Page 90 of Off the Grid

Camilla

“It’s good.”

My mom’s warm laughter fills the line. “Good? That’s equivalent to fine. Have you been butting heads with Dad again?”

“A few times, but nothing serious.”

I stare out at the starting grid to the left of me. This particular track has the hospitality suite above the garage, so it affords me a wonderful people-watching vantage point of the pits below.

Crew members talking shit to one another. A possible secret rendezvous between one of our pit crew members and one of Bickman’s PR minders, if the little disappearance behind a trailer is to be believed.

And then there’s Riggs. Holy hell is there Riggs. He decided rather than just walk the track with Hank the one time, he was going to jog it again for part of his cardio.

Shirtless.

And now he’s standing down below me, his sweat-misted skin glistening in the bright sun, his red Moretti track shorts with a dark red stain from his sweat, and his hair in a messy disarray, talking to Ari about who knows what.

But I’m not complaining.

Not in the least.

“What was that, Mom?” I ask, trying to un-distract myself.

“I said, between you, me, and the fence post, he comes home every night bragging about how incredible you are. Your ideas. The way you see things. How well you articulate.”

“He’s my dad, he has to say things like that.”

Her laugh floats through the line. “Actually he doesn’t. There have been plenty of times over the years that he has griped about you—”

“Hey.” I laugh.

“You asked. I answered, but I’m serious. He’s so impressed with what you’ve already brought to the table.” She falls silent for a beat, her voice softer when she speaks again. “Thank you, Cam. I knew this was going to make a difference to him, for him . . . but I had no idea how much. In the short time you’ve been here, I’ve seen him relax considerably. Just know, I’m so very grateful that you are making this sacrifice for him.”

Tears blur my vision of the blue sky, and I swallow over the lump in my throat. “I’m at work. Don’t make me cry.”

“Sorry.” She laughs through what I can tell are her own tears.

“Truth be told, I’m enjoying it more than I thought I would.”

And at the exact moment I say that, Riggs looks up to where I’m standing and grins. Yep, that was my uterus tightening up. That was a full-body ache zooming right in on the location between my thighs.

How much longer are we going to play this game?

“Did you just say you’re enjoying it?” She sounds surprised.

“I did. I am.” Look away from him. Step back from the balcony. Save your sanity—and your panties. “I miss home and everything that’s there—”

“This has been your home too,” she says. And she’s right. It has. The Moretti family has always split its time between Italy and the United Kingdom, but after college, I chose Italy. I chose to be as far away from the racing part of our family as possible.

“It has,” I say and smile. “But not like this. Not with such a permanence. But I think the change has been good. I didn’t think that it would be when he asked me, but it’s been good for me.”

It’s incredible how I’ve already begun to create a whole new life here in only a few months. Same friends—just added some new ones. Have discovered new places—vintage shops, hole-in-the-wall pubs, quaint but postcard-worthy gardens all about.

And then there’s work. I love the challenge of it. Of having to prove myself. Of trying to bring Moretti to the industry’s forefront again.

“Speaking of change,” she says in that voice that has me taking notice.

“What?” I ask cautiously.