Page 52 of On The Edge

“Very,” he says, his eyes on mine as the muscle in his jaw works. “So I have to get back. Get in the car. Go around the track a few times.”

“No big deal. Just another day,” I tease.

“Right. No big deal.”

The awkwardness is back, which is weird because it actually feels completely normal to be here.

Clearly it doesn’t for him.

“Okay. Good luck out there. I’ll be right here to congratulate you when you win.”

“And if I don’t?” he asks, the question throwing me.

“Then I’ll still be here to congratulate you. From what I’ve read, there are a million other people who would kill to be in your shoes, so just being here is pretty fucking incredible.”

His eyes widen briefly, a disbelieving look follows, before he utters a half laugh—almost as if he doesn’t believe me. He takes a step away and then stops momentarily before turning back toward me. Our eyes meet briefly before he steps into me, his hand reaching up to cup the side of my face a heartbeat before his lips brush ever so gently against mine.

I swear anyone in the vicinity would be able to hear my hitched breath. It’s deafening in my own ears, but it’s drowned out by the rush of sensations rushing through me.

Surprise. Desire. Want. Disbelief.

And as soon as the kiss happens, it’s over. “I like you being here,” he murmurs and is already turning on his heel before I can process any of it.

“Cruz.” His name is a syllable full of those four emotions.

He stops and turns to look at me, eyes swimming with what I think is confusion and an expression still stoic before he pulls his balaclava over his head and strides toward the other side of the garage.

My eyes track him, my body flush and pulse racing once again with the warmth of his kiss still on my lips and the chills he created still dancing over my skin.

My thoughts are as scrambled as my hormones. The overthinking from the past few days seems ridiculous. He just showed me that there might have been more to us, that—

The movement to my right snaps me out of it. The camera crew about ten feet away, the lens focused on me, that is now slowly moving in to where Cruz now stands.

I hang my head momentarily.

You’re an idiot, Maddix.

Did you really, for a second, think that was a real kiss? That it wasn’t for show? That Cruz isn’t doing exactly what was asked of him in looking stable and calmed down?

That’s why the confusion was so heavy in his eyes. Why he went to walk away and then turned back to me to kiss me like a normal couple would do. He saw the camera. He’s playing the game.

And yet knowing all of this does nothing to abate the ache that simple kiss stirred back up. But what is hitting my heart is that torn look in Cruz’s eyes. I’d like to think it has to do with me. I’m naive, but not enough to know what that just cost Cruz to do that.

“Ready?” Amandine says, as if she can sense the moment having passed.

“Yes. Sure.” I clear my throat and refuse to give a third response like Cruz says I do. Just as I refuse to allow myself to be hurt about the superficiality of that kiss.

It wasn’t real.

So not real.

Yet . . . it felt so real on the heels of the other night.

And why am I suddenly worried about his safety during the race? What’s up with that?

“This way,” Amandine says, motioning me toward the staircase that leads to the observation room above the garage for Gravitas employees. It’s where I spent most of my day yesterday during qualifying, but something tells me to look to my right.

I’m met with a steely stare from a man standing on the opposite side of the garage. His hair is salt and pepper in color and his lips are in a hard, unforgiving line. His arms are crossed over his chest and his shoulders are stiff.