Page 57 of The Fast Track

She smiles, her dimples identical to her son’s. “I’ve heard all about you—you made quite the impression on my mother-in-law.”

“Mum.” Cameron rolls his eyes. She gives him a shrug back. “Speaking of, where’s yours?” He looks around the lobby nervously.

I shake my head, extra grateful Mom wasn’t here to witness whatever just went down. “She already committed to an event out of town.”

“Oh, are you going alone, then? Do you want to come with us?”

My face bursts into flames again. I have no trouble throwing myself around hairpin turns, yet I can’t find the courage to utter four little words:I’m going with Dietrich.

I draw in a quick breath to fortify myself, but before I can get the sentence out, a black limousine pulls to a stop in front of our building. Dietrich steps out, a bouquet of pink roses and baby’s breath in his hand.

Cameron looks from me, to Dietrich, then back to me.

“I see,” he says, jaw flexing. “Enjoy your night.”

Then he offers his arm to his mother and sweeps out of the lobby without a second glance.

“Are you all right?” Dietrich asks when we’re halfway to the gala.

“Perfectly!” I say quickly, giving him two thumbs up.

Totally, completely all right, except I’ve been wondering if Cameron is mad at me the entire ride so far. He technically doesn’t have grounds to be—not like we’ve said anything or done anything (again, we haven’t even kissed!). Am I just fooling myself into thinking he could possibly care? Not that I should be doing anything about it even if he did like me. Andon top of all this, Dietrich is sitting next to me looking like a daydream in his tuxedo. I don’t even know where I stand in my own feelings anymore.

“It’s just—you are being unusually silent.”

I don’t know what it means that he thinks I don’t shut up on a normal day. “Is that a bad thing?”

He laughs, his bright blue eyes lighting up. “You’re funny.”

Based on the copious number of rom-coms I’ve watched this summer with Roz,funnyis the second-worst attribute a boy could assign to you, right behindgreat personality. Somehow, I only feel a fraction of the devastation I should at this unflattering label.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

Cameron bobbles up in my mind like a buoy among sea waves.

“The gala,” I lie. “I’ve never been to one. It’s a little nerve-racking.”

“Don’t worry, it’s quite boring. You can keep me from falling asleep during the speeches.”

How unromantic. I smile weakly. Despite the fact that Dietrich is pure perfection, we’re riding in a Rolls-Royce Phantom, and I’m holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers—everything I would have wanted two weeks ago—it all feels disappointingly mid.

There’s a red carpet spread in front of the OTC, complete with a navy backdrop emblazoned with repeating Orbital logos in white. It’s not quite Hollywood—there’s only Britt, herinterns, and the hired photographer and videographer greeting guests as they arrive—but it’s still the most glamorous thing I’ve ever been to.

The event itself is held in The Avenue. Some magical event-planning fairy has moved all the vintage race cars normally on display and replaced them with linen-covered tables arranged in front of a temporary dais. Apparently they used to leave the cars out as decor, but a few years ago a drunk sponsor tripped and broke the rear wing of the ORB-25, so that was the end of that.

We’re swarmed the moment we enter. Or at least, Dietrich is. I’m just stuck next to him, being ignored while everyone tries to get his attention.

I nudge Dietrich. “I’m gonna go say hi to Roz.”

“I’ll see you at the table.” He gives me a nod, then turns politely back to the platinum-level sponsor who hasn’t stopped talking about the Ashmolean renaming a collection in his family’s honor this entire time.

I break out of the circle—insultingly easy because people are more than happy to step into the spot I occupied—and make a beeline for Roz, who’s just entered. She’s gone all out in a sky-blue bodycon dress that matches her hair.

“You look amazing,” I tell her. “Love the new dye job.”

Roz beams. “Shut up, you look gorgeously hot yourself.” She grabs my arm and spins me, checking out my floor-length dress (navy, to match Orbital’s branding). “Love the off-the-shoulder. Dietrich must be drooling. How’s it been, living the dream?”

“Okay, I guess.”