Page 66 of The Fast Track

Dear god. Am I friends with Sasha Devin now?

The next photo is a selfie of Cameron, Chloe, Sasha, andGeorgios. Chloe is turned into Cameron, her hand pressed possessively against his chest in a way that makes my throat dryer, if that’s even possible.

“Check this out.” He zooms in on a corner. It’s me in the background, face contorted in disgust while I hold a bottle of Hendriksen I’ve clearly just taken a sip of. Looks like no amount of alcohol will make beer taste better. The expression on my face is 100 percent zany, 0 percent cute and delightful. “I think this is seconds before you decided to vomit on me.”

My eyes drift back toward Chloe and Cameron looking like a picture-perfect couple. I try my best to keep my voice casual. “So, are you and Chloe, like, a thing now?”

Cameron snorts. “Nice diversionary tactics.” He’s still zoomed in on my face. “I’m gutted I missed this live. Justine Kwong, party animal.”

“Har-har.” I roll my eyes, grasping for a way to bring the subject back around to what I really want to know. “If you guys went out, you could double-date with Pat and Savannah.” The words jab my heart. “She’s super sweet and really pretty.”

“Yeah, she’s cool. I don’t know if she’s my type, though.”

Before I can ask what precisely is his type, he leans over. My breath constricts.

“Here.” His thumb dabs the side of my mouth, fingers warm and gentle. “You’ve got tomato sauce on your face.”

My eyes drift to his lips. When I look back up, I realize he’s staring at me, too.

“That’s better.” He tucks a strand of limp hair behind my ear, then rests his hand there.

Goose bumps prickle all over my arm. There’s a weird little lilt in my stomach that has nothing to do with the tequila still sloshing around in there.

I want this. I want him. Mess and all.

I shut off all the parts of my brain screaming,What in the name of Lewis Hamilton are you doing?, and press my lips against his.

For a second, he’s absolutely still, and I wonder if this is going to go down as the biggest embarrassment of my life. Moving in on a guy when my breath is still rank with last night’s booze and this morning’s hash browns—at least I could have picked someone who I don’t have to continue seeing four times a week if things blow up in my face.

Then, his mouth parts, leaving me breathless and dizzy. His hand moves to the back of my neck, tugging me gently closer. I turn to face him fully, torso pressing into his, fingers running through his gloriously thick hair.

With a groan, he pushes his stool back and gets up so he’s standing between my legs. His other hand slides down to my lower back, pulling me in so there’s practically no space between our bodies. He bends down, moving his lips to my neck, and I feel like I’ve died and been transported into the heavens.

Kind of like winning the race that clinches a major championship, except different. And—I’m starting to becomeconvinced as he moves his mouth back to mine—almost better.

“I’ve wanted to do this for ages,” he whispers. “All I could do to keep from fighting Dietrich last night.”

The thought of Cameron getting all caveman is possibly the most thrilling thing that’s ever happened to me. “Really?”

“Why,” he says, lifting his head and looking down, “does violence make you so chuffed?”

“I’m not chuffed,” I say, struggling to conceal my smile.

He taps me gently on the nose. “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got the talent of a homeless poker player?”

“You did. And your metaphor still makes zero sense.”

“Let me be clear for your sad lack of imagination: You are such a bad liar that if you were to play poker, someone would eat you out of house and home.”

“Okay, fine. I am a little happy,” I admit. “But just so you know, I’m not into Dietrich.” It feels especially important to clarify this, even if Cameron—thank god—doesn’t know about my long-running fangirl crush.

“Good,” he says. “I’m not into Chloe, either.”

Then his lips are on mine again. My heart sings, beating so joyously I’m surprised he doesn’t feel it thumping against my rib cage.He likes me. He likes me. He likes me.

My phone chooses that moment to go off in my bedroom. I ignore the buzzing. The caller doesn’t give up, though, and calls again. After the third round, Cameron leans back. “I think you’d better get that. Someone wants to talk to you very badly.”

I go to my phone reluctantly, already knowing it’s Mom. No one else calls like I’m the fire department and she has nine cats stuck in a tree. I cringe at the sight of my own reflection in the bedroom mirror. Smudged mascara and messy hair make me look like a raccoon in need of an intervention. I don’t know how Cameron kissed me.