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The confidence in his voice is addictive.

The woman turns it over, my implied offer to help. She’s definitely clocked who Jameson is, though I get that it’s random to have a stranger in a silk dress weigh in on your drag racing setup.

“What does it hurt?” I prompt. “You’re already not winning.”

Finally, she nods.

I reach into the wheel well, fingers searching for the adjuster.

This is way harder without a hair elastic. I try to sweep the hair out of my face, but it keeps falling down.

Jameson captures my hair in his hands and twists it around his fist. My eyes meet his over the car, and heat floods me.

I’m imagining him holding my hair back in a very different way.

My heart hammers in my ears while I finish the adjustment.

Click. Click.

“Try that.” I straighten, looking around for somewhere to wipe my hands.

Jameson holds out an arm, the sleeve of his dress shirt already rolled to his elbow.

No way.

He’s always perfectly put together. But he steels himself, unflinching as I brush off my hands on his cuff.

We head to the start line to watch the race.

The pink-haired racer is fastest from the jump. I can’t tell if she’ll win, but at least now she’s got a chance.

“Nice work, Townie,” Jameson murmurs next to my ear.

“What if someone else needs my help?” I protest as he starts to drag me back toward the Ferrari.

“Too bad. Tonight, you’re mine.”

36

Jameson

The entire way back to the hotel, I sneak looks at Shay from the driver’s seat. I’m on a fucking high. It’s like the first year-end championship I ever won—the thrill of victory, feeling invincible.

This date didn’t go to plan, but she handled the ARI imposition and my father. At Speed Vegas, she impressed the hell out of me. Even though it was her first time on the track, she absorbed all of it.

Watching Shay help that racer with her car…the sight of her in that dress, her hair falling over her determined face, made me feral.

I’m not sure I’ve ever been as turned on in my fucking life.

We pull up to the Bellagio, and I hand the Ferrari over to the valet.

“At the risk of sounding ungrateful for what’s probably a very expensive dress, these might be my favorite part of the outfit.” In the elevator, Shay holds up her racing shoes in one hand.

My lips curve. “I’d be disappointed if they weren’t.”

The elevator doors open to our suite, which occupies an entire floor.

We get inside and she sets the shoes on the foyer table next to a huge spray of fresh flowers.