Page 35 of Revved up & Ready

I take the first sharp, bubbly sip of my drink. “So, we’re not going to—you don’t want to—” I can’t bring myself to ask. “I don’t think I understand.”

His giant hand engulfs mine, giving a gentle squeeze. “Say as many true things as possible. You don’t have to liemuchto make this believable.” He gives my hand one more light squeeze before releasing it. “If someone asks what’s happening between us, what would you say?”

Alliehasasked me that three times already, and I’ve dodged it every time. My mind is completely blank, my heart races, and my teeth dig into my lip hard enough to hurt.

“It’s okay,” he comforts me, though I’m not sure I deserve it. “Let’s try something else. Forget what you’d say to them for asecond. Why don’t you try telling me whatishappening between us?”

“I can do that,” I answer, more of the tension easing. “We are pretending to date to make my ex jealous, help me feel less like a failure after my breakup, and to help you change your reputation so you can get on that team and keep racing without making a bunch of dumb videos on the internet.”

“And how did that start?” he prompts, flipping the tab back and forth on his can in a motion I’m unsure he’s aware of.

“We had an incredible conversation the day you moved in.” The memory draws enough of a smile out of me that I have to stop clenching my teeth. “It seemed like we’d be a good match to help each other out, and pretending to date you sounded like a lot of fun.” My cheeks flush with the admission.

He nods along with each of my words. “You can keep most of that. Tell them we’re dating—leave out thefakepart and the reasons why.” He breaks off the tab and switches to tapping it against his can. “And, you can tell them exactly what happened if they askhowthis started between us. Does that make you feel any better?” he asks.

I nod, trying to convince myself as much as him. “A bit. Sorry I’m so bad at this.”

“You’re not bad at this. You’regreatat this.” He’s emphatic, holding my stare. “This is working. People are starting to see me differently. I’m getting amazing responses online, andIncite Energyis happy.You’remaking it work.” With each compliment, my spirits lift little by little.Maybe I’m not bad at this. Maybe this isn’t just him doing me a giant favor—

“Is it working for you?” he asks. “Your ex losing his mind?”

“He’s mad,” I answer, realizing I don’t know what a solid moment of triumph would look like for me. Even though the idea of him continuing to race turns my stomach, there will at leastbe an obvious moment when this has been a success for him. I’m not sure what that would look like for me.

“Knew he wasn’t over you.” Cam shakes his head. “Still can’t believe he had you for that long and wasted it.”

The plastic strawberry-shaped timer I brought into my office from the kitchen rings out in the most obnoxious way possible, shattering the calm.

“Cookies!” I jump up, running out of the room.

Fortunately, the house isn’t large, so I make it from my office, through the living room, and to the kitchen before there’s any chance of burning. My socks slide across the oversized white tiles on the kitchen floor as I reach the oven. The wash of hot, sweet-smelling air that hits me when I pull its door open is a familiar comfort. Using a spatula, I test underneath a couple of cookies.Not quite.When I shut the door and stand up, Cam’s there, leaning on the counter.

“Smells incredible, love.”

Love. I can’t decide if I like or hate that he calls me that. It’s sweet—kind of endearing, even—but it’s not specific tome. I think I’ve heard him call just about every one of our friends love at one point or another.Why do I want him to have a special name for me, anyway?

“What’d you make?” he asks.

“In two more minutes,” I say, setting a timer, “these will be strawberry shortcake cookies with lemon cream cheese filling, hopefully baked to perfection. They’re tart and sweet, and the way they feel in your mouth is just—” turns out I don’t have a word for that, so I make a satisfiedhmmsound instead.

He settles himself lower against the gray and white marble counter, bringing his slightly crooked nose to my eye level. “Are they your favorite?” he asks.

“They’re Bea’s favorite. But not mine. Well, not myfavorite, favorite.” I squat down to look into the oven, makingsure the little confections don’t get offended and decide to burn. “I make these every time I wish it was hotter outside because they tasteexactlylike summertime.”

“Summertime in March.” He nods. “Can’t wait to try.”

“Oh, these aren’t for you.” The second the words are out, my hands fly up to cover my mouth.

His brows lift with a slightly shocked chuckle. “That works too.”

“Oh, my word.” Still staring through the oven door, balancing on my toes and resting my fingers on the oven’s handle, I look up at him. “That sounded so mean. I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to share everything you bake with me. You spoil me too much already,” he says, taking a bite from a rosemary focaccia muffin I made at lunchtime.

“I promised Bea she could have as many as she wants. But it’s not like she’ll know how many I made. Of course, you can have one.” The strawberry timer goes off, and I open the oven to test the cookies again. This time, the bottoms are browned to perfection. I grab a yellow plaid oven mitt and pull out the baking sheet, holding it out to Cam. “Look at these fluffy little beauties.”

“They are gorgeous,” he says, his voice trailing off wistfully. “Too bad I won’t be able to try them.”

“Stop it, yes you will,” I laugh.

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