Page 69 of The Fast Track

I give him a look.

“Joking, joking. What do you want to do?” He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I love how he’s always playing with it.

“I’d prefer we don’t make out in the gym.”

He chuckles. “I meant, what do you want to do with this?” He gestures between us.

The question makes me warm and nervous. I want us to spend time together. I want us to be more. But there’s no universe where the two of us make sense. Not to mention,statistically, most relationships are more likely to end than go on successfully, Mom and Dad being a big flashing LED reminder. But I still want to try.

Boy, do I want to try.

“You don’t have to answer right now,” he says quickly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to pressure you. It’s whatever you want to do.”

My heart warms and I’m dangerously close to dissolving into a little lovesick puddle on the floor. “Can we keep hanging out, but keep it quiet?”

Cameron furrows his brow.

It’s the most minuscule of movements, but I know, in the sinking pit of my stomach, that I’ve said something wrong. “What? What is it?”

“It’s just, you were cool to go to the gala with Dietrich in front of everyone, but you don’t even want to kiss me in an empty gym.”

I almost laugh at the obviousness of the answer, that he even has to ask. “Dietrich races in a separate category. And there’s nothing between us anyway.” With Cameron, I’d have to deal with the fallout of being direct competitors on-track. I’m nauseous just thinking about the laughing behind my back; the jokes practically write themselves.

“If you say so.”

“Just think about the field day the commentators would have if they knew.” I do my best chirrupy British accent.“And we have contact! You reckon that’s what those two drivers get up to off-track, too?”

“Please never do that again.” Cameron laughs reluctantly. “You sound like the chimney sweep inMary Poppins.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” He chews his lower lip, then sighs. “Fine. You know what? Forget I said anything. We can do what you suggested. It’s your call. It’s always been your call.”

I smile and look over to the windows to make sure the coast is clear. Then I lean in and kiss him again.

21.

The days leading up toSpa, our next race, are a blur. Cameron and I try to meet up as much as we can, but he has his parents crammed into his two-bedroom apartment, and I’ve got Mom tailing and haranguing me even more than usual now that she knows there’s a good chance I’m moving up categories.

Happily, Pat’s father is flying some business partners to the Belgian Grand Prix on his jet, so Cameron and I get invites to fill the extra seats. Three hours next to him on a luxe private plane—even if we’re surrounded by billionaires I should be sucking up to—is universes better than an eight-hour road trip with Mom.

The plane is already mostly filled when I enter. The cabin, paneled with dark rosewood and lined by coffee-colored leather recliners, screams “money.” Pat’s father holds court toward the back with a group of older men, some of whom I’ve definitely seen on the cover of Mom’sForbesmagazines. Pat and Cameron sit opposite each other in one of the quads—four armchairs facing into one another.

“Morning, Kwong.” Cameron grins, and my heart jumps. I don’t think I’ll ever get bored of that smile, even though we were snacking on chip butties at his grandparents’ less than twelve hours ago.

“Morning,” Pat echoes, his eyes glued to his Nintendo Switch.

I slide into the seat next to Cameron, hoping I look casual and suave. Just two F3 drivers sitting next to each other, hitching a ride with their teammate. Nothing unusual about that at all.

“Ready for Spa?” Cameron turns to me, and a blush spreads across my cheeks. I’ll never admit it, but he’s right—I really need to work on my bluffing.

“Hi, Justine. Hello, boys.” Dietrich enters the plane.

I wave happily. He texted me the evening after the gala, a simpleThank you. That same night Mom reported—with heavy disappointment—that she saw Dietrich hand in hand with a brunette at the local Waitrose. I couldn’t be more pleased for him; he seems lighter than he has been the entire time I’ve known him.

“Dietrich!” Pat switches off hisSuper Marioand tries to flatten his bedhead. “Dad said you were riding with Lou and the team principals, I thought.”

“And a plane full of sponsors. Of course I prefer you lot.” Dietrich lowers himself into the armchair opposite me. “What do you have there?” He nods toward the piece of paper in front of Cameron.