Page 33 of Overdrive (Speed Demons #1)

The days betweenJeddahand Miami passed in a blur.

I spent most of the time at the vineyard, the familiar scents of lavender and aged oak grounding me in a way nothing else could.

étiennewas almost through recovery, and we'd shared a quiet evening on the terrace, sipping wine and talking about the pressures of the sport.

“I'm not you,” I replied softly, staring out at the fields. “And that's what they all want me to be.”

“You're better,” he replied. “You're creating your own legacy. Stop letting them dictate how you feel. This is your journey, not theirs. They're going to say and do whatever the hell they want because they're hiding behind a screen.”

The words stayed with me as I made the long trip to Miami, though the anxiety gnawing at me never let up—not where he was concerned. He was being kind while I harbored a secret I never wanted to tell him.

I nursed a cranberry vodka on the plane, staring out at the clouds and wondering when it'd all gotten so fucking complicated.

By the time we landed in the United States, all I could think about was going out to enjoy the nightlife. I'd spent the whole season thus far worried about podium finishes, never giving myself a break or even a pat on the back.

I deserved some fun.

Maybe Callum would be out.

The thought landed uninvited. A flash of an image—him in some Miami rooftop bar, drink in hand, flashing that lazy, cocky grin that sent reporters and fans into a tizzy.

Would he go out? Would he take someone home?

My stomach churned with something ugly. Not jealousy. Definitely not.

I gritted my teeth. Who he fucked wasn't my business. It had never been my business. We'd only kissed once. Some harmless flirting.

I shook my head as something twisted low in my stomach the second I stepped onto the jet bridge in Miami.

A tight, unshakable coil I couldn't ignore.

It wasn't the flight or the press, not even the thought of the upcoming event.

It was something else. Something I didn't want to name. A phantom touch, a memory I couldn’t shake, rising like heat through my spine.

A heaviness in the air that had nothing to do with the humidity.

I exhaled sharply, shoving the feeling down. I was probably just tired. That was all.

The number ofTikTokedits and Instagram posts about my battle withCallum were bordering on obsessive. And now, with the team orchestrating some publicity event, the spotlight felt even hotter. I wasn't even sure what kind of event this was.

I just needed to get through it.

My phone was blowing up with details as I stepped into the humid, late-spring air, the heat so stifling that I regretted wearing leggings and a long-sleeve team shirt .

This was the most overwhelming location yet. The crowds were even larger, the cameras in greater abundance to catch the reactions of other major celebrities here to attend the race.

I fought the claustrophobic feeling of it all pressing in on me.

AfterJeddah, I'd expected a week to recover, to regroup, but instead I was thrust into the media circus with barely a moment to breathe.

Sure, my two days at home were nice—a rare chance when I was usually required at HQ—but I was champing at the bit for a longer break between races.

Fuck. Maybe I wasn't cut out for this circus after all.

Before I could dwell on those thoughts, I spotted him.

It was as though my brain was hardwired to know where he was in a room, on a track, in a paddock full of people.

Callumwas standing close by, arms crossed and sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose like he couldn't be bothered with any of this.

The worst part? He must have felt me looking—if you could even call it that with the way my pace slowed. Even through the sea of people, I saw the shift. The way his head tilted just slightly, as if sensing me before he turned.

I tore my gaze away so fast I half expected to feel the crack of a vertebrae.

No. Nope. Not doing this.

I was not giving anyone in the paddock or the fucking press another story to fuel their fire. At this point I was completely over how the press was spinning the narratives.

Speaking of, a group of reporters were gathered nearby, voices low but just loud enough for me to hear as I walked past.

“Yeah, but tell me you didn't see the way Fraser was watching her inJeddah?—”

“I swear, it's not just a rivalry. It's personal.”

My fingers clenched around my phone. MonDieu.

I knew better than to give a shit about what anyone said. They didn't know anything. I just wanted the truth out there.

Well—maybe not thewholetruth. They didn't need to know about the kiss. The urgent, frantic grappling—like we were starving for each other .

So yeah. Just a highly curated, watered-down version of the truth.

I should've been elated after placing higher thanCallumin Saudi Arabia, but the victory felt hollow.

I hadn't made the podium, only pulled ahead of him, and the media had twisted it into another chapter in our “rivalry,” with headlines like:

Dubois Outsmarts Fraser in Jeddah—Is This the Turning Point?

“More like the boiling point,” I muttered under my breath when I saw it, my PR manager handing me the schedule for tomorrow's event.

“Vintage cars, an interview, and someTikToks,” she explained, her tone brisk. “TheFIAis really pushing this rivalry narrative, so play along. A little tension, a little banter—it's good for the sport.”

I wanted to argue, but what was the point? This wasn't about me. It never was.

So that night, alone in my hotel room, I opened Instagram to seeCallum'sface plastered across my feed. Fans were already speculating about tomorrow, dissecting our every move from the past few weeks.

One video caught my eye—a mashup of our battles fromJeddah, set to a dramatic orchestral track. The final shot lingered on my smirk as I pulled my helmet off, followed byCallumglaring at me during weigh-ins.

The caption: They hate each other, your honor.

I snorted, tossing my phone onto the bed. If only they knew.

Flipping onto my back, I stared up at the plain white ceiling.

Too hot. Too quiet. Too much space for thoughts I didn’t want.

I wasn’t thinking about him—about how hard he’d been, thick and throbbing through those fucking shorts.

Or how his hands had gripped my thighs as he lifted me like I weighed nothing.

I wasn’t wondering if he liked it rough, if he was a filthy talker, or if he preferred to let his mouth do the talking elsewhere.

And I definitely wasn’t picturing what he’d do to me with that tongue .

And I most certainly didn't dig a vibrator out of my bag in a poor attempt to get over whatever this was.

Nope. Not at all.

I huffed, rolling onto my side.

I needed to get out of my fucking head. Because if I didn't... Miami wasn't going to burn. I was.