I barely edged her out at the line, and as soon as I flipped my visor up, I braced myself for whatever the fuck was about to happen next. I had no fucking idea what I was going to do when we climbed out of these cars. But I knew one thing withbone-deep certainty. This wasn't over. Not even fucking close.
I'd make her suffer right along with me.
The vintage carI drove was wildly different on the track—no telemetry, no assists—just me and the machine. But it was exhilarating. A deep blue 1969 Alpine A110, twitchy and fast, all instinct.
It reminded me of my Porsche back home: sleeker, smoother, rebuilt from the ground up with my own hands. This one bit back. I loved it.
And yet, Callum still crossed the finish line first, just barely, in that smug, sex-on-wheels black DB4 Zagato. The kind of car that belonged in a museum. Or a Bond film. Or beneath my fucking back. So goddamn annoying.
As we climbed out of the cars, our faces were flushed, our breathing heavy. The cameras were immediate, capturing every angle. It was supposed to be lighthearted—a vintage exhibition race for the cameras—but my frustration simmered just beneath the surface.
My mind was still spiraling. Still reeling, playing a cruel joke on me.
He had called me love.
Love.
Love.
Love.
Not Dubois. Not Auri.Love.
And he'd said it in that accent, in a tone that burnedhotter than the Miami sun. Like it had just slipped out. And the way he'd looked at me when he said it? The way his gaze had lingered, scorching, something unreadable flickering in his expression as his veiny hands tightened the straps on his helmet?
Fucking porn.
I was already so far down this path, and he made sure I kept going. I could still hear it. Could still feel it in the way my heart pitter-pattered against my sternum. Still wondering how much filthier it would sound in a different setting.
I needed to snap out of it.
“You had the inside line,” I accused, my voice low and sharp as I yanked off my helmet and tightened my ponytail.
Callum tossed his helmet onto the roof of his car with a smirk that was too fucking cocky for my mood right now. He ran a hand through his sweaty waves—an action that should immediately be banned for the sake of the female species. “And you nearly clipped me in Turn 4. You're lucky I didn't spin out.”
“Lucky?” I shot back, stepping closer, catching a whiff of his sweat and expensive cologne. Fuck, I hated that I liked it so much that my thighs rubbed together involuntarily.
“You were so slow through Turn 8, I could’ve slipped inside with my eyes closed.”
I blinked.Slipped inside.Into what? Where? Why did I suddenly forget how to breathe? The tips of my ears grew hot and beads of sweat gathered on the nape of my neck. I reached behind me to lift my heavy ponytail. It had to have been from the Miami heat, not from dirty talk.
His eyes dragged over me, clearly catching the shift. He smiled casually, maybe a little taunting, and added, “Relax. I meant the corner.” A pause. “Unless your mind’s somewhere else?”
“Fuck. Off,” I snapped. “You blocked me like it was bumper cars, Fraser.”
He laughed, the sound tinged with frustration. “It's called defending, Dubois. Maybe take notes.”
I stepped even closer, the space between us disappearing as my anger flared. “Maybe learn to fight fair.”
His grin faltered, his blue eyes narrowing. “You think this is unfair? Welcome to F1, princess. This isn't F2 anymore.”
Princesshit me like a slap, and my breath caught in my chest. My fists clenched at my sides, and for a moment, I considered saying something that would cross every line.
Except he got there first.
“Careful with how you respond, love,” he murmured, voice dipping into that lethal, velvet register that made me swallow nervously and forget we were surrounded by cameras. “You keep talking back to me like this and I might bend you over the car and show you how I really take the inside line.”
My mouth opened. Closed. Opened again… and absolutely nothing came out. I was speechless, and for me, that was a fucking miracle.
