Page 16 of Speed Crush
I lean a little closer. “You going?”
She nods. “Yeah. They’re doing a special karaoke night downtown as part of the Grand Opening.”
I raise a brow. “Like… on a stage?”
She shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Yes… and I will be with a friend.”
A friend.
Right. That word lands harder than it should. And I don’t know why, but suddenly I care way too much about who this friend is.
Chapter 4
Knighted Wingman
June
TheTimberlineKegispacked.
It always is after a town-wide event, but tonight? The place buzzes.
Every table is full, the floorboards vibrate under boots and laughter, and someone just duct-taped a hand-drawn sign to the wall that says:
CEDAR FALLS—NOW ON THE MAP.
The ink’s barely dry, but folks are already quoting online articles—local blogs, racing fan sites, even one online motorsport magazine—talking about the Grand Opening of Mega Max like we’ve hit global fame.
I’m wedged between Scott Maddox and the jukebox, sipping my cider, pretending I don’t notice how my knee keeps tapping like I’m wired.
Tonight, I am revved up after spending an entire day in Noah Verelli’s proximity.
Too much adrenaline. And too many memories of one infuriating, cocky, dream-wrecking billionaire who kissed me like I was his.
“Alright, Kennedy,” Scott says, nudging me with his hip. “Let’s give the people what they want.”
I glance at the karaoke mic, then back at him. “You’re seriously dragging me up for a duet right now?”
He’s grinning at me. And I can see why every woman in town sighs a little when he walks by—he’s easy to like, and easier on the eyes. That lazy confidence, the warmth behind his jokes, the way he’s always game to make someone laugh. I get why they all think he’s the obvious choice for me. But I also know better.
Scott’s always been that guy—solid, dependable, and annoyingly heroic. The kind of man who’s never met a stray dog or a broken taillight he wouldn’t rescue. He’s all broad shoulders and firefighter heat, with a jaw so sharp it could double as a bottle opener and that easy kind of charm that makes moms swoon and kids feel safe.
He’s also my best friend. The one who shows up with coffee on bad mornings, whose truck I’ve had to bail out of breakdowns more times than he’ll admit, who once jumped into the lake fully clothed because I dropped my phone during a picnic.
I’ve rebuilt his carburetor twice, rewired his stereo, and once pulled a busted nail out of his tire with my teeth when we were stuck at the overlook in the middle of a lightning storm.
He's my ride-or-die since we were teenagers. The guy who’s always had my back and somehow never crossed the line.
And despite the town’s obsession with making us Cedar Falls’ next fairy tale, I’ve never looked at him and felt a spark—not the kind that steals your breath. Not the kind that ruins you for other people.
So, with all that goodness wrapped in muscle, I’ve never once looked at him and felt the sizzle.
He’s safety. A constant.
He's not my chaos. And I'm not his fire to put out.
He may be the town’s hero. But he’s not mine.
He doesn’t make me feel the way I did after that Verelli kiss that’s still feels imprinted on my lips—like I’d been marked and claimed. And I hate that my body remembers that kiss more than I want it to.
