Off the Grid (Full Throttle, #1)

by K. Bromberg

“You are good. That’s my point. The team needs you. The company needs you. I need you.”

“You do know that at some point your contract is going to be revised to forbidding all death-defying feats unless it’s you behind the wheel of their car.” I flash her a grin. “Great. Guess that means I better get them all in before that happens.” She rolls her eyes and groans. “You’re annoying.”

“Perfect. That’s what I was going for.” She’s so easy to rile up.

I’ll make it there. I have to. I’ll make you proud, Dad. It’s been a long damn road—a grind—but I’m not stopping until I can make you proud.

“Does the same stand if I’m more than just visiting? Like say . . . if I’m moving here to take a marketing position with this little, unknown racing team?” I’ll remember the smile that crawls over my dad’s lips for as long as I live. His eyes light up.

“Maybe I assumed you were just a nice guy who needed a break from his friends just like I’m a nice girl who needed the same.” He hisses. “Wow. Is my game that weak?” I laugh. God, it feels good to laugh. “No. Your game is perfect. You’re funny. You’re good-looking. You’re—” “Would you look at that. You’re finally flirting back.” “No. I’m not.

“It’s a long story.” I empty the rest of my glass, a refill needed now more than ever. “Stories always are, aren’t they?”

“Yep. I’m in a bit of a sticky situation.” “Then unstick yourself.” “The lady has jokes.” “Always.” I nod.

“There are a lot of people to choose from. Should I be offended that out of all these women, you looked at me and figured I’d be the sucker who’d fall for a line like that and help?” “Ouch. I feel the sting of that rebuke.” “You should.” “But.” He holds his finger up for me to wait, his smile widening. “What you didn’t let me get to is that when I made that statement, my mates one-upped it. They bet me that there was no way in hell I could get the prettiest woman in here to give me the time of day so . . . here I am.” He mock bows as his compliment settles in. “Trying to win that bet.” “Ah, look at that, you just found your game. Nice try.” I know a line when I’m being fed one.

“There may have been some kind of dare involved.” “Such as?” “A precariously and embarrassingly placed tattoo.” “How precarious and how embarrassing?” He snorts. “We’ll just say I would prefer to maintain my dignity.” “I can’t help you then.” “Seriously?” “Yep. I need the details,” I tease. He huffs out a breath and shakes his head. “Tinkerbell on my bicep.”

“And you took that bet, why?” “Because I hate to lose.” He shrugs. “I don’t lose.” “There’s a first time for everything.” I snicker.

Men aren’t fucking worth it. They’re just not. And the rare times that they are? It seems that’s when they can do the most damage.

“You’re not broken. There’s no such thing.

“You’re so easy to rile up.” “And you’re so easy to distract.” Her voice falls softer. “I hope it helped.”

This is happening. This is really happening. Did you hear that, Dad? I did it. I finally made it.

She’s been my rock—always, forever, and even when I didn’t deserve it. Of course, she’d be the first person I’d call.

“Spencer Riggs,” she says softly, and I know she means business when she calls me by my full name. “I am so damn proud of you.” Pride brims in her voice and tugs at my heart in every way a child wants their parent to love them. “He would be too.”

I wouldn’t have kissed you a second time if the card were true. “I guess we’ll just have to see what cards you’re dealt, huh?” He chortles out a laugh and shakes his head. “Guess so.”

Her only response is to cross her arms and purse her lips. If looks could kill, I’d be a goner.

“Nope. None of that.” I shake my head, immediately rejecting the compassion in her voice. “Because you know exactly how I feel. Two offspring fighting to make their own names and prove the privilege that came with it doesn’t factor in. Yours is an attribute. Mine is a detriment.”

“Why? I was just about to tell you about the little hearts you’re going to draw all over your calendar.” Her neck startles like whiplash. “What?” “On the days you get to see me. You’ll be so excited that you’re going to color in little hearts on the day—fill the whole square full of them—to annotate it.”

“This has been . . .” “Enlightening. Frustrating. Stimulating? Do you need a thesaurus?” I tease.

Is he the villain or the hero, Camilla? Or maybe a little of both?

“Make me the bad guy. I don’t care. It’s always more of a splash when the villain triumphs.” “You’re new to F1 and you’re asking to be the anti-hero?” He shrugs. “Call it what you will.

“Was he just flirting with you?” Elise asks, tone awed. “Because I’m pretty sure that was flirting.” “It was bantering. And it’s . . . we met by fluke before.” I wave a hand in indifference as if it doesn’t matter. “It’s a long story. Chance encounter where neither of us knew who the other was.”

“Where were we? Oh. Right. Graphics. I think we all agree on which ones work best.” “You’re deflecting.” “Am I doing a good job of it?”

“Let’s not give him any credit, shall we?” I joke.

He’s talking about us. Fucking talking about us.

I love this sport and simultaneously hate it.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” I jump at the sound of a voice at the door. A voice I’ve come to know. I turn and let the sigh fall from my mouth. “You’re on my shit list, Riggs,” I say. “Perfect.

“Why, Camilla Moretti, are you actually starting to like me?” he asks, his smirk leading the way. “No.” I scoff. “I never said that.”

“I think there’s one reason in particular, but I won’t push you on it.” “Why do you say that?” My back is up instantly. His shrug is indifferent but the expression on his face is anything but. “Because we all have that one secret we keep close to the vest. The one we think might ruin us but hope it won’t. The one we hide in bathrooms having panic attacks over. And then add another layer of hope that maybe one day it’ll get better.”

“You’re not the only one who can google search someone, Cami.” “It’s Camilla.” He shrugs. “Maybe I like both.”

“Because you’re avoiding me, and I don’t like to be avoided.”

“A whole lot of other stuff. Is that a technical term?” he asks. “Yes. Very technical.”

“Why do you care?” I ask. “I don’t.” He shrugs. “But you asked, so you do care.”

“Riggs. Neighbor’s here to complain.” “Fuck, man,” he says, but then turns around and jolts to a stop when he sees me standing there.

There’s another knock but this time it’s a fist pounding on the door followed by, “It’s me, Camilla. Open up. I’m not going away.”

Did Chip and Joanna Gaines rob me while I slept?

“Is there something you wanted?” he murmurs. You. One hundred percent you.

I tell them about the first race and the bathroom—our mutual panic attacks and his quiet understanding.

“The guy left his own party because you didn’t want to be there. He slept on your couch. He does social media advice columns about you. Um, hello? He’s into you.”

“Camilla. Look at me.” He waits for my eyes to flutter up to his, and the serious expression in his eyes shocks me. “You. You’re the other thing I want.”

“Are you going to break out a PowerPoint for me?”

“Let me walk you to your flat.” “You’re being ridiculous. It’s just right”—I point the short distance down the hall—“there.” “You never know what might be lurking on the way.” He grins and it makes me feel all sorts of different things. Things I don’t even want to question. Things I just want to enjoy. “True. Very true.”

I know I shouldn’t, but I stop and stare. I can’t help myself.

Why is it so comfortable to sit in silence with her? Just why?

God. How is she reading my mind? How does she know where my train of thought is and prompt it?

“Bullshit,” I say and press my lips soundly to hers to stop her laughter. “I’d push you down first, then run.”

Her lips spread into a smile against mine and then she kisses me again. What a perfect fucking night.