“You wear yours in your eyes.”

My eyes widen. He peers down at me intently, a smile on his lips.

“Really? How am I feeling now?” I laugh at that, feeling flustered as I clutch my hotdog.

“Now? Or before you asked?”

“Now.”

“You’re happy.”

“Really?” I say, and I do feel carefree, happy, and a little flirty too.

“It’s the hotdog,” he says, though I can tell by the mischief in his gaze he’s not buying that.

“Oh. For sure. You have no idea how long it’s been since I had one,” I say, biting into it again, a big bite to prove my point.

His smile widens for a second, and then it fades, and we sit in silence, watching the track as the cars zoom past.

I feel self-conscious now.

About my stupid, expression-filled eyes.

“Are you traveling on your own?” he asks.

I nod.

“How long are you staying here?” he asks again, sounding intensely curious.

“Not long,” I breathe, unsettled by his implacable gaze. “You? Do you live here?”

“I do. Not my family. They’re visiting.” He smiles lightly, one dimple appearing.

“Oh.”

Just then, he leans forward, taking the idle hotdog from my hand and lifting it to my mouth.

I open my mouth to protest and he inches it closer, and I end up taking a bite. My stomach tightens as he lowers it, watching me eat it, his eyes really blue, really observant and unnerving, and really, really close.

“What about him,” I ask, pointing at the guy currently out on the track.

“Awkward on turn four,” he says, sparing him a second’s glance.

I pay attention, and realize he’s right, he loses speed on turn four.

“Is it true you know the best driver in the world?”

I know I sound dubious, but I know there’s no such thing. All of them have qualities and flaws, all of them depend on the car, the weather, hell their lucky stars.

His eyes darken. He nods.

His body is delicious, I need to fight my eyes to keep them from dropping down to his thick thighs in those black jeans, and his shirt hugging those muscles.

“Will you introduce me.”

He reaches out and takes my pen again, scribbling a street address on the back of my list. As he bends down to write, I stare at his profile and at his mouth, and I wonder what that mouth would look like after being kissed by me. After kissing me.

He lifts his head and catches me staring, and looks at my lips too. I snap out of it and smile as I take the paper he extends out. “Nine p.m. tonight. Be there,” he says, almost a warning in his tone.

I notice he wrote another word after Racer too. It says Tate.

I gather my things, and say, “You better not be a serial killer,” warningly too.

“Not yet. But this guy … you should stay away from him.” He shoots me a meaningful look, and I shiver all over.

I walk away and hurry to my car, not knowing what the hell I’m doing. I wasted the Indy drivers’ practice session ogling this guy, and now I’ve literally still got no driver, only an address, and the word Racer on my “to-do” list.

And though I should be worried about this situation, I’m smiling as I pull my car out, my whole body feeling oddly untired now. Maybe it’s the prospect of him being right. Maybe it’s the prospect of him being there.

I shouldn’t even want him to be right because I’d owe him a very expensive car fix. But a part of me still wants him to be.

I arrive at my hotel room and settle down before taking a bath to change for tonight, and I call the concierge for a complimentary Wi-Fi code and decide to type in

Racer Tate into the Google search bar.

I’m fucking mind-blown with the results I get.

FAMOUS SEATTLE ILLEGAL STREET RACER, RACER TATE, SAID TO BE HEATING UP THE STREETS IN ST. PETERSBURG …

Lana

The thing about lying is you never know how to stop. One lie requires another and another and another. I’ve got a flat tire, am on the outskirts of St. Petersburg, heading to what I assume is a street race happening around here, and having to walk the rest of the way there isn’t exactly my idea of smooth sailing.

My brothers don’t know I’m here. They know I’m scouting for talent. I didn’t tell them I ended up with nothing from Indy today, except I happened to meet the most fucking popular street racer in the whole damn world. He’s a veritable legend in those dark, secret forums I ended up squirming into, where all they talked about was Tate and how he never loses. I should’ve totally shut my computer down and taken my flight straight home. Who in their right mind would put a freaking illegal street racer behind the wheel of a million-dollar Formula One car? My dad’s F1 car?

But here I am, on my way to the address the man himself wrote down on my page.

You should stay away from him …

Why do we do the opposite of what we’re told?

And why is it true that when it rains, it pours? I got a call from Drake checking in on me and to let me know my dad is in the hospital.

“But is he all right? Are you sure?” I peer straight ahead at the cars in the distance.

“Yeah, they said it was dehydration. Hang on. You’re on speaker.”

“Daddy, please take good care of yourself!”

“You take better care of me than I do,” I hear my dad’s soft, amused voice on the other end, a little tired. My eyes well.

“Well yes but I’m doing other things for you, please take good care of yourself for me.”

I can hear the smile in his voice when he replies. “Only because you asked nicely and didn’t throw a shoe at me.”