Revved up & Ready (Heartbeats in the Heat #3)

Chapter 1

Cam

Ten years ago, the Pacific Coast Highway Ventura, California

Nothing beats the full-body rush of winning a motorcycle race. It’s like someone shook up a bottle of champagne and sprayed it straight into my soul. My mouth aches from smiling, every hair on my body stands on end, and my pulse is a drumbeat in my ears.

Although, the last two might be because I’m not wearing anything between my helmet and boots.

And , oh yeah, I’m currently running from the cops .

It’s been one hell of a night.

Sadie

Ten years ago, a dorm room – Corvallis, Oregon

“Study break,” I announce, plopping down onto Devon’s bed with my laptop.

My roommate glances at me from her desk. “Not ready for a break.”

“You said that two hours ago,” I whine, tapping my fingers next to her mouse. “Hurry up and get ready. I’m bored .”

She arches a brow but goes back to her project. I’ll have to be more persuasive. Grabbing my favorite little orange pipe, I pack a fresh bowl and offer her some greens. She eyes the brightly colored glass and checkered lighter in my hand, considering for a moment before closing her computer. “ Fine ,” she sighs— like getting high on a Friday night is such an imposition .

After a little smoking and a lot of coughing, she joins me on the bed to watch the video queued up on my screen— Naked Guy Wins Street Race.

It starts like a Fast & Furious movie—except with motorcycles, no budget, and garbage sound editing. The yellow hue of a streetlight casts over five people dressed head to toe in black, lined up next to their bikes. Small crowds gather on either side of the road, their voices blending into incoherent noise as they wait for the race to begin.

Devon tilts her head toward me. “Don’t you hate motorcycles?”

“Yes, definitely . But this is different. I saw it over someone’s shoulder in class this morning, so I already know what happens—no one crashes.”

On the screen, a siren blares in the distance, adding to the clamor of voices. “Oh shit! Cops!” someone yells across the crowd. Soon, a chorus of “Cops! Cops!” rings out as people scatter, only a handful staying put while racers hurriedly mount their bikes.

Devon interrupts the video again. “What exactly is supposed to be so great about this?”

I shush her, pointing to the screen. “Pay attention, or you’ll miss it.”

A guy wearing a beanie and thick-rimmed glasses steps into the shot, his eyes as bloodshot as mine probably are right now. I start giggling in anticipation as he looks into the camera and—completely out of place against the chaos and sirens around him—deadpans, “Not the fuzz .”

“Oh, my word.” Full-body laughter bubbles up in my chest. “Not the fuzz .”

Devon cracks a smile but fights her own laughter.

In the video, someone yells, “The flag. The flag !”

The camera zooms in on a girl typing on her phone, chewing gum as aggressively as possible. She pulls a green bandana out of her back pocket without glancing up from her screen, reaching it high in the air. Motorcycle engines roar, momentarily drowning out the approaching sirens as the pack of racers takes off, disappearing from view. For the briefest moment, my stomach twists with anxiety that someone could crash, but it passes as soon as I remind myself I know how this ends.

I squeeze Devon’s arm. “Are you watching?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I’m watching.”

“This is where it gets good,” I say.

The dispersing spectators slow down, their exclamations rising from the crowd.

“Holy shit!” “That’s one way to cut drag.” “Do you see that guy?”

The camera pans to reveal a sixth racer speeding across the starting line. He’s wearing leather boots, a black helmet—and that’s it . A handful of tattoos scatter his lanky frame, and a bright yellow smiley face has been edited into the video to cover the most interesting parts of his nudity.

“Do you think the smiley needs to be that big?” I whisper to Devon— as if I’m afraid the guy on screen will hear me .

“I’m sure it’s an exaggeration,” she answers.

The sound of sirens grows less insistent with each shot of the naked guy as he passes racers and puts distance between himself and the fuzz . I snort another laugh. The fuzz.

The video cuts to a view of the finish line from a rooftop. The six racers appear—two at the front, naked guy in close third, and the other three trailing behind.

Voices from around the camera take notice as naked guy gains on the lead duo.

“Oh shit. Is that guy?”

“Fuck’s sake. That’s Hacker.”

“Show us the goods!”

Naked guy—Hacker—brings his front tire up behind the lead racers’ rear tires and—using some kind of racing magic I don’t understand—forces his way between them.

“ How the —” Devon whispers as he pulls ahead at the last second.

He and his yellow smiley cross the finish line first, his front tire lifting into a wheelie.

On the rooftop, a girl with black space buns wearing a pink top and double-fisting red plastic cups runs to the edge and yells in a slurred voice, “No, not your wheelie . We want to see your willy !” When Hacker disappears off-screen, she steps in front of the camera, yelling, “Show me your willy!” With that, the video cuts off.

I turn to Devon with a cheesy smile, waiting for her response.

She releases what starts as an exasperated sigh, but her lips curl up halfway through, and she devolves into laughter. I follow her into giggles until we’re leaning into each other, wiping tears from our eyes.

“Want to watch it one more time?” I ask.

“I cannot believe I’m saying this,” she answers, regaining her composure, “but yes .”

Cam

Same night – ten years ago, the Pacific Coast Highway – Ventura, California

A motorcycle’s been tailing me for a couple of miles, staying right on my ass— my naked ass —as I take the exit off the PCH. Fortunately, it’s not a cop. It’s my best friend, Luke. If I’m lucky, he’ll lend me his pants.

The sirens pass, not noticing us ducking into an alley behind a Chinese restaurant that's closed for the night.

“What the hell was that?” Luke asks, his voice muffled by his helmet as he pulls it off.

“Could I get some pants?” I ask, covering myself with my hands, backing up between the stucco wall and a dumpster.

“Do I look like I have extra pants?” he says, dismounting his bike.

“You have more pants than I do,” I shrug.

“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters, undoing his belt. “How did this happen?”

“They started the race early ‘cause of—” I point toward the disappearing sirens with my chin. “I was still getting changed when they started the race.”

Luke’s pants get tangled in his boots, and he curses as he tugs at the laces. “I’ll have to burn these socks now,” he says, one socked foot landing in a puddle that dripped from the dumpster. “You could’ve skipped this race.”

“And lost all our rent money?” I glance around the alley, making sure no one's watching.

A stern, dad-like tone creeps into his voice. “Excuse me?”

“I did not lose our rent money.” I lift my hands to emphasize my point, realizing too late that now I’m just flashing Luke in a dark alley.

He makes a noise between a groan and a gag. “Dude, what the fuck?”

I cover up with my palms again. “Now we have rent handled through June because I won . Thanks for congratulating me, by the way.”

He throws his jeans at me with more force than necessary, and they hit me in the chest with a thud. “I could kill you,” he mutters.

The pants are a few inches too short and loose in the waist, but they beat riding the rest of the way home commando.

“We look like a couple of perverts,” Luke says, now wearing a leather jacket, boxer-briefs, and motorcycle boots.

I fire up my bike. “At least I have pants on,” I say, then take off before he can kick my ass.

Sadie

Nine and a half years ago, a frat party – Corvallis, Oregon

“Did that guy just flash me?” I ask, swinging a hand to my chest in offense—completely forgetting I’m holding plastic cups in both hands and splashing Malibu and Coke all over my pink Show Me Your Willie t-shirt.

“He did,” Devon says, recoiling. “Third one tonight.”

“Did not think this Halloween costume through,” I mutter, scanning the area for somewhere to put down my drinks.

“You really didn’t,” Devon agrees, eyeing me with a look that says, I told you so . Her costume could best be described as hot girl in a black dress who thinks she’s too good for this party, but showed up anyway .

A cute guy, a few inches taller than me but still shorter than Devon, steps in front of us. He’s wearing a pair of smiley-face boxers, fake tattoos, boots, and a helmet.

“Here,” he says, taking one of my drinks so I have a free hand to deal with my spill.

“Got any napkins tucked in there?” I ask, nodding toward his boxers.

“None in here, sweetie,” he laughs, “but I’m sure we can find something somewhere.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder and looks to Devon. “Can I steal her away?”

Devon manages to sip her drink and glare down her nose at him simultaneously, then looks to me. “Do you want to be stolen away?”

“Sure, why not?” I giggle, leaning into his arm.

Devon nods, making a should’ve-asked-her face. “And what’s your name?”

“I’m Jared—” he answers, pulling me in tighter. “Your friend’s new boyfriend.”

Devon scoffs, “You don’t even know her name.”

But I swoon a little inside.

Cam

Nine-and-a-half years ago, a dive bar – Ventura, California

“You think any of these assholes realize they’re dressed up as you?” Luke asks, finishing something behind the bar and nodding toward three guys wearing motorcycle helmets and some form of smiley-face underwear.

“Dressed up isn’t the right term—at least, it shouldn’t be,” I laugh. “No one has committed to the look the way I did.”

“They’re probably not trying to catch the indecent exposure charge you barely avoided,” Luke says, passing me a pint while wiping down the bar.

“Cowards,” I scoff, accidentally blowing foam off the head of my beer onto the freshly wiped counter.

Luke glares at the dissolving bubbles, then walks off to help another knock-off Race Naked guy.

My phone buzzes, reminding me of the hundreds of posts I’ve been tagged in tonight. It’s fucking surreal. That video went viral months ago, and it’s still making the rounds. I scroll through the posts while I wait for Luke to get a lull in his line.

First up—someone with a highlighter and sharpie smiley face safety-pinned to a pair of tighty-whities.

Next—a girl in a bicycle helmet, jeans, and a smiley-face t-shirt.

Then —Oh wow. Someone who really did commit to the naked part of the costume. Good for them.

The next few are photos of people in Race Naked t-shirts they bought off the website I threw together in a rush when this whole thing started.

Finally, I land on one I haven’t seen anyone else post—a blonde babe with her hair in space buns. She’s wearing a pink t-shirt that says Show Me Your Willie , the fabric drenched like she spilled a drink on it. She’s holding a red plastic cup, leaning toward the camera with a laugh.

I scroll through a few more posts but find myself going back to hers again and again—her smiling face, her tight, wet tank top. She even has dimples. Fucking adorable.

Sadie

Six years ago, an overrated steakhouse – Portland, Oregon

“I thought you’d be excited,” Jared says, stepping in front of me and placing his hands on my shoulders.

“I was—I am. I just—” I stumble over my words, not wanting to sound ungrateful. “We’re celebrating my new job, and you said you’d plan something special for me .”

“And I did, sweetie,” he says, his voice hurt despite my attempts to soften the blow. He runs his fingers down my arm and squeezes my hand. “These weren’t easy reservations to get.”

A woman in a cocktail dress squeezes past us, making me realize we’re blocking the entrance to the restaurant. I step aside, pulling Jared with me.

“I just—That Italian place is my favorite. You said you’d get reservations there,” I half-whisper. “I don’t really like steak.”

“Is that what you’re upset about?” He smiles, rolling his eyes like I’m an adorable little idiot. “I’m sure there’s pasta or something here.”

“It feels like you picked a place for you—like what I wanted was an afterthought.” I search his face for some kind of recognition, but he just stares back. “Can you see how I’d feel that way?” I ask.

He throws up his hands, impatience flaring. “We have reservations here.”

Stunned, I gape after him as he turns and walks into the restaurant without me. Where did that come from? It’s unlike him to snap at me. Did something happen today that upset him? Is he angry with me for wanting him to eat at my favorite restaurant? Maybe I am being ungrateful. I shouldn’t have said anything—

“Going in?” a deep voice asks.

Looking up, I find a tall man with bright red hair flashing a huge grin. He’s standing between me and the restaurant door. His black button-up conceals the bottom half of the tattoos crawling up his neck—a roaring cheetah, traditional roses, and a checkered flag with the number 207 . Holy shit. It’s the Race Naked guy.

I always thought he was good-looking, but in person? He’s unreasonably attractive. It’s hard not to stare at how perfectly his features come together. His chiseled jaw and high cheekbones ground his almost-too-large mouth, and his nose, which has clearly been broken at least once, adds character. Tattooed fingers sweep through deep copper hair that falls onto his forehead, revealing intense blue-green eyes locked on mine.

My stomach gives a little flip. Get it together. This man races motorcycles. More importantly—your boyfriend is inside. Even if Jared’s being an ass for some reason I don’t understand, I can’t stand here and drool over Cameron Hacker.

Cam

Six years ago, an overrated steakhouse – Portland, Oregon

The gorgeous blonde blinks up at me through glassy, caramel-colored eyes, her cheeks flushing deeper with every passing second we stand here. Does that little brown-haired fucker who just went inside have her on the verge of tears? Normally, I’d break the silence, but I don’t want to rush her, even if it makes me late to meet my agent.

“Um, hi,” she says, and it’s been long enough that I’ve forgotten what I asked her in the first place.

I introduce myself, and she stares at my extended hand for a moment before shaking it.

“Yeah, my boyfriend loves your videos,” she says, offering a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

It’s tempting to focus on the fact that she recognizes me, but then I remember how it’s tied to her boyfriend—who left her standing outside a restaurant on the verge of tears. Not surprising. My brand of internet shenanigans attracts assholes.

“Boyfriend loves them, but not you?” I ask.

“Oh, they’re funny. I didn’t mean to— You’re funny.” She stumbles over her words, her cheeks going even pinker as she tucks a strand of golden hair behind her ear. “I just hate motorcycles.” She winces. “No offense.”

“None taken,” I laugh. “I might be some people’s poster boy for motorcycles,” and if this meeting goes well, I literally will be . “But there’s more to me than that.”

“Of course. I’m sure,” she says, offering a genuine smile. Dimples appear in her rosy cheeks. What a babe. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’m sure he’d love to meet you.”

Right—the boyfriend. “Happy to. He around somewhere?” I ask.

“Just inside.” She points over her shoulder toward the restaurant’s entrance.

I bite my tongue, holding back from asking why the hell he’s inside without her. Instead, I hold the door open and enjoy the view as she walks through. The light blue dress she wears is sweet with its floral print, but it clings to her curves in all the right ways. Damn, that’s a nice ass.

“What brings you to Portland?” she asks.

I shrug. “Motorcycle race.”

“Oh, of course. I’m so dumb,” she apologizes, looking around the restaurant for her idiot boyfriend.

“I’m sure you’re not du—”

She waves me off, asking, “Did you win?”

“Sure did.”

“Figured you would have,” she says, looking up at me with another genuine, dimpled smile.

My chest swells with pride. She figured I’d won.

Sadie

Three years ago, Sadie & Jared’s house – Portland, Oregon

Jared’s friends pause to sniff the lemon bars cooling on the counter as they pass through the kitchen to the living room.

“You’ll have to wait a while for these,” I say, shooing them away. “But there are chips and dip on the coffee table if you’re hungry.”

They disappear into the other room, followed shortly by the sound of a televised motorcycle race.

“You good, sweetie?” Jared asks, opening the fridge to grab a drink. “I know you don’t like it when we have the races on.”

“I wish you wouldn’t watch that stuff,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s so dangerous .”

“Don’t forget, if it wasn’t for motorcycle racing, we never would have met,” he reminds me, referring to the Halloween costumes that brought us together by accident.

“I remember,” I admit, sighing.

Jared knows about the motorcycle accident I was in back in high school. Ever since, I can’t wrap my mind around how anyone would risk their life just to go fast on two wheels. But he always tries to point to the time in college when I used to laugh at that Race Naked video as proof that I like motorcycle racing. I don’t.

I’ve given up trying to explain that the video was an exception, a silly moment among friends while stoned—one I could control, where I knew exactly what would happen. Cam Hacker wins the race, and no one gets hurt. It’s something else entirely to watch a live race, knowing someone could crash and end up devastatingly injured, or worse.

Don’t they know cars with seatbelts are an option?

“It’s not like I’m going to get hurt from the couch,” my boyfriend says, kissing my cheek. “Still better than me riding them, right?”

“Of course,” I answer with a tight smile.

Baking—my oldest friend—keeps me distracted while they watch the race. I can almost guarantee the dough will end up overworked with the amount of anxiety I’m channeling through the kneading.

I’ve almost forgotten what they’re watching when the living room erupts in gasps and shouts.

“He crashed, and it was bad,” one of Jared’s friends explains when I rush in to see what happened, his voice sounding more delighted than concerned.

A pit forms in my stomach, and the images of my own friends, sprawled on the asphalt between the motorcycles we’d just collided with, flash in my mind— images I can’t seem to shake , no matter how many years have passed.

When I look up at the screen, a racer—number 207 —is laid out flat on the asphalt, his black-and-yellow leather jumpsuit scraped, one leg folded at an unnatural angle. My stomach churns. I knew I shouldn’t have looked.

“Good thing he wasn’t naked this time,” Jared jokes.

How are they making jokes right now? My heart races when his words sink in. “Wait, that’s—”

I only met the guy once, but his posts pop up on my feed every now and then. I’ve been aware of him for so long. The realization that he’s the one who crashed makes my stomach flip.

“He’s reckless,” one of the guys says. “Surprised this never happened before.”

“Aren’t you worried about him?” I don’t dare peek back at the television. “He hasn’t moved yet, has he?” I ask. “Is he okay?”

“Doesn’t matter, he’ll get even more pussy than usual after this,” another of Jared’s friends says.

How are they still joking about this?

I stand there, nervously wringing my hands, until they finally take Cam away on a stretcher. At least I know he’s still alive.

Cam

Three years ago, a hospital room – Austin, Texas

“Well, shit,” Luke says as he steps into my hospital room.

“Yeah, shit,” I agree, my voice flat.

“What’s the damage?” he asks, pulling a chair up beside my bed.

“Broken femur,” I answer, the same wave of defeat hitting me as when I first realized what happened.

“Fuck,” Luke sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, fuck,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my own hair. “I had him, too.”

“Pretty sure if you’d had him, you wouldn’t have crashed,” Luke ribs me, lightening the mood in that way he knows I need.

“You could try a little sympathy,” I say, tapping my fingers on the IV line attached to my other arm.

He knocks my hand away. “Pretty sure you’re not supposed to mess with that.”

I’ve been racing 600s in USMoto for years now, and up until this morning, I had the best sponsorship lineup of my career for this season. If I’d won the championship— hell, if I’d just been able to finish the season —I would’ve been able to sign on with a team and move up to the superbike class next year. I’m not a WorldMoto guy, so racing superbikes in USMoto was my pinnacle. And it was within my reach.

“Definitely out for the rest of the season, and most likely next year too,” I tell Luke with a sigh.

“It’ll be fine. When you come back, you do one more year in 600s. You’re still racing motorcycles,” he says, but it’s not enough to reassure me.

This was supposed to be the year I finally earned more money racing than I do making dumb videos online. Now, without racing, I’ll have to double down on the influencer thing to make ends meet.

Sadie

One year ago, Sadie & Jared’s house – Portland, Oregon

“But you said it was just going to be you and the guys,” I say, stepping forward so Jared can’t leave the bedroom without looking me in the eye.

“I can’t control who brings their girlfriends,” he sighs.

“Why didn’t you invite me once you saw they were there?” My hands instinctively move to my hips, but I drop them, not wanting to look as angry as I feel.

“I don’t know… didn’t think about it.” He gives me a look that makes me feel like an idiot for even bringing it up. “I’m allowed to do stuff without you.” His tone is sharp in a way I barely recognize. He never used to talk to me like this.

“Of course you are,” I reply, leaving out what I really want to ask. But why didn’t you want me there?

“Good. We agree. Love you.” He kisses my cheek and walks past me into the hall, ending the argument without resolution.

I’m left standing alone in our bedroom, the silence heavy with something he isn’t telling me.

He never used to keep secrets. He never shut me down like this. There was a time when he invited me to everything because he liked my company more than anyone else’s. He loves me, or at least, he used to. He was so sweet back then—staying up late with me while I baked, surprising me with flowers or even spontaneous vacations. But now? I can’t even remember the last time he did something like that. The last time he made me feel special. How long has it been since I last felt loved by him?

I’m torn between needing to know what happened at that bar tonight and fearing what I might learn. If it’s what I think it is, I don’t know how I’ll get past it.

I shut the door behind him and curl up in a ball on the bed, feeling small, lost in thoughts I don’t want to face.

Hanna could have invited me, too, I guess. Jared has this tight-knit group of friends he’s known since college. Recently, they’ve all started dating younger girls in their early twenties—except for Jared, of course. Maybe those girls just don’t like me?

My phone vibrates, and seeing Allie’s name on the screen brings a moment of relief.

Allie: Remember I told you about my new landlord? The gorgeous jackass one? You will never guess who he’s friends with.

Me: Please tell me! I could use some gossip right now.

Allie: The race naked guy! Do you remember him?

Me: Cam Hacker?

Allie: Yes! He just came over here and got coffee with stupid Luke. I think he’s visiting.

I start typing a response about how Cam is Jared’s favorite racer but delete it just as fast. If I bring Jared up, Allie’s going to ask how things are going between us, and that’s the last thing I want to talk about right now.

Me: Cam’s a good guy, no? If they’re friends, maybe your landlord isn’t all bad?

Allie: Ugh. No. Luke sucks. Trust me.

Me: He sucks, but he’s gorgeous?

Allie: A truly unfortunate combo.

Cam

Seven months ago, Allie’s office, Turbine Café – Palm Springs, California

“You’re supposed to be helping me,” Luke grumbles, his words muffled by the nail he’s holding between his teeth. We’re adding storage to Allie’s office in preparation for the bar they’re opening together next month.

“I am helping,” I reply from my perch on top of her desk, leaning against the wall.

He shakes his head. “Then would you assemble the stand in the box on Allie’s desk?”

I open the box to find a book of coffee puns, mismatched highlighters and pens, a chipped Turbine Café mug— now this is interesting— a framed picture of Allie, her friend Devon, and a gorgeous blonde with a dimpled smile who looks vaguely familiar. She’s wearing a yellow bikini that matches the gigantic tiki drink in her hand almost perfectly. Do I know her from somewhere? I hop off the desk and show the picture to Luke. “Who’s this?”

“That’s the wrong box,” he mutters, not looking up.

“But who is she ?” I press.

“Her name’s Sadie.” He takes the frame from me, shoves it back in the box, and hands me the correct one. “Apparently, she has a shithead boyfriend in Oregon. Allie wants her to break up with him and move down here.”

Setting the box down, so I can grab the photo again, I sigh, “Yeah, so do I.”

Sadie

Six months ago, Voyeur Café’s grand opening – Palm Springs, California

My reflection stares back at me from the glass front door of Voyeur Café . This is it.

First day of a new chapter.

Turning over a new leaf.

A fresh start.

Starting with a fresh page?

A blank page.

A blank slate .

Picking a mantra shouldn’t be this hard.

Okay, no mantra.

I’ve got this—wait. Maybe that’s the mantra.

I’ve got this. I’ve got this. I’ve got this.

Devon and Allie have been encouraging me to break up with Jared for what feels like forever. It started with a late-night, “Are you sure you’re happy?” conversation when I was visiting, and turned into text messages every few days along the lines of, “Did you break up with that jackass yet?”

Being with Jared was comfortable, safe. So, I kept my head buried in the sand for an embarrassingly long time—not willing to admit what our relationship had become —not willing to face who he’d become. I’m ashamed that it took me so long to leave. I didn’t want to live through the pain of redefining myself without him.

We had a life together, a routine, the same friends— who I didn’t realize were backstabbers —and I couldn’t imagine any other life for myself but one with him in Portland. I pushed everything else to the back of my mind for years—him slowly pulling away, doing more and more things with our friends that didn’t involve me, refusing to talk about marriage because— why aren’t you happy with our life now? Don’t I take good care of you already?

It should have been enough to break it off, but I wasn’t ready to let go until I found out he’d been sticking his dick in someone else— for months . Suddenly, creating a life without him was my only option.

So, I told him to fuck off and moved out the next day.

Not really. I wish it was that easy.

What I actually did was yell and cry until my throat was raw for days after. The next morning, I went to the salon and had eight inches of my hair chopped off and the tips dyed pink.

Then, I made a thoughtful plan to move in with Devon in Palm Springs, which included two excruciating weeks sleeping in the guest room of the house Jared and I had shared for the last seven years. Now it’s time for the final step of my plan—actually starting my new life.

I’ve got this.

Shouldering my way through the door with two gigantic roller bags, my eyes land on Cam Hacker. He’s straddling a barstool, arms slung across its back, and staring straight at me . His eyes stay locked on mine as he leans forward and says something to Allie.

Her brows furrow, but then she spots me. “Holy shit!” she yells across the crowded bar, running all the way over to me and pulling me in for a tight hug. “Is that a fucking break-up haircut, Sadie Winslow?” she asks into my ear, still holding me tightly. “Did you finally leave that motherfucker?”

My lips curl into a triumphant smile. “Yeah. I left that motherfucker.”

She takes my suitcases and starts leading me back to her office, but Cam steps out to stop us when we pass the counter. He takes over the luggage, urging us to sit down and have a drink. Allie starts bickering with him about something, but I don’t hear it.

Does he remember me? No, why would he? That was six years ago.

Cam

Six months ago, Voyeur Café’s grand opening – Palm Springs, California

“ Shit . I’m sorry.” As I enter the back parking lot, I nearly step on Allie’s pink-haired friend, Sadie, sitting on the sidewalk by the back door. She’s the girl from the photo I found in Allie’s office, but now that I’m seeing her in person, I’m certain we’ve met before.

She looks up at me for a moment, then says, “Um, hi.”

“Seat taken?” I ask, pointing to the spot on the sidewalk next to hers.

She giggles, eyes dropping to her drink. “Nope.”

When I sit down, the concrete’s lingering heat from the Palm Springs sun seeps through my jeans.

I introduce myself, but she just shakes my hand without offering her name. “You’re Sadie, right?”

“I’m sorry,” she giggles again, her voice light and warm. “I should’ve said.”

My brow furrows in confusion. “No need to apologize.”

After a long sip from her drink, she sets it down between us and turns to face me directly, bringing her soft features into focus. “Let me try this again.” She pulls her shoulders back, smiling brightly, and offers her hand again. “Hi, I’m Sadie Winslow.”

I shake her hand for a second time, reintroducing myself. Her last name doesn’t ring any bells, but there’s something about her dimpled cheeks that feels familiar.

She leans in closer, bringing her face near enough for the dim streetlight to reveal the caramel hue of her eyes and the freckles dusting the bridge of her nose. “Better that time?” she asks, her giggle making her eyes sparkle.

Leaning in too, I reply, “Absolutely. I really enjoyed it.”

She lifts her drink, stopping just before it reaches her lips. “How do you feel about pineapple?”

“I’m for it,” I say.

“Magnificent.” She holds the smoothie-looking drink out to me. “You have to try this.”

It tastes like pineapple and orange, with just enough alcohol to get someone her size drunk.

“That was a weak sip,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes.

“Did you just call me weak?” I ask.

“I said you took a weak sip .”

A joke about what my mouth is capable of crosses my mind, but I keep the humor to myself. “I’m not trying to take your whole drink.”

She leans in further, giving me a glimpse of her cleavage. “I’m friends with the owner,” she whispers. “Free drinks. You can finish this one.”

When she shoves the drink back into my hand, I take another—much longer—sip, not stopping until she nods in approval.

“You know,” I say, savoring the way her eyes widen with interest. “I’m friends with the other owner, and there’s no way in hell he put this pineapple dream on the menu.”

“If you’re not getting off-menu drinks, maybe you should have a word with your owner friend. Not fair if I’m the only one getting special treatment.” She says this with a playful tone, and the warmth in her words radiates off her in an undeniably familiar way.

Has she been to races? Are we friends online? I’d remember that. Wouldn’t I?

“Sounds like you have more pull than I do,” I smirk. “Put in a good word for me?”

“I will. Promise,” she says with a sincerity that feels a little too familiar. Right?

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” I ask, the question making me feel like an asshole. People recognize me in public a lot, and it’s hard to keep track of everyone I’ve shaken hands with, hugged, or chatted with. But I remember her . I just don’t know why.

Her eyes widen for a second before she looks away. “No,” she drags the word out into two syllables, raising her voice at the end and tucking a strand of pink-tipped hair behind her ear.

I burst into laughter, knowing I’m right . “Well, aren’t you an adorable little liar?” I tease, watching her cheeks flush.

“Did you just call me a liar?” she gasps, meeting my gaze with mock indignation.

“ And adorable.” I tap her lightly on the nose, and she giggles immediately. “Don’t forget that part.”

Her mouth drops open, and she blinks at me, unsure how to respond. Testing my luck, I tap her nose again, and she giggles again. It’s like I’ve found her giggle button.

“You don’t know I’m lying,” she insists.

I finish off the last of her sweeter-than-pie drink before answering, “Yes, I do.”

“Fine,” she huffs, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth. “But if you don’t remember how we met, I’m not telling you.”

“It’ll come back to me. I’m very—”

The back door of Voyeur Café opens, blasting the parking lot with the rowdy sounds of the party inside.

Luke steps halfway out the door, and for once, I’m not happy to see him . “Were you going to bring in extra booze from the truck, or—” He glances accusingly from me to Sadie and back to me.

“Oh, shit.” I jump to my feet. “I’ll be right in.”

“It was my fault,” Sadie says quickly, hiding her drink behind her like it’s a crime scene.

“No, it wasn’t,” Luke mutters, shaking his head as he goes back inside.

“See? Adorable little liar,” I call over my shoulder as I walk toward the truck. “I saw you out here and completely forgot what I was supposed to be doing. That’s on me.”

Sadie

Two months ago, Sadie & Devon’s house— Palm Springs, California

Unknown 805 number: Heard Devon’s moving in with her man soon. Think I could talk you into taking me as a new roommate in her place?

Me: I’m so sorry. Who is this?

Unknown 805 number: You apologize too much.

Me: You going to tell me who you are?

Unknown 805 number: It’s Cam. Allie didn’t tell you she gave me your number?

Me: Maybe she did, and I forgot. I’m sorry.

Cam: That absolutely did not happen. You’ve got to stop apologizing.

Me: Can’t help it.

Cam: I’ll help you overcome it when we’re roommates.

Me: When we’re roommates? Did you just decide you’re moving in?

Cam: Pretty sure you agreed.

Me: Did not.

Cam: You sure?