Scott rested his temple against the cool glass, watching the raindrops race one another down the window. Between the overnight flight from New York, the time difference, and the endless drive from Heathrow, every muscle in his bodyached with exhaustion. He should have slept on the plane, but he never slept well on flights, no matter how luxurious the private jet was. Instead of sleeping, he’d spent most of the journey absentmindedly reading articles about the upcoming British Grand Prix and wondering whether Cam Richter actually expected him to show up after sending him a paddock pass out of the blue.
Not that it mattered. Scott had every intention of making full use of that obscenely expensive invitation.
Besides, there was something strangely entertaining about Cameron Richter. The man seemed perpetually annoyed by Scott’s very existence, but somehow kept drifting back into his orbit. Scott couldn’t quite figure him out, and that alone made him worth teasing.
The hotel finally came into view. People in various Formula One team kits hurried through the drizzle with umbrellas, while photographers lingered near the entrance in hopes of spotting someone famous.
Scott suppressed a yawn as the chauffeur unloaded his luggage. He hoped check-in would be quick.
That hope was soon crushed.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Palmer,” an apologetic-looking receptionist said. “But because of the Grand Prix, there are no rooms available.”
Scott frowned. He was used to hotels being “sold out” on Formula One weekends, but usually it was nothing his VIP credentials and money couldn’t solve. The top hotels almost always kept a few rooms in reserve for people willing to pay any price.
“My family is one of the biggest shareholders in Hilton,” Scott said reluctantly. He didn’t like playing this card, but needs must. There were simply no other hotels around Silverstone. The track was in the middle of nowhere. Every hotel in the neighboring towns was sold out. He’d have nowhere to stay if he couldn’t get a room at the Hilton.
The receptionist winced. “I know, Mr. Palmer, and I’m truly sorry, but we’re fully booked. Most of the hotel has been blocked off by the Formula One teams. Short of booting out other guests under dubious pretenses, there’s nothing we can do.”
“Oh,” Scott said, trying not to show how upset he was. After the long transatlantic flight and the long drive to the track, he was beyond exhausted. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Let me know if you’d like me to find you a car back to London,” she said sympathetically.
Scott hesitated. That seemed like the only logical choice at this point, but he dreaded having to endure a two-hour ride to the track and back to the hotel every day during the weekend. The traffic was supposedly terrible during the Grand Prix.
Biting his lip, he looked down at his phone. “I’ll let you know if I need it,” he said before walking over to a couch and sitting down.
He stared at Cam Richter’s number in his contacts. They hadn’t actually texted or talked since Austria. In fact, the invitation to Silverstone had taken him completely by surprise. He’d stopped expecting anything after a week of radio silence.
It would be pretty presumptuous to text someone Scott barely knew and ask for his help.
But...
The manhadinvited him to this race. Scott hadn’t forced him to get him a VIP paddock pass.
Catching his lip between his teeth, Scott typed a text.
Scott: Hey! Thanks for the invite. I’m at the Hilton, but they’re fully booked. :( Do you maybe have any idea where I could stay?
Was it too casual? Too formal?
Scott nearly groaned aloud, frustrated by his own uncharacteristic doubts. The thing was, he wasn’t sure how to feel about Cam Richter. It wasn’t as though he had a crush on the guy or something. Frankly, it would have been easier if he did. Scott got crushes pretty often. As his cousin Will was fond of saying, Scott fell in love every other month.
But Cam really wasn’t his type at all, no matter how objectively handsome he was. Even if he weren’t straight, he gave off such atopvibe it was a huge turnoff. Scott liked his sweet, spunky bottoms who spread their legs for him and wailed on his dick. Domineering, homophobic Formula One champions as tall as Scott was were about as far from Scott’s type as it was possible to get.
Scott should have disliked the guy. He didn’t know why he didn’t, why he enjoyed talking to him and teasing him—why his thoughts had strayed to Cam Richter more than once over the past few weeks. He wasn’t even that big of a fan. Like, he could appreciate Cam’s racecraft and blistering, dominant performances on track like any guy who was into sports, but Scott really hadn’t been watching Formula One long enough to be a die-hard fan of any driver.
His phone buzzed with a new message, snapping him out of his confusing thoughts.
Cam:are you at reception?
Frowning, Scott confirmed that he was.
There wasn’t any reply for a few long minutes. Cam wasn’t online anymore.
He’d been left on read.
“Dick,” Scott muttered under his breath.
