Page 112 of Crash Course

When we get inside, Luca notices immediately. His eyes fill with satisfaction until he spots me.

“I’ll make the rounds,” Jameson murmurs in my ear. “I’ll be right back.”

I lift a glass of champagne off a waiter’s tray, mostly to give my hands something to do.

I’m hoping to stay tucked into a corner. My plan works for all of thirty seconds.

“I almost didn’t recognize you, Shay MacDonald.” Luca appears beside me. “That is your name,” he goes on when I don’t answer.

“It is.” I stare out at the crowd of well-dressed businesspeople and racing personalities. “But I was nervous the first time we met.”

“Appropriate, since you were trespassing on my property. Did you know your father used to be one of our mechanics?” he continues without waiting for a response.

“He still is.”

It feels like we’re playing a game, only I don’t know the rules.

“Of course. How are you finding the academy? I understand you’ve made quite the impression.”

“It’s challenging. Different than college.”

“Understandable. And now you want to work on the grid to be close to my son?”

The hairs on my neck stand up.

This isn’t like playing a game with Jameson, who pushes you because he wants to see you at your best.

This is a trap closing. I can feel it.

“I cheered for you,” I hear myself say. “I grew up watching you on TV, with my dad. I was proud that he worked for you. I couldn’t look away.”

Luca’s eyes glaze, as if he’s fascinated but not sure where I’m headed.

Maybe I’m not sure, either.

“I’d love to work with Jameson. He’s incredible.”

“He’s an Ashford.”

I take a long sip of my drink. “He’s more than that.”

Luca frowns.

“She can be close to me no matter what her job is.” Jameson materializes behind us. “Or mine for that matter.”

“Jameson, there are other stakeholders to meet—”

“I’m off the clock.” He reaches for my hand, squeezes it. I squeeze back.

“Let’s get out of here,” he murmurs in my ear.

“Yes, please. But I think I’ve had enough of fancy rooms and waiters for now.”

“Understood.” He considers as we head for the doors. “We can get takeout.”

Somehow, he gets the restaurant to pack everything up to go. We head off the Strip, and a few minutes later we’re pulling off the road to a private facility.

“Speed Vegas,” I read off the sign.