Page 52
A little.
I was right when I clocked that the Ashfords are opposites. Theo puts you at ease. Jameson challenges you until you question whether you know anything about your own life.
But my first impression of Jameson as a callous prick has been strained under the weight of what I’ve learned since.
I know he cares about his brother. That his mom leaving hurt him a lot, and that his feelings about his family are complicated even if he’s forced to pretend publicly that they’re all on the same page. That he operates in a state of constant pressure intense enough to make most people shatter.
Still, it’s not only that realization that kept me thinking too much of him since the library.
Tossing and turning in my sheets couldn’t make me forget his chest pressed against mine, how good he smelled, how his cool blue stare turns a thousand different colors.
He almost kissed me. If we hadn’t been interrupted, maybe he would have.
I’d love to say I’d have pulled back, even before I learned how his mouth felt, before I let my hand creep up to his chest to see whether this of all things could make his heart beat faster.
The fantasies don’t help.
Fantasies, plural. Because instead of coming to my senses after the first time, some twisted part of my brain seems to have decided Jameson Ashford is the only way to get off.
Talk about fucking inconvenient.
Watching seconds-long fan videos that somehow stretched to an hour on repeat probably didn’t help.
I debate before texting back.
Shay: Tomorrow?
Dots appear. Stop. Start again.
Forget car wrecks. Dots on a screen will be the end of me.
Jameson: Busy all week.
It means nothing. Definitely not that he regretted what happened—almost happened?—between us during our last study session.
Theo’s been away all week due to commitments for the upcoming race. Jameson’s probably genuinely busy too.
By noon, I’ve convinced myself it’s better that way.
There’s a betting line on the Challenger Championship.
The update hit my feed while I was scrolling my phone on my way to lunch.
I knew the world would be watching this contest, but it’s surreal seeing pictures of people I know linked to that.
“Watch everyone be so focused on the races that the internship won’t matter anyway,” Megan says as she buys a piece of banana bread in the cafeteria. “January will come around and Luca will be all, ‘Actually, we decided the drivers are more important. Forget the engineers.’ ”
She’s not wrong—anticipation is building to these three showdowns, and the first is just over a week away.
“What if the engineers get involved with the driver series?” I muse, unwrapping a chocolate chip cookie and breaking off a piece.
“They’re racing spec cars.”
“So they can’t be customized at all?” I press.
Megan drums her painted nails on one knee, frowning. She’s not dismissive, she’s thinking. “I wouldn’t go that far. There’s limited setup freedom. Ride height tolerances, brake bias windows, damper settings within the control ECU. Mostly tiny stuff.” She glances at me. “My brothers always say they win cases on the details. I think racing’s no different.” Her lips curve. “And there’s so much data nobody’s touching.”
I’m thinking about it while I chew my cookie.
