Page 23 of The Fast Track

“I saw you eyeing these earlier,” he says, as if that explains his moment of shocking generosity.

I take a bite of the crispy, crunchy chicken. “This is amazing.”

“You haven’t had proper chicken strips if you think this fare is passable.”

Of course he’s a food snob who’s judgy about my palate. Before I can ask him what he considers top-of-the-line, Roz makes her long-awaited appearance.

“Hello, boys.” She crams herself in, pressing me into Cameron. His arms are jarringly toned through the buttery material of his sweater. “Sorry about Tottenham’s season,” she purrs at Grayson, leaning over the table so her décolletage is on display.

It works. Every guy at the table turns his gaze away from the TV and leans in toward her. I feel like I should take notes. Maybe if I’d shown up like a punky sex kitten instead of a crazy person with skinned knees, Dietrich would have been more forgiving about me being late.

Three pitchers later, Roz and Grayson have gone for a smoke while the rest of the table is still debating Newcastle’s chances without their usual forward against Nottingham Forest.

I take the opportunity to slip out of the booth. I need a break from pretending to laugh at the boys’ milquetoast soccer jokes in the name of making friends and fitting in.

While I’m waiting on my vodka lemonade at the bar, a presence squeezes in to my left.

“Sorry, do you mind? It’s absolutely packed.” Of course it’s Cameron, because the universe has decided today isn’t my day.

To be fair, there’s no other spot open at the bar and thewaiter at the cash register has been ignoring customers like it’s her job to. I shrug and scoot in as much as I can without bumping into the middle-aged guy next to me.

“Thanks.” He shoots me a half grin, half grimace. “All right?”

I narrow my eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Keep your hair on, just thought I’d ask—you’re the one who had the dead man’s stare on back there.”

“A what?” I used to think British accents on guys were super hot, but then I moved to the UK and it got exhausting trying to figure out what barbs I’m getting jabbed with.

“Eyes open, seeing nothing? Staring off into the abyss?”

So now I look like a dead person. “Gee, thanks. So flattering.”

“Look.” He sighs and runs his hand through his hair, tugging hard on the ends. “I don’t want to get into another fight. It’d be better if we could manage to finish the FC-80 without any more incidents.”

“Fine by me,” I say primly. “You’re the one who insisted on torturing me when I was already late for my meeting.”

“Aw, come on, I was only teasing.”

I make apfftsound, and he looks at me with a small grin.

“You were so funny and frantic, I would have gone faster a second later.”

“It wasn’t funny to me.”

“Well, did it turn out all right?”

Roz claimed going out would be the best way to distractmyself from my woes, but so far reminders of how I’ve blown it on- and off-track keep popping me in the face like I’m in some sad live-action simulation ofDragon Ball FighterZ.

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter anymore. Thanks, by the way.”

He gives me a quizzical look.

“For saving me from Sasha Devin.”

“Oh, right. Sasha can be a twat sometimes.” He turns toward me, leaning in to the bar counter. “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t get points my first F3 race either.”

Incredibly, some of the tension that’s been in my stomach all day loosens a little. “Really? But you placed third for the season last year.”