Page 4

Sadie

Have a secret – from Sadie’s list of things she’s never done

The black cat clock on the wall above my desk swings its tail with every second I get closer to being late for my morning meeting. I click the button to join the 9:00 a.m. video call with my team at 9:01. Dammit. Cam and I were up late last night talking through the specifics of our outrageous plan, so I barely woke up in time to brush my hair and throw on a presentable shirt before my meeting.

“Oh, good! You’re here,” my manager greets me the second I pop up on his screen. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

Feeling better? My brow furrows, and then I remember. I was sick yesterday. Shit. I unmute myself. “Yup. It’s gone. All better.” What the fuck do I mean by “it’s gone” ? What’s “it” ? I never even said what kind of sick I faked being. He’s going to know. I quickly mute myself again, feeling like the sound of my anxious heart might be picked up by my computer’s microphone. I wait for him to call me out for lying in front of the whole team, but he just says it’s good to have me back and moves on.

Between the throbbing behind my eyes and a general sense of wooziness, this hangover is determined to make sure I remember each and every tequila shot. Maybe this is karma for lying about being sick yesterday. Or, it’s just the consequences of my own day-drinking.

A text from Allie lights up my phone, but I’m determined to focus on the meeting today, so it’ll have to wait. I don’t miss it when my manager asks me a question, and I actually have an answer ready this time.

“It’s been moving more quickly than expected—” My words cut off, distracted by the fact that Cam is suddenly standing next to me. I didn’t even hear him come in. I try to ignore him until I can put myself on mute. “More quickly than expected. We’re close to wrapping up—” I lose my train of thought completely when he leans in close, resting one hand on the back of my chair and setting a hot cup of coffee on the desk right in front of me. I look up and find him sporting a completely unapologetic smile.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he whispers—not meaning a word of it—then leans in even closer and kisses the top of my head . The casual affection has my stomach flip-flopping, but he walks out of the room like bringing me coffee and kissing me in front of all my coworkers is the most natural thing in the world.

Oh shit. My coworkers.

Lifting my newly delivered coffee mug to the camera, I say, “Sorry about that. Forgot my coffee.” Through some miracle of self-composure I don’t usually possess, I manage to pick up exactly where I left off and give a solid answer to the question.

Fortunately, the camera on my computer isn’t good enough to betray the pink that’s flooded my cheeks. My likeness is surrounded by my coworkers’ little video boxes—a few of them staring down at their phones, but almost everyone else is smiling. Except for Hanna, whose mouth is agape.

That’s what this was. He did that for Hanna. At some point yesterday—after tequila shot three or four, but before our Thai food was delivered—I filled him in on as much of the story with Jared as I could handle repeating. He knows Hanna is going to run back to Kelee and tell her everything she just saw. Between that and the photo Cam posted last night, Jared will be able to put it together.

This just might work.

Once it’s finally not my turn to talk anymore, I check Allie’s text.

Allie: Cam just texted me to ask how you take your coffee. Told you you’d be the cutest roomies who ever roomied!

My first sip of the drink confirms her words—sweet enough that most people would probably hate it, and frothy foam on top. He got it just right. I type out a response.

Me: Thank you for telling him…

I delete it right away. It’s not enough. Cam and I agreed to keep our social posting reasonably ambiguous at first, so we’d have time to reveal it to our friends in a way they might actually believe. This is the perfect opportunity to lay some groundwork. Of course it is. He did this on purpose.

Me: He just brought it to me during my meeting. It was really sweet.

Allie: Yes! I love when my friends become friends with each other.

Me: I really like him. A lot…

I delete that one before sending, too.

Me: I know it’s only been a day, but I think this is going to be a really good thing.

It doesn’t seem anyone on the video call is paying attention to me anymore, so I sneak a photo of the coffee, making sure to show off my fresh manicure, too—a variation of my usual lavender-colored left hand, rose-colored right hand combo with a thin gold horizontal stripe running across each finger.

As soon as my meeting ends, I get up to find Cam. When I open my office door, he’s standing in the hallway, hand poised to knock, wearing nothing but a towel tied low on his hips. My eyes are level with the tattooed words across his chest that read ‘ No Risk No Story .’ More lettering peaks over the top of the towel, crossing the deep muscular V there, but I can’t quite make them out. I’m staring. Shit.

It’s rude to stare.

When I drag my eyes back up to meet his, water drips from his red hair onto his freshly shaven face as he smirks. Good ness.

I train my eyes on his.

“You want to finish your coffee out back with me?” he asks, like it’s normal to be hanging around the house in his towel. Oh, my word. What if it is normal for him to hang around the house in a towel?

“Yeah—sure—coffee,” I stammer.

“Awesome. I’ll put some clothes on and see you out there,” he says, turning toward his bedroom. I’ve never seen his tattoos this close before, especially not the ones on his back. I get a good look at the pirate flag and crossed palm trees on his muscular shoulder blades before he disappears into his room. At least this time he couldn’t see me staring.

When I turn back to grab my forgotten coffee cup, there’s a chat from Hanna on my screen.

Hanna: Um, excuse me. Who was that gorgeous man that brought you coffee?!?

A petty smile turns up my lips. It’s working.

“Come sit here by me,” Cam says when I meet him in the backyard. Right outside the living room’s glass slider, there’s a pergola with magenta papery bougainvillea flowers growing up the side. Underneath it is a sturdy oak patio set, and just beyond it is our bean-shaped pool. I join him on the loveseat-style rocker he’s sitting on, and he drapes his arm across its back, barely grazing my shoulders.

“That was very sneaky with the coffee,” I say, lifting my cup for another appreciative sip. “And really good .”

“Seemed like something a boyfriend would do.” He shrugs, but the smile on his face betrays just how pleased he is with himself. It’s kind of endearing.

I smile up at him. “It’s something a good boyfriend would do.”

“No more bad boyfriends for you, Sadie,” he says, a slightly too big smile spreading across his face.

“We can only hope,” I say, opening my phone to show him the picture I took. “I was thinking I could post this.” Nerves about what I’m about to ask tighten my throat, but I swallow them down. “Would it be okay if I tagged you?”

“Yes, it’s okay,” he laughs, pulling me closer to him. “Of course it’s okay. This is exactly the kind of shit we need to do. I’ll repost it.”

Fresh nerves flutter through me. The man has millions of followers. So far, we’re only hinting, but eventually, there should be no doubt in his followers’ minds that I’m his girlfriend. And they’ll judge everything about me. What if no one believes we’re actually dating because I don’t look like the kind of girl a famous motorcycle racer would date? It’s an old thought— that I’m not pretty enough —one that I’ve worked really hard to overcome in the past year, so I don’t let it take hold. If Cam thinks we’re a believable couple, then everyone else should too.

“Look,” I whisper, pointing past the pool to the white concrete breezeblock wall that surrounds our little backyard. Boo jumps off it, landing on the smooth, gray rocks below and takes a cautious step toward us.

“Does he get close enough for you to pet him?” Cam whispers.

“He’s rubbed against my leg a few times, but any time I’ve reached for him, he’s run away,” I answer. “Maybe if we’re quiet, he’ll get closer.”

My phone buzzes with another text—this one from Jared. That was quick. My gut twists with a mix of nerves.

Jared: Are you seeing someone?

“It’s working already,” I say, reading Cam the text.

Cam’s smile is devious. “Good.”

“I’m not sure what to say back, though. Should I confirm it? We haven’t told our friends yet, but I doubt—”

“You don’t need to say anything,” Cam interrupts.

“That’ll make him really mad,” I giggle.

“Exactly. Let him believe you’re so happy with me, you can’t even be bothered to text him back,” he says, then shares details with me about the reactions to the picture he posted of us last night. People are eating it up, speculating about whether or not we’re dating. It’s not a surprise. Even though I avoided reading the comments on that post in particular, I did a deep-dive scroll on his social media last night, and as far as I can tell, he’s never posted a photo like that with a girl before.

“Let me get a picture of you now,” he says, snapping a photo of me sipping my coffee.

“Are you going to post that one, too?” I ask.

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “But I need a photo for your contact in my phone.”

My response is a sigh of relief. Something about him posting a picture of me by myself makes me feel much more exposed than a picture of us together.

“Do you think he’ll get spooked if I stand up?” Cam asks, pointing at the little black cat who’s now a few feet closer to us.

“Yeah, but don’t let that stop you,” I answer. “Do you have to go somewhere?”

When Cam stands, the loveseat rocks in his wake. Boo bolts across the yard and disappears from view. “I have to get to the track,” he says.

“You have a race today?” I ask, following him into the house. My heart beats faster as I imagine him on a motorcycle. Racing a motorcycle—crashing that motorcycle. This is why I could never actually date him. We’re barely even friends, and I get anxious just thinking about him on a motorcycle.

“My first race of the season isn’t until the weekend after next,” he says. “Just a training day. I’d invite you to join, but you have to work now, right?”

I huff a laugh. “I’m not going to watch you ride motorcycles.”

His dark red brows furrow. “I guess we didn’t talk about this, but if you’re gonna act like my girl, you’ll have to come to races.”

“Come on,” I laugh, trying to hide the nerves in my voice. “Not everyone’s girlfriend comes to their races.”

“I guess they don’t always come,” he says. “But races are the best. You’ll miss out on everything if you never come.”

“Nothing about a motorcycle race sounds appealing,” I say, shuddering my shoulders in an effort to physically shake off the mental images of bloody asphalt. It’s been twelve years since my crash, but the memories have never left me. “Actually, I’d say it sounds like the opposite of fun.”

Cam tilts his head—like he’s trying to wrap his mind around the concept of someone not wanting to watch a motorcycle race.

“It’s just not my thing,” I offer, doing my best to laugh it off. The last thing I want to do is unload my trauma on him right now.

Brow still furrowed, he grabs a leather jacket off of a hook by the door. “Most races are out of state—so if you can’t travel for those—that’s normal.” He sighs, disappointment pulling his lips down. “But it’ll be a pretty tough sell if you’re never there.”

He’s not even a little bit wrong. How inconvenient.

He searches my face. “Maybe if you explained your aversion, I could—”

“No, you’re right,” I wave my hand in an unconvincing display of nonchalance. “I should be there as often as I can. I’ll be—” I shake my head, rephrasing, “It’ll be fine.”

He laughs, but it’s mirthless. “That’s obviously bullshit. Why don’t you just tell me why you don’t want to go?”

“I don’t like talking about it,” I answer.

He slides his arms into the jacket. “You don’t have to explain yourself, but all of this will be a hell of a lot easier if you talk to me.”

I bite my lip while trying to force a smile. I probably look unhinged. “All good.”

“Little liar,” he laughs for real this time, but settles quickly. “This thing we’re doing won’t work if you don’t trust me. I hope you tell me eventually.”

Again, he makes an extremely valid point. So inconvenient. Still, I don’t agree—at least not verbally.

He pulls me in for a hug, surrounding me with the warmth from his chest and the rich smell of leather. “It’ll be fine, whatever it is.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I joke, clearly unable to mask my concern.

He gives me a you’re-not-fooling-anybody look, and says, “First race of the season is next Sunday. It’s only a two-hour drive from here. It’ll be the easiest one for you to get to. Will you consider it?”

“Sure,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat.

He opens the door to the garage, giving me a broad smile before he leaves. “See you later, Sadie Winslow.”

“Have fun today. Don’t crash,” I respond.

“Woah.” His mouth drops open, and he steps back into the entryway, shutting the garage door behind him. “You cannot say shit like that to me.”

“Why not?” I ask. “I don’t want you to crash.”

He flinches, pulling his mouth back in a grimace.

“Isn’t it a good thing that I want you to be safe?” I point out.

“I’d be pretty fucking concerned if you were hoping I get hurt,” he says, running both of his hands back through the sides of his hair. “Believe me when I tell you I am aware of the risks. I know how dangerous this is. I’ve been hurt. I’ve seen other racers hurt.” He takes a step closer to me. “I am careful. I’m not fucking around out there. But when you say don’t crash ,” he whispers the words, like he doesn’t want the race gods to hear him, “all I hear is crash ,” again the word is whispered, “and it’ll get stuck in my head. I can’t be thinking about that while I’m out there.”

“But I don’t want you to crash ,” I whisper the word this time, too.

“Which I appreciate.” He looks up to the side as tattooed fingers tousle his deep copper hair again. “How about this? Think of it kind of like how you don’t tell a performer good luck before a show.”

“So— break a leg ?” I sputter a laugh. “That cannot possibly be better.”

“It’s absolutely not,” he laughs. “ Have fun was great. That’s always a good one. If it’s a race day, you can tell me to make sure I win, kick some ass.”

“There’s no racing version of break a leg?” I ask.

“Not officially, but a lot of people will say ‘ rubber side down ’ , ‘ stay on the bike ’ , or ‘ head down, butt

up .’”

“Head down, butt up? What does that have to do with racing?” I ask.

“If you’re doing it right, your ass almost never touches the seat during a race,” he says, sliding his hands into his jacket pockets.

My brows lift in surprise. “Must take a lot of strength.”

“It does,” he says, voice dripping with amusement. “Part of the professional athlete thing.”

Professional athlete. I’ve never thought of him that way, but I guess it’s true. I know motorcycles are heavier than they look, and he has to lean his all over the track. Maybe all the tight, sinewy muscle I saw on his torso this morning wasn’t just for show. I wonder what the muscles on his legs look like.

A mischievous smile turns his lips. “My personal favorite is ride it like you stole it .”

“Huh?” I ask, blushing like he’s heard my thoughts.

“Things to say to me before a race,” he reminds me. “My favorite is ride it like you stole it .”

I giggle. There is no way I’m saying that to him. “Okay, Cam.” I lift my hand toward the garage. “Have fun. Stay on the bike.”

“Thanks, love,” he says, reopening and walking out the door.

Still, all I can think is— Don’t crash. Don’t crash. Don’t crash.