Page 48 of On The Edge

“It wasn’t a big deal,” I say.

“Some fumbling in the dark. I think there was a bonked head or two. Some laughter. A condom. And . . . you know.”

“I know.” I shift on my feet, hating this awkwardness and wishing he’d take the lead on this. “It’s just that . . . that isn’t who I am. The casual sex thing. I don’t just sleep with someone to sleep with someone and . . .”

“Usually there are feelings involved. Emotions. Meaning behind it. I get it.” He holds his hands up, face stoic. “No need to explain or apologize.”

“Right.” Then why is there a lump in my throat that feels like rejection? Why does my body ache in places it shouldn’t ache for a man I’m still getting to know but still want all the same?

Why am I looking at you and remembering every single second, despite the amount of alcohol I consumed, and hating that it meant nothing to you?

“It happens to the best of us.” He shrugs, wearing indifference like a suit. “No harm. No foul. Fun had. Oats sowed. Now back to business like it never happened.”

But it did happen. So much happened that I . . . “Cruz,” I say it softly, and I’m not sure if it’s a question or a statement.

We stare at each other across the short distance, the hood of his sweatshirt on so that his eyes are shadowed.

Are you still thinking about it like I am?

Do you still smell me on your skin like I do you?

Do you—

“Good, now that that’s covered, I’ve got to get showered and to the track. The team’s all here now.”

Without another word—or another look my way—he gets ready for work.

And I sit at the desk, staring at my blinking cursor. I did this to myself. I initiated sex. I persisted when he tried to reason with me.

I know he said there’d be regrets.

“No harm. No foul. Fun had. Oats sowed.”

So why do I feel so . . . used?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Maddix

They’re staring. Heads turning subtly as we walk past to get a first glimpse of me—Cruz Navarro’s Instagram official girlfriend—while casually trying to pretend like they’re not.

The chatter quiets as they look and then suddenly starts up abruptly when they realize that they’ve stopped talking.

“Aren’t you glad I’m so good-looking that everyone is staring at me?” Cruz murmurs, amusement in his tone. His attempt at humor eases my nerves but not by much. He nudges me. “Relax, Madds. We’ve got this.”

“You’ve got this,” I correct.

“And since I have you, then we’ve got this.”

The weight of Cruz’s hand in mine, our fingers laced, is what I focus on. This is the first time we’ve touched like this since . . . the other night, and fortunately for me, there is so much distraction around us that I’m not thinking of what that palm felt like sliding over my breast.

At least not the whole time.

Maybe for the first few seconds I did, but it was quickly replaced by the unabashed scrutiny of everyone around us as we make the long stroll through the gates and into the paddock.

The paddock is a mini city in and of itself. A stretch of real estate at the track occupied by each team and the portable buildings they erect. These buildings serve as the teams’ home bases during race week. My neck cranes as I walk past each one, marveling at the fact that these get built for a race and then torn down and transported to the next soon after the checkered flag is waved.

It’s only official race people allowed in here, a pass to the paddock is like the holy grail, and yet as professional as everyone here is, I still see phones being angled our way. I still sense that pictures are being taken.