Page 1 of Heartbreaker

ONE

The worst part about having to make a good first impression is not being able to pull out the massive wedgie this race suit is giving me. Unfortunately, a mission doesn’t care if you’re uncomfortable. Being able to fake it can make or break the mission, and if there’s one thing I’ve always been good at, it’s faking it to fit in.

As I step into the arena, the smell of gasoline hangs heavy in the air, the sound of engines and men’s laughter fills the space, and I lock into my new personality. This one is a bit too close to an old version of myself, though—someone I used to be, someone I used to love, someone I locked far away.

I focus on steadying my breathing as I walk across the dirt where everyone is getting ready for practice. The trucks are lined up along the wall, waiting for safety checks and inspections, and groups of people mingle nearby. A small skid steer pushes mounds of dirt over the ramps, preparing them for tricks and awe-inspiring jumps that will launch six-ton trucks flying through the air at gravity-defying speeds.

“Hey, sweetheart,” a cocky voice calls out as I make my way further onto the track, dark eyes taking in my body. He turns away from the group he’s standing with, lips tipping up in a smirk as he gives me his full attention. “Unfortunately, this is a closed practice. No photos or autographs.” I fight the urge to roll my eyes, something I think I deserve a medal for, if I’m being honest.

Instead, I simply give him a nod as I continue to my destination. He looks behind him, chuckling with the group of men I recognize as other drivers from the brief my partner Demi and I received before arriving. He mumbles something over his shoulder to them before taking a few steps closer to me.

Roman DeLuca.

Former IndyCar bad boy.

Previous and current driver of the truck Party Animal.

Most importantly, the recent victim of alleged sabotage at the Monster Smash racing group.

“Your outfit’s cute though, a shame to waste it,” he says, ignoring my brush-off. “If you give me your number, I’m more than happy to take you for a drink later. We can take all the pictures you’d like.” This time, I don’t fight the eye roll, or the way my upper lip lifts a bit in irritation and disgust.

“No, thank you,” I say, brushing my braid back behind my shoulder as I continue to look straight ahead.

“No?”

My steps slow as I turn to him before giving him a small smile, the kind you give a small child who is adorably confused.

“Actually, I said, no, thank you. I have manners.” The confusion crosses Roman’s face before he hides it once more behind his overly confident demeanor, giving me a wide, arrogant grin.

“Well, I guess we could take a few photos now. But you’ve gotta let me take you out for a drink later,” he says, his steps following me.

“No, thank you,” I repeat.

“No, thank you?”

“Yes. No, thank you. I don’t want to take a photo, and I’ll probably be too busy tonight to grab a drink with you.”

“What—” he starts, but his words are cut off by Phil Dwyer cutting the distance between us.

“Lana! You’re here! So great to see you!” he says, shifting his gaze from me to Roman nervously. As the owner of Monster Smash and the one who hired the Mavens to investigate the circuit’s strange issues, he knows why I’m here.

He’s the only person who knows the real reason I’m here.

“You know this fan?” Roman asks, looking between Phil and me. “Is she like, a Make-A-Wish thing?”

My god, this man is both an asshole and a moron. No wonder someone sabotaged his truck, causing a fiery crash just two weeks ago. If this is how he talks to everybody, I can’t find it in me to blame them.

“Make-A-Wish is for children,” I say, giving him a pitying look. “And I’m perfectly healthy.”

“You’re so funny, Roman,” Phil says, patting the suspended IndyCar driver on the shoulder. “No, no, she’s not a fan. She’s our newest driver.” He gestures to a truck being driven out with perfect timing: a unicorn motif with purple and pink streaks across its body, its horn glittering in the overhead lights.

Heartbreaker is written in bold letters on the side.

My truck.

As the only woman here, some might be offended by being given the clearly girly truck, but I’m not. I’ve spent most of my life being underestimated, and I grew up with two older brothers who loved dirt bikes, ATVs, monster trucks, and racing. I’ve probably spent more of my life at racetracks—both as an observer and a competitor—than any man in this room, so it’s just par for the course for me.

“Driver?”