Page 9

Chapter 9

The Thing About Trust

June

I shouldn’t be this flustered.

It's just lunch. Just friends. Just a casual post-camp, post-Verelli-saves-the-day hangout at Mane Street Bistro.

The restaurant hums with the familiarity of small-town life—the creak of hundred-year-old floorboards, the clink of Mrs. Whitmore’s mismatched ceramic mugs, the smell of cinnamon rolls that makes this place feel more like someone’s kitchen than a business.

Except nothing about this feels casual.

Not when Noah’s sitting beside me. Not when the entire town is still buzzing about how he vaulted a barrier like a stuntman, barked orders like a commander, and somehow managed to flirt with me in the middle of it all.

Especially not when his thigh is inches from mine, and I can still feel the ghost of his hand on my waist.

I think everyone at the track fell a little bit in love with him yesterday.Including me.

My heart—and body—have not exactly recovered.

And now he’s here, in this everyday corner of my world, like he’s always belonged.

He’s beautiful—though heaven knows, that’s not new. But watching him handle pressure, watching the way his body moved with focus and certainty, the way he read the track faster than anyone else?

It did something to me. It wasn’t showmanship. It was mastery.

And something in me recognized it—like discovering I’d always spoken his language but never had the chance to say it out loud.

The worst part? He didn’t even show off. He just… was. Calm. In control. Lethal in a quiet way that burrowed under my skin and stayed there.

Now he’s beside me. Not safely out of reach.

And my whole right side knows it.

His thigh doesn't touch mine—but it might as well.

Every nerve ending is tuned to him like I’ve developed a radar system calibrated exclusively to Noah Verelli. I can track his breathing, feel the heat off him, even though we’re not touching. The space between our bodies might as well be electrified.

Noah silently slides the ketchup toward me before I even reach for it, his eyes catching mine with a knowing smile.

My skin prickles with goosebumps despite the warmth of the bistro, and I resist the urge to rub my arms.

Across from us, Levi and Scott are deep in a debate about whether go-karts count as "real racing." Their words bounce back and forth like a tennis match, Scott gesturing with his fork to emphasize some point about engine displacement while Levi counters with something about skill thresholds and transfer rates.

The debate has that comfortable rhythm of an argument they've had before, one they enjoy revisiting.

These guys… arguing about engines in front of an F1 champion and a mechanic. Crazy but cute.

But neither Noah nor I are really listening.

I just nod at all the right moments, make appropriate ooh-ing and ahh-ing sounds of consideration when they look my way. I'm putting on a good show of being invested in their conversation.

Scott says something that makes Levi laugh, and it barely registers. The sound reaches me like it’s underwater, distant and muffled, compared to the clarity of Noah’s quiet breathing beside me.

I take a sip of my lemonade, ice clinking against glass, desperate for something to focus on besides the magnetic pull of his presence.

Because Noah smells like winter and soap and everything I shouldn't want.

Because his pinky just brushed mine under the table, and I didn't move away.

Every time his arm shifts beside me, it’s like my body tunes itself to him. That look he gives me now? It feels as physical as a touch.

Scott leans back, casually stretching his arm along the top of the booth. His fingers tap my wrist like always—a gesture as old as our friendship.

I don't react—it's muscle memory, an old habit, a comfort thing from a best friend.

Noah doesn't speak. But his body tightens with barely contained energy—says plenty.

His jaw flexes, the muscle there jumping under his skin. His knuckles whiten slightly where they rest on the table. And I suddenly wonder what those hands would feel like claiming every inch of me, pressing me down, making me his.

"Three handsome men in a booth with one woman?" Levi grins, nursing his coffee. "You're basically unapproachable right now, Kennedy."

I stir my lemonade, keeping my tone light. "Yeah... pretty sure this is the female equivalent of a cock-block. Doubt any guy has the confidence to approach me now. Triple threat, booth edition. Basically, a built-in chastity belt."

And Noah—low voice, heat simmering in singular syllable—says, "Good."

I meant it as a joke, but he didn’t. It's a line drawn in smoke and fire.

And it goes straight to my chest, then lower.

I clear my throat, needing to redirect the tension to somewhere safer.

"So, Scott—you're still on for Saturday? I've got streamers and enough glitter glue to get us banned from the school."

Scott chuckles with the easy confidence of someone who's never had to work for anyone’s approval. He runs a hand through his perfect hair—the golden boy move that makes half the women in Cedar Falls swoon. "Wouldn't miss it. You want the disco ball for your classroom again?"

For a moment, the image makes me smile. Our middle school classroom tradition: hanging a mini disco ball that catches the afternoon light just right, giving our kids a reason to grin as they push through those final periods of the day.

I glance at him, eyebrows lifted. “What do you think?”

He chuckles. “Tradition it is.”

Noah doesn't speak.

But he leans back just a bit, arms folded, jaw locked like he's chewing on something that tastes bitter.

Before the air gets any weirder, Tara slides up, her customary clipboard tucked under her arm. “Look at this table. The Camp Dream Team,” she declares, sliding a basket of fries onto the table like it’s the MVP trophy. “Town’s already buzzing.”

“Oh no,” I say, reaching for a fry. “What did we do this time?”

“You mean besides saving lives?” she teases, flicking a glance at Noah. “Simulator’s already the new crown jewel and now, you are the local hero! Mayor’s already trying to decide naming the lobby or the snack bar after you.”

Levi raises his mug. “I vote snack bar.”

Noah grimaces. "Please don't."

Levi grins. “Too late. City’s cutting a promo reel from the camp footage. Looks like both of you officially made the nice list.”

“They meant it as a compliment,” Tara says. “Especially after you yelled at that influencer. Pretty sure half the parents would vote you into Cedar Falls city office right now.”

Noah glances at me with a small shake of his head like “make it stop.” But there’s a smile there too. Small. Real.

Before I can toss in a cute comment, Mrs. Whitmore, owner of Mane Street Bistro arrives with her usual flair, and the attention shifts.

She tops off our drinks, then gives my arm a warm squeeze. “Your usual, June bug.”

Then she turns to Noah with a twinkle in her eye. “Welcome, F1 Champ! It’s quite the honor having you here. In case no one told you—Mane Street Bistro is spelled M-A-N-E , not Main . We’re horse folks around here. And my shop serves hungry-as-a-horse portions and pun-filled menus, bless our hearts.”

Noah chuckles. “That explains the ‘stallion-sized soda’.”

She beams at him and then pats my shoulder. “Did you know, this young lady here—" she jerks her chin at me, "—pie-eating champ, three years running. Fastest fork in the county.”

"Ma’am!" I groan. "He doesn't need to know my childhood achievements ."

"Actually, I think I do," Noah says, leaning forward with interest.

"She's being modest," Mrs. Whitmore continues as if I hadn't spoken. "This one rebuilt my grandson's entire transmission when she was fifteen. Fifteen! Mack taught her well."

I feel my cheeks heat. "It was just a simple—"

"She's always been special," Mrs. Whitmore finishes, patting my hand before moving to the next table.

Noah watches this exchange with fascination. "June bug, huh?"

"Call me that again and die, Verelli."

I grab another fry, dunk it in ketchup like it's a distraction and not a defense mechanism.

“Noah’s officially corrupted the camp youth,” I mutter, like I’m ratting him out.

"The kids are obsessed with him, for sure!" Scott chimes in—and for once, not syncing with our best-friend wavelength. "I saw a seventh grader write 'Verelli 4Ever' in tire marker on her backpack."

"He's good with them," I admit, and it's not sarcastic this time. "Explained complex tech like it was nothing. Even made downforce sound sexy."

Noah’s gaze snaps to mine with a loaded question. "You think downforce is sexy?"

I blink. "Don't push your luck, Noah. I find competence attractive. Could have been anyone explaining particle physics."

He smiles. "Funny, I don't see you blushing when Scott explains fire extinguisher mechanics."

“Hey, hey!” Scott cuts in. “That’s because fire extinguishers are boring. And downforce is basically invisible magic. Even I know that’s hotter.”

Laughter bubbles around the table—but Noah doesn’t laugh.

His gaze drifts back to me, warmer now. Quieter.

“You handled the chaos better than I did,” he says. “Especially during the crash. You didn’t even blink. Just… took control.”

I feel the flush crawl up the back of my neck. I hate how much I like his praise.

“That’s just classroom training,” I mumble, brushing it off even though it lands like a direct hit.

What unsettles me isn’t just how much I want him physically. It’s how much I like him noticing me. The way he saw things during the camp that others missed—my competence, not just my curves. How he slides the ketchup before I even reach for it, like he's already learning my rhythms after just days of knowing me.

It feels dangerous, being seen this clearly by someone this famous and this temporary.

Tara returns to our booth with our food before I can embarrass myself. "So, Verelli, staying in town? Camp's over. You could finally take that vacation everyone keeps asking about."

Noah's eyes don't leave mine. "I’m staying in town. I've got… sim training."

My breath catches… am I the unspoken reason? A flicker of hope rises before I can stop it—wild, irrational. I shove it down fast. I can’t afford to believe in something fleeting.

Levi raises his mug. “You’ve got full run of that sim anytime you want. And if you’re up for doing this again next year, Cedar Falls would be lucky to have you.”

Later – Mega Max Velocity Park Garage

The garage is quiet. Cold. Smells like rubber, metal and memories I don’t know what to do with.

I thought I'd grab a few things, maybe clean up the wiring on Kart Twelve.

Quick in, quick out. I wasn’t expecting Noah to be here but I should’ve known.

I catch a glimpse of him—phone in hand, scrolling through photos of the kids from camp.

When he notices me, he slips the phone away, but not before I see the slight smile on his face. Despite everything, he genuinely cared about those kids.

“I didn’t think anyone else would be here,” I gush.

“Levi said you were dropping paperwork.”

Then his expression shifts, and the soft moment vanishes. “I waited.”

That short-circuits something in my brain. “You... waited?”

“I figured you’d want to check Kart Twelve. After the hit yesterday.”

Right. Kart Twelve. Very important. Totally what my brain is focused on right now.

“I’m just here for the parts replacement forms.” I lie.

My voice wobbles. “For my dad’s shop.”

"It's in the office." His voice is low. "I'll walk with you."

The hallway to the office is narrow. Too narrow for two people to walk without brushing against each other. And we both know it.

The space between us crackles.

I take a step toward the office door.

But his voice stops me cold. "You need his approval?"

My spine straightens. "What?"

"Scott," he says, like the name is a curse. "The decorations. You asked him like you were waiting for a yes."

"It's just our tradition. I was just making sure he’s available," I snap. "He's been helping me decorate my middle school rooms since I became a middle school teacher."

"You smiled like it meant something."

"It did . It meant I didn't have to climb on a chair alone, thank you very much."

Noah closes the distance between us. He’s not crowding me, but he’s definitely not backing off. His voice stays calm, but the edge in it scrapes under my skin.

"You listen to him," he says, and there's something almost vulnerable beneath the accusation. Like he's asking why Scott earned that trust so easily when he is fighting for every inch.

"I trust him."

"Do you trust me?" His voice cracks slightly, the question hanging between us, stripped of his usual confidence and charm.

For a moment, I glimpse something beneath his perfect exterior—a vulnerability that mirrors my own, a need just as desperate.

“Do you trust me?” Noah presses again. Lower. Tighter.

I want to. Maybe I already do. And that’s what unsettles me the most.

"I don't trust myself around you." I blurt out, then cringe at my own confession.

"That's not an answer, Songbird."

"Okay!” My voice lifts, edged with frustration.

“I trust that you believe what you said, about us. But intentions and forever are different things. And that’s my most honest answer!" I retort, half upset with him, the other half at myself.

"Test me then. Give me something to prove." Noah challenges, leaning in.

"Time. That's what I need. And that's exactly what you don't have to give." I pause.

He watches me closely.

"Plus, you barely know me," I whisper—but even as the words leave my lips, they feel hollow. Because somehow, in the few electric moments we've shared, he's seen parts of me I've spent years hiding.

"I know what it feels like when I want something I'm not allowed to have." His words land like a physical caress.

Because I hear it—the same truth I’ve been trying to outrun since the moment we met.

I know this isn't casual for him either.

I also know I have been intentionally refusing to see his heart.

“I’ve had women throw themselves at me since I was sixteen,” he continues, voice rough. “Models. Celebrities. Fans. They wanted the image. The status. The story.”

He swallows hard, eyes still locked on mine. “And I don’t blame them. That’s how I lived—fast, easy, no questions.”

His voice drops lower. “But lately… I’ve been asking myself what actually matters. What I actually want.”

He takes a breath. “And then you come along—calling me out, pushing back, not buying any of it. You make me think about what I really need. And that makes me want to be worthy of you.”

I hold my breath.

Then he says—soft, but not uncertain.

“I really like you, June. Is that what’s scaring you?”

“Is that why you won’t even consider what this could be?”

His blue eyes hold mine, and he whispers. “That I might actually mean it."

I suck in a deep breath.

Because deep down I know. Noah doesn’t see me as just another conquest.

The intensity in his eyes tells me he's as surprised by this as I am. Maybe even just as terrified.

And then he steps even closer.

Close enough that I feel the heat of his body even with three inches between us. Close enough that my heartbeat starts to pulse in places it shouldn’t.

“You listen to Scott,” he says. “Like his opinion holds weight. Like he’s allowed in.”

“Let’s be clear, I wasn’t asking for his permission,” I say, the words slipping out before I can soften them.

Noah’s eyes stay on mine. Sharp. Unflinching.

“Then stop acting like you need it.”

My foot shifts. My heel catches on the rubber floor mat, and I stumble—just a little.

He catches me instantly. Hand to my waist. Firm. Warm. Unshakable.

And even in this charged moment, even frustrated, his first instinct is to protect me.

That’s what unravels me.

I feel him everywhere at this moment. Especially his gentleness.

His thumb brushes the edge of my sweater before he lets go.

“I’m not trying to make things harder,” he says. “I just…”

He stops himself. Doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Why are you running, June?"

I don't answer. I can't.

Because I want to kiss him more than I want to keep my armor.

And because I have a question for myself—how in mere days, he’s somehow become necessary? Like my heart has been waiting for him all my life.

"The winter festival is Saturday," I lift my chin. "After that, you're gone. Back to your real life."

"What if I told you this feels more real than anything has in years?"

I shake my head, unable to meet his eyes. "Don't say things you don't mean."

"What if I told you I'm thinking about staying longer?" His voice drops, a rough whisper that scrapes against my skin. "That I've talked to Dante about running remote training sessions from here?"

My heart stops. Then thunders. "Why would you do that?"

"You know why."

I start to turn away.

But his voice stops me.

"Make sure you're not lying to yourself, Songbird."

And then he does something I don't expect.

He steps back.

One step. Then two.

Then he walks away first. His footsteps echo on the concrete, the sound of him leaving me behind.

It shouldn't hurt. This is what I wanted.

But I feel like crying. Alone in this big damn building.

This place is brand new. It still smells like paint.

Yet somehow… it already feels full of memories—of us.

My phone suddenly buzzes—obnoxiously loud in the stillness.

It’s a message from Noah.

?? Storm’s moving in fast. Leave once you have the paperwork. And text me when you’re home safe… or I’m breaking speed limits to come find you.

I start laughing instead—quiet, breathless. Almost bitter.

He’s mad. Frustrated with me. And still, he’s texting me about my safety.

What do you even call that? A warning? A promise?

Because somehow, even when he walks away, he still pulls me in.

Why is he breaking down my defenses?

How is that even possible? How much have I already let him in?

I don’t know the answers.

I don’t know how much of my heart I’ve already handed over.

And I don’t know how to take it back.

How to protect myself from someone who makes me feel this much.

Because the thing about trust?

It starts quietly—when you’re not looking. It doesn’t always ask permission before it settles in.

And by the time you notice… you’ve already given it.

I may even hope it stays.