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My gaze falls. A week ago, I would’ve mocked her. She dares to think she’s not attractive with how her big blue eyes compliment her pore-less complexion and light, brown hair? With the happiness that’s always in her smile? With how she embraces people and oozes female solidarity?

Geez, I’d love to have that problem.

But she’s not feeling good, and I never would’ve known if I hadn’t pressed her, because she keeps a fucking smile on her face. She loves Hawke to death, and she talks to me like we’ve been friends for years.

And I don’t think she’s admitted to anyone else what she just told me.

I clear my throat. “He’s my friend,” I finally tell her. “And that’s all I’m saying, okay?”

“Well, I’m his cousin,” she continues, tipping her chin back up and finding her composure again. “And I would’ve won that fight, so make sure you’re a really good friend, or else I’ll have to prove it.”

Yeah, right.

She grins over at me. “He’s a catch, isn’t he?” But then she starts mumbling under her breath. “Until he starts talking about comets and the formation of galaxies and all his astronomy bullshit.”

I jerk my eyes to her. “What?”

“Oh, just you wait.” She smiles tightly. “The bore is coming. Every hottie has a downside.”

“He’s into astronomy?”

“Mmm.” She nods. “He interns at the university. Helps run their planetarium.”

Of course. That’s why he’d have keys. I didn’t even think to ask. Just assumed the whole town was his playground like it usually is for rich kids.

“Hawke loves mystery,” Dylan muses. “Wants to spend his life in a tower under a telescope aimed at the celestial sky.”

I drop my eyes and shake my head. And he sat there, listening to me educate him like I knew more.

But I’m not mad. He likes astronomy. I have a friend who likes what I like.

I smile. Oh, I’ll let him have it next time. I’m not holding back. Nebulae, astrophysics, cosmology, evolution…let’s go. My education may only be from Google and YouTube, but I bet I know just as much as he does.

By the time I’ve organized my ‘for’ and ‘against’ arguments for the theory of dark matter—depending on which stance he takes, so I can take the exact opposite—we’re at the track. Cheers go off, and I snap back to reality, seeing all the people.

“Whoo!” Two guys pound Dylan’s hood as she maneuvers the car into its pit.

“Hey!” she yells at them. “Assholes.”

I look around, the bleachers filled and tons of girls everywhere. What the hell?

“Why are there so many people?” I ask.

“It’s my last race.”

I look at her.

“I want to ride bikes,” she says, putting the car into Neutral and pulling up the E-brake. “My dad doesn’t know, so if you could keep it quiet…”

“Well, if they all know, he knows…” I gesture to the crowd gathered.

“He will soon enough,” she replies, unfastening her seatbelt. “Just not tonight.”

“But he was a bike racer,” I say. “Is he scared you’ll get injured or something?”

She shrugs. “It’s a boys’ club. He doesn’t want me to deal with all that.”

I know what that’s like.

“But I really love it.” She sighs. “And I want to get there on my own. Not because of my name.”

Great. Do all rich kids have this much character? I hate being wrong about people.

“To the line!” someone yells.

Dylan looks out, seeing some young guy flagging her down, and she nods. Pulling out onto the track, she stops at the starting line and idles.

“And these people aren’t all here to see me,” she admits. “Most of them are here to see Noah. My father’s new protégé.”

But she says protégé with some attitude.

I’ve never met Noah Van der Berg, but I know who he is and I’ve seen him and Dylan together. They seem to get along. Maybe friends, even.

But there’s something else. Maybe she thinks she should be her father’s protégé. He doesn’t want to train her, though. I guess that would piss me off, too.

“I gotta talk to people,” she chirps. “Sit tight.”

She leaves the car, the engine still running, and I turn up the music as I peer out her tinted windows. People loiter on the sides, and I can smell the hot dogs and funnel cakes from the food trucks off to the left. Leaning down, I check out the control booth, a cross between a small air control tower and a fire watch tower. Where the windows would be is open air, and it’s no more than three stories high. Just enough to see all of Fallstown.

Motorbikes roar in the distance, and a tall figure looms front and center inside the tower.

Jaxon Trent.

I’m only guessing, I can’t tell for sure. It just looks like Hawke, but I know it’s not Hawke.

They look the same, though. Alone. Far back from everyone else, because they both like to keep apprised of everything in their domain.