Page 21 of Spin Control

“For you,” she says pointedly.

“Elizabeth Jacobs,” I say. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You’re going to zoom around an F1 track with an F1 driver in…okay, this isn’t an F1 car. But it’s very expensive and very powerful. It’s as close as you’ll get to knowing what it feels like to be in an F1 car.”

She still has her dark sunglasses on, so I can’t see her full reaction. “Aren’t you a little bit curious?” I ask, leaning toward her.

“Annoyingly, I am,” she admits and my heart kicks up. “Ugh, fine. But I’m doing this against my better judgement.”

I give her my best smolder. “That’s what I love to hear.”

“Never mind,” she says, turning on the ball of her foot. I reach out and grab her wrist before she can stomp away. From the way she goes completely rigid, I’m certain the look she’s giving me from behind her glasses would incinerate me on the spot. I drop her wrist. “Please?”

“Why do you want me to do this so badly?”

“Because I think you’d have fun,” I say. “After the last couple weeks, you deserve some of that.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. It’s impossible to say if she’s considering getting in the car, thinking about what to have for dinner, or plotting my murder. But I know which one I hope it is. “Come on, Jacobs. Let’s go racing.”

I expect her to tell me to fuck off. But incredibly, she nods and then settles into the passenger seat. I close the door, then jog around to the driver’s side. By the time I’m in the seat, she’s taken her sunglasses off and is scowling at the helmet. I’m about to ask if she needs help, but then she reaches up and undoes her ponytail—and I’m completely captivated. I’ve never seen her with her hair down. Now, all I want is to reach over and touch the dark chocolate strands. I need to know if they’re as soft as they look.

But then Elizabeth puts the helmet on, and I remember that we’re sitting in a car. That we’re about to do a hot lap. That I need to focus on driving, not on the passenger.

“Ready?” I ask.

“As I’ll ever be.” Maybe it’s the helmet, but I swear her voice isn’t as frosty as usual.

I start the engine, and when I get the signal, I slam on the accelerator. Elizabeth gasps as we peel out, the car picking up speed fast down the first straight. I break late into the first corner, and the harsh curse that hisses out of her mouth makes me laugh.

I continue around the track, gaining speed, flying through chicanes, leaning into turns, and relishing every single second. When we cross the finish line, I ease off the gas and bring the car to a stop before looking over at the woman in the passenger seat. “So. What’d you think?”

The reactions I’ve seen after hot laps range from tears and motion sickness to thrilled smiles and whoops of joy. But I’ve never seen anyone sit still.

It’s concerning at first. Her chest is moving rapidly, and she’s breathing hard. Could she be hyperventilating? Is she having a panic attack?

But my own chest is moving rapidly. I’m breathing hard. And I’m sitting still.

Her heart is pounding, just like mine. Because there’s nothing like this rush.

“It was okay,” Elizabeth says, her voice detached and dry. Emotionless.

Too emotionless.

“You’re such a fucking liar,” I say, laughing. “You had a blast. Admit it.”

She shrugs. “It was fine.”

“It was fine?” I repeat. “That’s what you’re going to say when people ask you how your hot lap with Wes Grant was?”

“No,” she says slowly. “I’ll tell them it was exactly how they think it’d be.”

“And how’s that?”

Elizabeth turns and her eyes meet mine. “Terrifying. Reckless.”

Shit. I’ve once again read her wrong. She’s not relishing the rush, she’s terrified. I scared the hell out of her. I open my mouth to apologize, but then she says, “Breathless. Thrilling.”

Well. Hot damn.

“Elizabeth Jacobs,” I say. “Are you saying you had fun?”