Page 48 of The Fast Track

I nod like I might actually change my mind. And Roz smiles weakly like she might actually believe me.

15.

It feels anticlimactic when Cameronand I finally finish the FC-80 the following Friday. She’s missing part of her front suspension and it looks like an elephant stepped on her rear wing, but with a fresh paint job she could almost be exhibition ready.

“Not bad.” Cameron sits back, resting on his palms. “She’s not as ugly as she looks in old photos.”

“Shush, don’t be rude.” I plop down on the cracked asphalt next to him, making sure I sit far enough away we don’t run the risk of accidentally touching. “Maybe Frank will put her in theOrbital: A Historydisplay.”

He snorts. “A car that never won a race? More likely he’ll disassemble it and shove it back in the shed. Then he’ll make the next drivers who don’t get along do the same thing.”

“Maybe we should take some photos so we can help out the next feuding pair.” I snap a few pictures of our handiwork.

“Let’s get one of us, too. We can send it to Frank.”

He scoots closer and our thighs touch, lining up against each other. My pulse accelerates despite myself.

“Say ‘cheese.’?” He extends out his long arm, capturing the two of us with the FC-80 behind. I’m relieved my smile looks seminormal and not like my heart is going a thousand beats per minute.

I shift away as soon as the photo’s done. Out of the corner of my eye, I can feel Cameron looking at me, studying me.

“Hey,” he finally says, “you fancy grabbing dinner?”

“With you?” My throat goes dry. We’ve never done anything together without being contractually forced to.

Cameron’s phone buzzes. “Sorry, one sec.” He pushes himself up off the ground. “Hi, Mum… Does it have to be tonight? Fine, I’ll get it. Bye, love you too.”

“Sorry about that.” He looks at me. “So, what do you say? I know it’s on the late side, so totally cool if you don’t want to,” he adds quickly, extending a hand.

I’m supposed to be getting my beauty sleep ahead of the gala tomorrow night, but Mom went down to London to speak at some momager convention (panel:Managing Your Successful Athletic Child), so there’s no one to stop me from going out tonight if I want to.

“Okay.” I place my hand in his and ignore the thrillingzingthat zaps every nerve in my body.

He pulls me up easily. “Come on, we can take my bike.”

“This is your bike?”

I gawk at the gleaming 1975 Kawasaki in front of me. I know it instantly. I drool every time I walk past it in the OTC parking lot. I always thought it belonged to Otto Warner, whose love for iconic vehicles is as famous as he is.

“Got it off a bloke I used to work for.” Cameron beams, stroking the polished, showroom-ready handlebars. “My granddad and I restored it ourselves.”

I try not to let my jaw drop too much. I knew he was handy, but I didn’t know he was restore-a-vintage-motorbike-until-it-shines-level handy. Even Roz would have trouble taking this on.

“Shall we?” He hands me a helmet from the topbox, then loops a long leg over the seat and boots up the kickstand in one fluid motion. I climb on behind him, hoping the butterflies crashing in my stomach aren’t noticeable from the outside.

Cameron drives his motorcycle like he drives his car: fast and with zero chill. We gun through Milton Keynes, the roar of the engine bouncing along the grid roads. On the M1, he weaves in and out of traffic, zooming up the narrow gap between lanes when the speed of travel slows down. If I stuck my feet out, I’d be touching cars on either side. I grip the back of the seat, doing my best to keep from bodily flying off.

“You can hold on to me if it’s easier,” he calls back.

“Thank you!” I shout, the wind whipping strands of hair in my face.

I circle my arms around his waist. He’s obviously in shapebecause we all hit the gym six days a week, but still, I’m totally unprepared for how nice his abs feel.

All too soon, we’re pulling off the highway. We ride through a town center lined by stately-looking Georgian buildings and cottage shops, a much closer approximation to the quaint British countryside I envisioned myself living in when I first found out I was moving to England. But then Cameron makes a couple more turns and we’re no longer in the cute, pretty part of town. The houses turn blander, the storefronts shabbier.

He slows the motorcycle and we stop in front of a row of attached houses. There’s a small patch of lawn in front of each, most overgrown with weeds and uneven clumps of shin-high grass. The fading brick looks like it hasn’t been power washed in years.

“Sorry,” he says, taking off his helmet. “I just have to run in and pick up something for my mum. Give me one sec.”