Page 8 of Drive To Survive

Unable to contain my grin, I punched the air and whooped. “Yes!”

EVERLY

My stomach fluttered like a trapped starling in a gilded cage as I pulled into a space marked “Visitors” at the PFK Racing track. I climbed out of the car and peered through the chain-link fencing, standing for a few moments to watch the cars out on the track. A heat haze hovered over the tarmac, and the smell of burning rubber and oil wafted through the air, the engines screaming as the drivers hurtled around at almost impossible speeds.

Oh God. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. In two or three years, Rhett might be ready. But not now. Not yet. He was just a baby.

I grasped the car door, ready to jump back in and leave this place, but my legs refused to get into the damn thing. Come on, Everly. Don’t be a wuss. Rhett needed this, and I had to put aside my motherly instincts for the sake of my son’s mental health. The owners of this place wouldn’t risk anyone getting hurt. There must be rules, laws, safety regulations in place they had to adhere to if they wanted to keep their license.

Sucking in a deep breath of warm air through my nose, I blew it out slowly through pursed lips.

You’ve got this.

I locked my car and strode down a narrow pathway to a two-story building with a sign outside that read “Check-In.” A bell dinged over the door as I opened it. A raven-haired woman in her mid twenties looked up from behind her computer screen and smiled.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’m Mrs. Lawson. I mean, Everly. I’m Rhett’s mom.”

“Oh, yes, hi, Mrs. Lawson. Hang on. I have your file here somewhere.” She half rose from her chair and riffled through a stack of beige folders on the side of her desk. “Ah, here we are. I’m Adele, by the way. We spoke on the phone.” She reached over her desk to shake my hand, then retook her seat. “We’re really excited to have Rhett join us.”

Damn. “I, um, I’m not sure he is. Joining you, I mean.”

Her eyebrows shot up, almost disappearing into her hairline, and then lowered into a frown. “I don’t understand. We offered him a place, and you accepted. We have a huge waiting list, so if you’re turning his spot down…”

“I’m not. I mean, I might be.” I rubbed at the top of my nose. “Sorry, I’m not being very clear, am I? Rhett is only six and…” I gestured over my shoulder toward the racetrack. “I… ah… I think I underestimated the speeds involved. Are you sure it’s safe?”

“Oh.” She nodded. “I get it. I’m a mom of a two-year-old. It’s hard to let go, isn’t it? I can assure you his safety is our paramount concern.” She stood, walked to the window, and beckoned to me. I crossed the room to stand beside her. She pointed.

“See the kart at the front, number fourteen? That’s Damien. He turns six in a few weeks. He’s been coming here since we opened three months ago. Poor little mite suffers from ADHD, and he’s autistic too, yet get him behind the wheel and he’s a different boy. His parents can’t believe the change in him since he’s been coming here.” She turned kind eyes on me. “Rhett will have a blast, Mrs. Lawson.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, then returned my gaze to Damien throwing his kart around the track as if he’d been born in a race car.

“I guess I?—”

“Adele,” a sharp voice called out. “Where’s the Barratt file—oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize you were with someone.”

I turned around slowly, my gaze falling on possibly the most gorgeous guy I’d ever seen. Actually, forget possibly. Sullen and broody, his presence sucked up all the oxygen in the room. God, was I panting under that piercing green stare, even if just a little? Dark blond hair, cut close at the sides and slightly longer on top framed cheekbones that looked like Michelangelo had carved them.

And that British accent…

My tummy fluttered, but for a very different reason than the panicky butterflies I’d felt on arrival, and the hairs across my nape lifted.

Wow.

I pulled my gaze away from his stunning face and the broad expanse of his firm chest and fiddled with the hem of my jacket, feeling like a gawky teenager rather than a twenty-seven-year-old woman with a child.

“Oh, hey, Nico. Sure thing.” Adele scampered back to her desk and hunted through the same file stack as before. She handed him a brown folder, identical to Rhett’s.

Nico? That name was familiar.

I searched my mind, almost positive I’d seen that name on their website. Yes, that was it. Nico Palmer. Possibly the P in “PFK”?

“Mr. Palmer,” I said, taking a step forward in the hope my instinct that he was one of the owners was right. “I wonder if I might have a word?”

He looked up from reading the file Adele had handed him and narrowed his gaze. “And you are?” he asked, his tone brusque with an underlying note of irritation.

Steeling my spine, I moved closer to him and held out my hand. “I’m Everly Lawson. My son, Rhett, has a place here.”

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