels like the world has been lifted off us.

“What’s the first car you ever worked on outside of your garage?” he asks.

My shoulders relax as I bite into the best steak I’ve ever tasted.

“My friend Bree’s older brother’s. Bree and I go way back. When we were kids I had trouble fitting in. But when I could fix something using my head and my hands, it felt right.”

“I bet it made you lots of friends.”

“Not exactly. In high school, this guy who used to torment me got a flat in the middle of nowhere. I was driving by, so I fixed it. He was embarrassed enough that a girl saved his ass that he lied and said he did it. But honestly, I didn’t mind. Having expertise was something nobody could take away from me.”

Jameson reaches for his drink, considering. “I wish I could say I was as generous as you. I tried to share my, ah—expertise, though in hindsight, it was probably more like I told the other kids what to do.”

My lips twitch as I picture Jameson as a kid, informing the others of how they should drive and tune their cars. “That’s very self-aware of you.”

“Right?” He grins. “I stopped trying when I realized the other drivers would undercut me anyway. One year racing karts, I let myself get distracted and lost in the final points. Luca was pissed, but more than that, I saw how fast it could all be taken away. And through the entire offseason I realized that without racing, I’m nobody.”

The smile fades. I’ve never met someone who goes from happy to serious so fast, as if being too happy for too long is dangerous.

“That’s not true, Jameson.”

He takes another bite, chewing and swallowing before he responds. “I like that you think so. And that you said so.”

The softness in his voice makes my heart expand. I’m remembering my words from earlier to Luca as we finish our meal and Jameson packs the remainder back into the bag.

“Ready?”

“For what?”

He waves a hand to our surroundings. “We’re at the track, Townie. I didn’t bring you here for the view.”

Jameson presses the keys into my hand and disbelief floods my system.

He’s serious?

“You said you’d never let me drive,” I remind him.

“You’re right, forget it,” he bluffs.

But I’m off the hood and adjusting the driver’s seat. My face hurts from the smile stretching my cheeks.

“Shit.” I can’t drive with stilettos, but Jameson’s already retrieving a cardboard box from the trunk.

“Rental shoes?” I guess.

“These are new. I ordered them for you.”

I want to kiss him, so I lean in and do it. He’s warm and solid.

Every part of him feels right. Feels mine.

But I also want to drive the fucking car.

We start on slow laps, going over braking points, the lines, the apexes. If I expected him to be anything but an exceptional teacher, I was wrong.