Page 51 of On The Edge

But as race time pulls near, I find myself being drawn back toward the Gravitas circle. Toward its paddock location. Then, escorted by Amandine into the garage area.

When Cruz walks in with his fire suit on with it unzipped down to the waist and its arms hanging loosely at his hips, my breath hitches.

Sure, I’ve seen the pictures of him. The promo shots. The podium celebrations. But when he walks into the garage, partially suited up with his headphones in, his expression intense and focused, there’s a mesmerizing air about him I’ve yet to experience.

He’s in control. Calculating. Dedicated. And a little cocky.

He’s gorgeous.

He looks up from where he’s talking to Otis, his race engineer, about something, and we inadvertently lock eyes across the space.

Something happens in that moment. I don’t know what it is, but my heart starts racing and my body heats. I’m suddenly struggling to breathe.

And by the way his Adam’s apple bobs beneath the neck of his long-sleeved Nomex shirt, I swear he senses something’s different.

He gives me the slightest of nods before moving to his car and pointing at something like the moment never happened.

Maybe it didn’t.

Maybe I’m making shit up.

Maybe I’m just fascinated by the excitement of all of this and am reading into things.

Regardless, my pulse is still pounding and it’s nearly impossible to tear my eyes away from him, even briefly.

You’re being ridiculous, Hart. Utterly ridiculous.

And as the minutes tick away to race start, I’m beginning to believe myself more and more. That the sudden awareness of everything about Cruz was simply because we were the only two people in a crowded room who know the truth about our secret.

I’m getting good at convincing myself there’s nothing there.

People come in and out of the garage like it’s Grand Central Terminal. Camera crews for the telecast of the race. Camera crews for a streaming platform that’s making a series about the sport and its drivers. Media personalities and journalists.

It’s no wonder Cruz protects his ability to tune out so fiercely because there is no way I’d be able to focus and concentrate in this environment.

The tension slowly ramps up in the garage. It’s expectation mixed with anticipation and a steady dose of knowing what needs to be done and hoping everything goes smoothly.

At least, that’s from my newly educated opinion of it all.

“Do you want ears?” Amandine asks.

“Do I want what?” I laugh but then stop when I turn to see her holding out a headset to me so that I can presumably listen to radio communications during the race.

“Really?” I ask.

“Um, yeah,” she says like I’m being ridiculous. “We can’t have you not knowing what’s going on.”

“Oh. Wow. Thank you.” I smile as I put the headset around my neck like everyone else around here has it. At certain times I seem to remember the role I’m here to play and other times, I’m so enamored and overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of this whole operation that I forget why I’m here.

“Sure. So what’s going to happen next is that Cruz will be getting suited the rest of the way up. Then he’ll get in the car and be strapped in. Then about forty minutes out from start, they’ll fire the engine and Cruz will drive the car around the track for a flying lap. Just to make sure all is well with the car. He’ll get to the end of pit lane where the crew will meet him and use what we call wheelie boards to bring the car to its correct starting spot on the grid. At that point, Cruz will get back out of the car while the crew keeps the tires warm and does last-minute checks. While they do that, Cruz typically puts his music back on and tunes out everything around him. Then, well . . . you know the rest. He’ll get back in the car and—”

“And the next time I see you, I’ll have won the race.”

I jump at the sound of Cruz’s voice, my smile as automatic as the jumping of my heart. “Hi.” It’s the most ridiculous thing to say, but it’s the first thing that comes out of my mouth when I meet his eyes and feel his hand slide to my lower back.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says with a shy grin that defies every ounce of intensity emanating off his body. Amandine steps back in my periphery to give us our privacy. “They’ve got you set up like one of the crew, huh?”

“Do I look official?” I ask.