Page 111 of Off the Grid

I’ve had to turn my brain off. I’ve had to tell myself that each touch of her skin, each grip of her hips and nip at her lips, doesn’t take her back to whatever he—presumably—did. If I’m honest, it’s been fucking brutal.

But I’ve been successful at it thus far.

“Knock. Knock.”

Camilla looks up from the table where she sits. She has papers and printed graphics sprawled out all around her. Her laptop is open, a pencil is tucked behind her ear, but there’s the slightest change about her. It takes me a second to see it. Her typical button-up white shirt is present, but it’s unbuttoned a few buttons and there’s the hint of a red tank top beneath.

Is it surprising that I stare a bit longer, my mouth watering, my mind jumping back to two nights ago and the hunger she greeted me with when I knocked on her door? A yank of my lapels. A meeting of mouths. And so much more with a lot less clothes soon thereafter.

“You’re smiling,” she murmurs, those expressive brown eyes meeting mine across the short distance.

“I’m remembering. Reliving.” I shrug, happy with myself for leaving her with two damn hearts to color in when I left her flat to go back to mine.

“Well, finish reliving by Saturday because you need a clear head going into qualifying,” she says and smiles.

“Thanks, Mum,” I tease but then step into the conference room where she’s seated. “What is this?”

She leans back in her chair and pride emanates off of her. “We just signed a sponsorship deal with Conmigo,” she says, referring to a major tequila brand. “I guess a lot of teams have been chasing after them, but they liked our AITA posts and our use of social media to promote the brand so . . . they signed with us.”

My grin is unstoppable, knowing I contributed in some way to this. The more I can give this team, the harder it’s going to be to part ways with me. I may be sleeping with Camilla Moretti, but I’m not under any illusion that’s going to help me keep my ride.

Nor do I want it to.

“Congratulations. Like . . . that’s huge.” She sits a little straighter, eyes alive under the praise. “I’m guessing your dad is patting himself on the back right now for bribing you to come work here.”

“I don’t think my dad pats himself on the back for anything,” she says. “He’s not a man who’s satisfied easily.”

She says that, but she doesn’t see what I see when I watch them interact. The pride brimming in Carlo’s eyes as he watches her work with or lead her staff. The love that exudes off him when she speaks up about something.

It’s like a punch in the gut sometimes. A reminder of what I don’t have. Another flag waving to add to the one my mum just raised.

I glance over my shoulder and then back at her. “I need a distraction, Gasket.”

“A distraction? I’d think going two hundred thirty miles an hour would provide plenty of distraction.”

“Hmm. It does. But it also creates a whole lot of unused adrenaline in my body that needs to be released . . . somehow.” I step farther into the room and shut the door at my back. There’s a window in the door, but I’m more worried about what people will hear than see.

I’m just a driver talking to his marketing manager. A discussion about the new endorsement.

Not a lover telling his partner he has needs that he might be desperate for her to meet.

“There’s a gym just down the hall. A treadmill. An exercise bike. Hell, there’s a whole track just beyond that door that I’m sure you could find your way to jog around.” A smile toys at the corners of her mouth that is anything but innocent like her voice hints to be.

“I see how you are. You have demands and I met—meet—them regularly.” I brace my hands on the table across from her and smirk. “Isn’t it about time that I make my demands known?”

She chuckles and leans back in her chair, crosses her arms over her chest, and meets my gaze with a challenge of her own. “Is that so?”

I lift my eyebrows. “If this is a no one else situation, then, uh, you’re going to have to help me ease that abundance of adrenaline.”

She twists her lips but it’s only to fight her smile.

How did I think she wasn’t my type? Baggy clothes. Some clothes. No clothes. The woman is downright sexy as sin. “Please tell me you’re not asking me to fuck you in the paddock?”

“They don’t call it paddock pussy for nothing.” I shrug as her eyes shock wide.

She coughs over her own breath. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

I shrug and make a noncommittal sound, loving her stunned reaction. “There’s a lot of closed doors everywhere for a reason.” I glance behind me at the glass door to the conference room. “Too bad there aren’t blinds on this door.”