“Coming,” Cam said, frowning to himself before pushing the thoughts aside.
He had a Grand Prix to win.
He’d likely never see Scott Palmer again.
Chapter 2
Cam climbed out of the car and stalked over to get weighed, his jaw still clenched in annoyance.
Fucking P2. He should have been on pole. The car had been good enough, but the rear had suddenly become too twitchy in the final sector. It wasn’t over yet, of course—the race was tomorrow, and overtaking was possible on this track—but he would have liked to start from pole. This wasn’t exactly ideal.
He finished his post-qualifying interview on autopilot, giving terse but polite enough answers, and strode away from the media pen before the other journalists could grab him. He couldn’t do it anymore—the cameras, the phones and microphones shoved into his face, the endless parade of influencers in borrowed team gear wanting a piece of him when he was in no mood for it. Every weekend it was the same circus. Smile. Perform. Sell the sport. Pretend he didn’t want to tell them all to fuck off.
“Running away?” a familiar voice called out.
Cam’s head snapped toward the voice.
Scott Palmer was leaning casually against the wall, a playful smirk on his lips. He was clad in yet another ridiculously posh outfit—white trousers and a black silk button-down—but somehow managed not to look silly. Then again, that ponce would look good in a fucking sack, and he clearly knew it.
“You’d run away too if you got swarmed by a dozen reporters,” Cam said dryly, walking toward him.
Scott hummed. “I’d never get swarmed by reporters.”
“No. Just photographers.”
Scott pressed a hand to his chest. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
Scott sighed dramatically. “You’re really committed to this grumpy thing, aren’t you?”
Cam shrugged. “Works for me.”
“I hate to break it to you, but the only reason it works is your looks. You’d just be an asshole if you were ugly. Hot privilege is so unfair.”
“Speaking from experience?”
Scott batted his eyelashes exaggeratedly. “Obviously. My face would let me get away with murder.”
Cam snorted, hating a little that the guy genuinely amused him, no matter how annoying he was. “What are you doing here?”
“I was waiting for you.”
Cam stopped. “Why?”
Scott gave him an innocent smile. “Why, to congratulate you, of course.”
“For losing pole?” Cam said tersely.
“For qualifying second.”
“Same thing.”
Scott laughed. “God, stop sulking! You’d think you qualified last! You’re on the front row, dude!”
Cam grimaced at thedude. “Why are you watching this sport if you don’t get why I’m not happy with P2?”
“Maybe I like watching emotionally constipated men drive in circles.”
