Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 62492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62492 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 312(@200wpm)___ 250(@250wpm)___ 208(@300wpm)
The fourth—
The fourth showed Scott standing beside a tall, dark-haired man. Nico Laurent. Apparently.
Cam stared at the picture.
The resemblance wasn’t exact. Laurent’s face was narrower. His features were softer. His posture lacked the instinctive confidence that years of elite sport had drilled into Cam.
But from a distance… Cam could see it.
And it irritated him to no end. This had to be fake. The guy wasn’t Scott’s type at all.
Maybe his type has changed, a nasty voice said at the back of his mind. Or do you think he liked only your dick and can’t like anyone else’s?
Something hot and ugly twisted in Cam’s chest.
He clicked on another picture.
Scott and Laurent walking side by side. Scotty smiling at him. Laurent touching Scott’s lower back while they talked.
Cam exited the app so abruptly he nearly dropped his phone.
For a moment he simply stood there, trying and failing to identify what exactly was making him so furious. It wasn’t jealousy. It couldn’t be. That would be insane. And Laurent wasn’t actually Scott’s boyfriend. Probably. Almost certainly. Scott was likely just helping clean up the mess Cam had dragged him into.
The thought should have made him grateful, but it only made him want to punch something.
His phone buzzed, and Cam looked down.
A message from his PR manager.
Alice: Good. This is exactly what we needed. Social sentiment is already shifting. The resemblance is convincing enough that people are questioning the article.
Cam stared at the text. Then he locked his phone without replying.
Good. Right. This was good.
His gaze drifted toward the paddock entrance.
Scott was here, in the paddock. For the first time in weeks. Close enough that Cam could find him and see him and touch him in less than ten minutes.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. It had been more than a month. More than a month without hearing Scotty’s warm laugh in person. More than a month of dry texts and unanswered messages and wondering whether Scott still gave a fuck.
And now he was here. Actually here. Close enough to touch.
Cam’s pulse kicked up.
His first instinct was immediate and overwhelming. Find him. Talk to him. Ask him why he hadn’t told him he was coming. Ask him who the fuck Nico Laurent was and why he was putting his dirty paws all over Scotty’s body.
Cam scrubbed a hand over his face.
Jesus Christ.
He sounded like an unhinged caveman.
***
Cam texted Scott after Free Practice 1.
He knew he shouldn’t have. He couldn’t afford distractions right now. Not this weekend, of all weekends. There were only three races left in the season, three races standing between him and a third world championship. Hunter was breathing down his neck in the Ferrari, the championship gap shrinking race by race. One bad weekend, one mistake, one moment of lost concentration, and everything Cam had spent an entire year building could disappear.
But instead of focusing on tire degradation data and sector times, Cam was sitting alone in the back of the garage staring at Scott’s contact information.
He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him all day. Scott was here. The knowledge had followed him everywhere: out on track, in debrief meetings while reviewing telemetry. Scott was here. Somewhere in the paddock. A few hundred meters away at most. Close enough that Cam could walk over and see him whenever he wanted.
Except he couldn’t. Or maybe he could. That was the problem. His team had made their recommendations. They’d warned him about optics and appearances and media scrutiny. But they couldn’t physically stop him.
Cam rubbed a hand over his face.
The sensible thing would be to leave it alone. Scott was here with someone else. Scott hadn’t even bothered to text him and tell him he was coming.
His gaze drifted to his phone again.
The last message in their chat was from him. Four days ago. No response. Before that, another one. And another.
You watching Singapore?
Nice suit in those photos.
How’s New York?
Each one had eventually received a short reply hours later. Or a thumbs-up reaction. Or nothing at all.
It made something twist unpleasantly in Cam’s stomach. A few months ago Scott would have replied immediately. A few months ago Scott would have called him. A few months ago—
Cam stopped himself.
This was ridiculous. He was thirty years old. A two-time world champion. One of the most successful drivers on the grid. He shouldn’t be sitting here staring at a text conversation like a teenager nursing his first crush.
The thought irritated him enough that he opened the chat. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, typing and deleting words.
Hey.
No, too pathetic.
Saw you’re in Vegas.
No, that was worse.
Who’s Nico?
Absolutely not.
Cam dropped his head back against the chair and exhaled sharply.
For fuck’s sake.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he typed:
Didn’t know you were coming to Vegas.
He stared at the message. It was simple. Neutral enough. His thumb hovered over the send button before finally pressing it decisively. Enough.