He lifts his head and catches me staring, and looks at my lips too. I snap out of it and smile as I take the paper he extends out. “Nine p.m. tonight. Be there,” he says, almost a warning in his tone.

I notice he wrote another word after Racer too. It says Tate.

I gather my things, and say, “You better not be a serial killer,” warningly too.

“Not yet. But this guy … you should stay away from him.” He shoots me a meaningful look, and I shiver all over.

I walk away and hurry to my car, not knowing what the hell I’m doing. I wasted the Indy drivers’ practice session ogling this guy, and now I’ve literally still got no driver, only an address, and the word Racer on my “to-do” list.

And though I should be worried about this situation, I’m smiling as I pull my car out, my whole body feeling oddly untired now. Maybe it’s the prospect of him being right. Maybe it’s the prospect of him being there.

I shouldn’t even want him to be right because I’d owe him a very expensive car fix. But a part of me still wants him to be.

I arrive at my hotel room and settle down before taking a bath to change for tonight, and I call the concierge for a complimentary Wi-Fi code and decide to type in

Racer Tate into the Google search bar.

I’m fucking mind-blown with the results I get.

FAMOUS SEATTLE ILLEGAL STREET RACER, RACER TATE, SAID TO BE HEATING UP THE STREETS IN ST. PETERSBURG …

Lana

The thing about lying is you never know how to stop. One lie requires another and another and another. I’ve got a flat tire, am on the outskirts of St. Petersburg, heading to what I assume is a street race happening around here, and having to walk the rest of the way there isn’t exactly my idea of smooth sailing.

My brothers don’t know I’m here. They know I’m scouting for talent. I didn’t tell them I ended up with nothing from Indy today, except I happened to meet the most fucking popular street racer in the whole damn world. He’s a veritable legend in those dark, secret forums I ended up squirming into, where all they talked about was Tate and how he never loses. I should’ve totally shut my computer down and taken my flight straight home. Who in their right mind would put a freaking illegal street racer behind the wheel of a million-dollar Formula One car? My dad’s F1 car?

But here I am, on my way to the address the man himself wrote down on my page.

You should stay away from him …

Why do we do the opposite of what we’re told?

And why is it true that when it rains, it pours? I got a call from Drake checking in on me and to let me know my dad is in the hospital.

“But is he all right? Are you sure?” I peer straight ahead at the cars in the distance.

“Yeah, they said it was dehydration. Hang on. You’re on speaker.”

“Daddy, please take good care of yourself!”

“You take better care of me than I do,” I hear my dad’s soft, amused voice on the other end, a little tired. My eyes well.

“Well yes but I’m doing other things for you, please take good care of yourself for me.”

I can hear the smile in his voice when he replies. “Only because you asked nicely and didn’t throw a shoe at me.”

“See? You’re my favorite dad,” I tease.

I don’t get a reply. I hear Drake’s voice closer to the speaker and I know I’ve been taken off speaker. “So how’s it going?”

“I told you to trust me, I said I’d do it and I will,” I say, double checking the tire I just changed to make sure it’s on right.

“I also said I don’t trust you.”

“Asshole.” I’m not too mad because the fact that I just changed my own tire is only thanks to my mechanic brothers.

“Lainie …” He sighs exasperatedly. “Just come back to Australia. We’ll—”

“I’ll be there in time for the start of the season. With the best driver in the world,” I bluff, hanging up. Oh god. Fuck.

I glance ahead as car after car drives past me, probably all of them heading to the race. I put the tools back into the trunk of the car and then climb behind the wheel, turning on the car and easing onto the street, pulling into the parking lot straight ahead.

About two dozen people are already parked here, waiting by a small hill on the sidelines of the parking lot.

There’s a blue Camaro near what I assume is the start line, and the other slot is empty. I lock my car and head closer to where the people are.

The crowd is deafening, and it smells like armpits.

For a second my stomach knots up as I wonder if I’m really this desperate.

If I’m really out of options.

On my flight, I did my research. I’ve searched the Daytona serial, the IndyCar, and I even was at the track today, and found nothing to blow my mind.

Now it seems all I have is watching this race and then going back to my hotel to sulk about how expensive flying across the world back to the US was, as well as coming back with my tail between my legs and proving to my brothers that I’m as useless as they thought I’d be.

I feel a prick at the thought of coming back empty-handed.

Which explains why I’m still here.

What other choice do I have?

It’s not like I really think I’m going to bring any of these guys back home, though I suppose the little candle of hope burning inside me hasn’t been fully extinguished. Or maybe I’m just not ready to come back home a loser yet. If I’m going to fail at this, I still need one more night to brace myself for the familial humiliation I’d be sure to endure.

I’m intrigued about Racer Tate. I won’t lie.

According to the comments of dozens and dozens of fans, he’s the best street racer anyone has ever seen. He shies from nothing. He’s one with the machine, as if the machine were a part of him. So here I am, sitting here, waiting for an illegal street race. Two minutes to the race, and he’s nowhere in sight.

Wow. What a dick.

“I get to fuck him tonight,” one woman breathes excitedly behind me.

“What do you mean?” her friend asks.

“The guys asked me to show him the winner’s treatment.”

Wow. So apparently he’s a bit of a manwhore too.

My stomach clutches.

The crowd cheers.

His competitor motions to his car, a shiny black thing with fire drawn on it and everything.

Then points at the vacant space, and turns his thumb down.

People cheer even more and that seems to make the guy get a little upset, shaking his head.

I stand to leave. Really I shouldn’t even be here, near here.

There’s silence as a cherry mustang comes into view.

“Ohmigod, it’s him,” I hear someone whisper as the mustang roars into the parking lot and screeches to a halt right at the starting line.

My heart stops, and I sit back down.

And there he is.

The guy leaps out of the car through his open window, and one guy greets him with a slap of the back. He’s changed into blue jeans. He’s got a ton of muscles, those jeans, and a long-sleeved white shirt.

Racer rakes a hand through his mussed-up, just-woke-up black hair, grinning, and then his eyes start to scan the crowd of people.

I have an urge to hide—but somehow don’t act fast enough and before I know it, his blue eyes find me in the crowd.

He just stares, his hands idle at his sides.

He looks very interested to see me here, and as he stares at me, he narrows his eyes and his lips curve ever so slightly as if he’s pleased to see me here.

They’re all saying his name. “Racer.”

The girls’ fingers are glorying over his chest and I clench my hands at my sides, not liking it and I don’t know why. I wonder what he’d do if I told him who I am.

He doesn’t really look like he wants any of them. But their neediness vexes me. I’m jet-lagged and impatient and a little bit jealous that these women seem to have no trouble reaching out to touch him.

He jams his hands into his pockets, and he looks at me subtly between dark lashes, so subtly I can’t believe how overwhelmed I am by feeling his eyes on me.

Doubt creeps in as I wonder if this guy is really what I need. I’m gonna need to watch his diet; he’s all muscle but he won’t be able to add an ounce of muscle if I want him to fit in our Kelsey.