Page 67 of Off the Grid

“What does it matter to you?”

“It doesn’t. Just call me curious as to why you left and why you’re back.”

“I left for school. I left because there was a nasty crash at the race when I was last here and I didn’t like it. It’s one thing to know the sport is dangerous. It’s another to be here when it happens.” The lie is smooth as if it’s been practiced. It hasn’t.

And the minute the words are out, I realize how fucking callous I sound to a man who sat and watched his father die in a crash.

“Riggs. I’m sorry. That was—”

He holds his hand up to stop me, and then speaks as if his history is a different one. “So let me get this straight. You left because of an accident. And then you come back the day after a big one takes the number one driver out. Clear as mud.”

“You’re reaching into things that don’t exist, Riggs.”

But his eyes search mine in a way that tells me he isn’t believing a word I say. Rather than argue with me, he just holds his hands up as if in surrender. “I’ll stop reaching.” He smiles softly. “I know what we should do.”

I look at him leerily. Why is he suddenly giving up so easily? “What?”

“Celebrate.” He turns his back and digs something out of his duffel bag. I’m surprised to see that it’s a bottle of Dom Pérignon. I start to refute whatever it is he’s going to ask, but he shushes me. “Humor me, Moretti. I think you and I both need to do something to commemorate our first race in F1.”

“Where did you—ahhh,” I shout out as he pops the cork, which flies somewhere in the booth. It pings off the ceiling at the same time the stream of bubbly liquid spills from its tip and splatters onto my shoes.

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CHAPTER TWENTY

Riggs

Camilla’s laughter rings out as she jumps out of the way, and I right the bottle so it stops spilling.

“Here.” I hold it out to her.

“What? Right out of the bottle?”

“Yep. We’re classy like that. Besides,” I say as she takes it. “It’s not like our lips haven’t touched before, right?”

“Don’t remind me,” she groans and then takes a super long sip straight from the bottle. She hisses when the bubbles hit her nose, her cough turning into a laugh.

“Hey, I’m not all that bad,” I say as she eyes me over the bottle before taking another sip. I search her face and am glad to see whatever darkened it seconds before is gone and has been replaced with annoyance for me. “In fact, I’m a damn good kisser.”

She looks over at me, cheeks full of bubbly, and snorts as she swallows her mouthful. “You kiss yourself often, then?”

“No.”

“Then how would you know that?”

She hands me the bottle, and I shamelessly take a large gulp. One drink isn’t going to kill me, right? Besides, the moment feels like it needs it. “I’ve been told that. Before. By many people.”

“Many. Huh. Could’ve fooled me.” She holds her hand out for the champagne, and I pull it away.

“You think I’m going to share with you after you insult me?”

She looks at me. “Imagine that. Being insulted about something you can’t change. My clothes. Your kiss.” She shrugs and despite her words, her smile and tone are playful.

“Touché.” I hold on to the champagne. I still think she dresses like a tomboy, but hell if there isn’t something about Camilla Moretti that I’m starting to like. Her attitude. Her sass. That slight vulnerability that peeks through every now and again. “And for the record, I am a good kisser.”

She snorts.

“Just stating facts.”