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We head into a turn. I work my body closer, acting in self-preservation. Theo falters and we pull ahead an inch.

That’s when everything changes.

My body was already on alert from the game and the thrill, but some new part of me is waking up.

It’s not fear, or nerves.

It’s want.

This part lives deep in my chest, nestled between my ribs, and it’s competitive.

I’m longing to pull away from the other bikes and watch the other drivers’ faces fill with dismay.

The nausea is gone. So’s the pain in my hand, crowded out by adrenaline. My face is pressed into his jacket, and I can smell leather, cold night air, and something sharp and masculine underneath.

Cool. Dark. Mysterious.

My hands fist in Jameson’s shirt. His abs flex underneath my grip. He might be an epic asshole. He’s also a mind-blowingly good driver.

Right now, he’s mine.

Faster. My arms tighten around him, my thighs pressing against the backs of his.

His heart thuds under my hand, quickening as if I willed it to. Like in this moment, we could be one person.

Our lead’s growing. We’re going to win.

Then the superbike hits a groove in the pavement, and my weaker arm loses grip.

I slide.

A millimeter at first, then another.

Shit. Panic surges through me. If I eat asphalt for the second time this week, it’s not going to end with a scraped hand and a few bruises.

Jameson reaches back and grabs my hip, his bare hand hot through the thin fabric. His strength anchors me in place, and I’m so grateful I can forgive the way his fingers dig into my ass.

Now he’s driving with one hand. If I wasn’t so close to catastrophe, I’d be impressed.

Theo pulls even with us. Jameson cuts a look toward his brother.

We can still win. But at the last second, the Ducati eases off. Theo hits the finish first. I’m still shaken by the development when both bikes slow to a stop. Theo gets off first, hollering in triumph.

“You’re my good luck charm,” Theo calls to me, grinning.

One of the girls threw up during the race, and at least a couple more do it on the return journey, one opting to walk, her heels in her hands. Everyone heads back to the house, this time with new stories and bragging rights.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Theo asks as he follows me inside.

“Yeah.” I press a hand to my chest, my heart rate starting to slow.

“That’s the first time I’ve beat him at that. Had to take his bike to do it, too.” His grin fades a little. “Don’t go anywhere. I’m getting you something better to drink.”

Forget that. I’m in the Ashfords’ house. It’s my chance to find out about the family my dad has worked for all these years.

Now I have time to study the photos from a generation ago. Luca is commanding. Powerful. Magnetic. One photo where he’s looking straight at the camera leaves me cold. He’s obviously a man who could let go of hardworking mechanics without a second thought. Cut loose a driver for missing a few points over a hard season.

Luca Ashford’s origin story isn’t a secret, but he takes every opportunity to remind the world how he fought his way up the ranks as a teenager but was passed over for a seat because there were already two British drivers established in F1. How he ultimately found a spot driving for an American team, and how he rewarded them by winning multiple world championships.