Her eyes narrowed again, but there was a glint of excitement this time. She didn’t want to jump on the opportunity too fast, but she was going for it, and I knew it.

“Keys?” she asked, holding out her hand.

Dropping them in her palm, I followed her onto the track as she jogged to the driver’s side of my car.

Roman had backed his Trans Am into position as the crowd cleared the track. Whistles erupted around us as Tate climbed in behind my wheel.

We both sunk in, and aggravation chipped away my calm at how helpless I felt. I’d never sat in the passenger side before.

I couldn’t keep my eyes forward, and they slipped over to Tate, who was running her hands up and down the wheel.

The picture of her, sitting in my f**king seat, with her hands on my f**king wheel was too much.

I shifted, my dick unable to control itself.

As usual, around her.

I had no idea what it was about the idea of her in my car. Maybe it was how hot I knew she would look, or the thought of the two things that made my heart beat coming together, but my jeans got tight.

I inhaled deeply, suddenly wanting my f**king car slammed with rain, and her body glowing with sweat as she straddled me in my seat.

She was beautiful, and it was the worst moment of my life to want something so badly and know I wasn’t going to get it.

Not yet, anyway.

Turning the key, she shifted into reverse, and I could only watch in admiration as she put her arm on the back of my seat and looked over her shoulder to back the car into position. She worked the wheel easily and maneuvered the pedals smoothly, flexing her legs every time she braked and shifted.

It was like watching  p**n .

Tate was at ease and happy, and a smile played at the corner of her lips.

Smiling. In my presence.

Again, a weight descended on my shoulders, and I felt bad for everything I’d done to her. To her and to me.

“You’re smiling,” I said, wishing she’d stop and hoping she never would.

I wanted to make her smile, and I hated being reminded that she never did.

“Don’t ruin this for me by talking, please.”

Fair enough.

I cleared my throat. “So, your dad taught us both how to drive sticks, and the Bronco is a manual, so I’m assuming you don’t have any questions about that part, right?”

“None.” Her eyes stayed forward. She seemed half engaged with what I was saying and half mesmerized by the feel of the car. Her fingers tapped and her eyes fell everywhere around her.

I gave her a rundown of what to do, when to slow down, and how to turn, but she only responded with nods.

Zack came in front of the cars, probably because the female drivers wouldn’t be interested in Devon Peterson shaking her ass at them, and that’s when my heart dropped into my stomach.

Shit!

Tate reached out and touched the fossil necklace. Her necklace, meant for her mother, that I had stolen and kept all these years.

Fuck, f**k, f**k.

Blood pumped through my ears, and it took everything to keep my voice steady and calm. I’d forgotten it was still there.

“Good luck charm,” I explained, fastening my seatbelt and averting my eyes. “I took it a couple of days after you left it there. I thought it would be stolen or ruined. Kind of had it with me ever since.”

But what was worse than her knowing I had kept it all these years was the knowledge that she’d want it back. I had no right to keep it, after all.

Dropping her hand, I saw her stare out the driver’s side window in silence.

What was she thinking? I wanted to know, but I’d never ask.

“Are. We. Ready?” Zack’s voice startled me back to reality, and Tate snapped her head back to the front.

I reached out and found Waking the Demon by Bullet for My Valentine on my iPod and turned it up.

Noise, activity, distraction.

We both focused out of the windshield, silent.

“Ready?” Zack shouted, and I smiled as Tate revved the engine.

“Set?” I turned up the music again and braced myself.

I hoped for the best but wouldn’t be surprised if Tate decided to purposefully crash my baby as revenge.

“Go!”

She slammed on the gas, breathing hard and breaking into a wild smile with the excitement of the moment. Maybe it was the feeling of a different car, or maybe it was the thrill of competition, but she was zoned in. Her eyes watched the road like it was her prey, and her fingers worked the stick shift hard and fast.

I watched her muscle handled my muscle, and I shook my head.

Porn.

“The first turn comes up fast,” I spoke up, getting my head back in the game.

Tate said nothing, but it looked like she stopped breathing as she applied the brake and started rounding the first corner.

Adrenaline pooled in my chest, and I clenched my teeth, ready to shout at her to slow down more. She was ahead—not much of a surprise there—but the Trans Am could easily catch up if she got off track.

Checking the rearview mirror, I saw Roman’s car gaining speed, and gripped the dash harder. Fucking Roman. If Tate wasn’t gone by the time it made the turn, they’d slam us.

“Hit the gas!” I yelled after she’d straightened out the car. “And don’t turn so hard. You’re losing time correcting yourself.”

“Who’s in first place?” she replied haughtily.

“Don’t get cocky.”

But she didn’t listen. She only turned up the music and slammed the stick shift into sixth. We shot forward, and I tensed up but not from nervousness.