Chapter 1 #2
Cam tore his gaze away. There was no way the guy hadn’t had some work done on his face. Men didn’t have lips that pretty. They just didn’t. Too soft and pink and full. Downright feminine. They looked ridiculous on a man’s face.
Cam scoffed, getting out of the car and taking off his helmet. “Are you asking me? You don’t sound sure.”
“I mean, I am a fan,” Scott said, getting out of the car as well. “Like, yeah, I started watching Formula One only last December, but—”
“Let me guess, you came to the title decider in Abu Dhabi with some celebrities and decided that you’re a fan of the guy who won.”
Scott glared at him, but there was amusement in his eyes. Good. At least the guy had some self-awareness. “Hey, it was a great race,” he grumbled, honest-to-god pouting. “You were very impressive.”
Cam snorted. “Did you even understand enough about Formula One at that point to know that I was ‘impressive’?”
Scott rubbed the back of his neck. “Kinda? Your overtake on Beaumont was super cool. I didn’t understand everything that was going on, but everyone in the paddock club was so excited, so it infected me too.
” He met Cam’s eyes and smiled. “And then after the race was over, you took off your helmet, and of course I became an instant fan.”
Cam struggled to keep his face neutral.
The guy was flirting with him. Blatantly.
To be fair, Cam was no stranger to fans doing it.
Hell, he knew a good portion of his fans were women who supported him largely because of his looks and not his driving skills.
He was fine with that. That was how Formula One always worked.
Even teams preferred getting handsome drivers over plain ones, because handsome drivers meant more sponsorship, more attention, more fans, more support.
Cam didn’t like that it worked that way, but he couldn’t exactly complain, since he was pretty lucky when it came to the looks department.
At least he wasn’t the only handsome driver on the grid.
Hell, Bastien Beaumont looked like he could give this guy a run for his money as far as supermodel looks were concerned.
So yeah, fans commenting on his looks or flirting with him was nothing new. But it was different when it was a male fan. And a gay male fan at that.
Scott laughed a little when the silence stretched. “I mean, surely you’ve been told you look like Pierce Brosnan’s Bond, right?”
Cam hummed and lengthened his stride, hoping the guy would take the hint and leave him alone.
He didn’t.
“Obviously Brosnan has blue eyes while yours are dark, but you’re the spitting image otherwise,” Scott said. “You sure your mom didn’t have a secret affair with Brosnan?”
“Are all Americans this tactless or is it just you?”
Scott laughed. “Ohh, the ignorant American card—I must have really annoyed you. You’re the fifth person who’s called me the American this morning.
Until I got into Formula One, I had no idea how snobbish people in this sport were toward anything American.
Which, like, I get, because this sport is primarily popular in Europe, and most drivers are from Europe—”
“There are some from Asia and Australia,” Cam said. Snobbish? Him? That was rich, coming from a guy who was dressed from head to toe in designer clothes and carried himself in a way that screamed old money and privilege.
“You’re a Brit,” Scott said with a grin. “British snobbery is the worst, I swear. It never seems to matter how much money my family has or how old our money is—you Brits have a way of making me feel about two inches tall.”
“I’m more German than British,” Cam said. “I grew up in Germany.”
Scott cocked his head to the side, studying him from under his absurdly long eyelashes. “I don’t see it. You don’t look German.”
“Didn’t realize all Germans looked the same,” Cam said dryly. “You don’t look American, either.”
Scott grinned. “Yeah, I’m afraid I wasn’t blessed with all-American good looks. Not blond and wholesome enough.”
Cam scoffed. The guy knew perfectly well how good he looked. He was just fishing for compliments. Flirting again.
“You can drop the pretty smiles, mate,” Cam said evenly. “Not interested.”
Scott blinked once, twice, before laughing sharply.
“Wow, you have a hell of an ego, mate. I wasn’t coming on to you.
I like smiling at people. It’s not flirting.
” When Cam shot him a look, Scott shrugged.
“I’m serious. You aren’t even my type.” He ran a hand through his wavy hair.
“Like, obviously you’re very handsome, and I like looking at pretty things, but personally, I like them smaller and slimmer than me.
” He smirked. “So no offense, but you do nothing for me. I like cute twinks.”
Cam looked at him skeptically. The guy was too...
“What?” Scott said, narrowing his eyes. “You thought that just because I dress well and know how to style my hair, I have to like taking it up the ass?”
“No,” Cam said, well aware that he wasn’t being entirely truthful. It was hard to believe that gay men wouldn’t want such a pretty thing under them.
“You’re a liar,” Scott said, chuckling. “You’re lucky I’m not one to take offense at gross stereotyping.” He shrugged. “You aren’t the first, nor will you be the last.”
Despite the guy’s lighthearted tone, there was something underneath it. It made Cam a little uncomfortable. Was he being a dick?
“I’m sorry,” Cam said stiffly. “I meant no offense.”
Scott shot him a look before his expression softened. He smiled. “It’s fine. I know this sport isn’t exactly the most open-minded. It’s rife with macho bullshit and stereotypes. I mean, I’ve seen the way you all treat Bastien Beaumont.”
Cam’s brows drew together. “What do you mean? We treat Bastien fine.” And Bastien was straight, as far as Cam knew.
Scott rolled his eyes. “Please,” he said with a scoff. “I’ve seen Drive to Survive, you know. You guys call him Belle. Just because he’s all posh and pretty and doesn’t dress like a dudebro like the rest of you.”
Cam grimaced. Scott did have a point. “To be fair, that nickname has been around forever and I’m not the one who came up with it.”
“It doesn’t matter who came up with it. My point is, this sport is full of homophobic, misogynistic rhetoric. You equate a well-dressed and well-groomed man with being feminine, or worse, a homo.” Scott’s gaze locked with his. “Look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong, champ.”
Cam cleared his throat. “All right, I can’t,” he admitted.
Scott grinned. “See? It wasn’t that hard to admit, was it?”
Pulling a face, Cam was about to reply when David, his race engineer, called out his name.
“Sorry, I have to go,” Cam said, glancing at his watch and frowning. He hadn’t realized how long they’d been talking.
“Okay,” Scott said. “See you around, I guess? Good luck this weekend.”
He didn’t need luck.
“Thanks. Are you going to be in our hospitality suite?” He frowned as soon as the words left his mouth. Why did he care?
Scott shook his head. “I was actually invited into Ferrari’s hospitality by a friend, so I’ll be watching from there.”
“Ah,” Cam said, still frowning faintly. It was probably for the best that the guy wouldn’t be around. He was very annoying.
Scott flashed him another nauseatingly pretty Hollywood smile. “I’ll still be rooting for you, champ.” He winked. “You aren’t that bad, for a homophobic dickhead.”
Cam snorted. “The feeling is mutual. You aren’t that bad for a—for a nepo baby.”
Judging by Scott’s narrowed eyes, he’d guessed what Cam had been about to say and very much wasn’t impressed.
“I take it back,” Scott said, shaking his head.
“You’re a massive dickhead.” Scoffing, he turned and stalked off toward Ferrari’s hospitality, somehow managing not to get a speck of dirt on his trousers.
“Who was that?” Archie’s voice came from behind.
Wrenching his gaze away from Scott’s retreating form, Cam glanced at his teammate.
“He’s a VIP I had to give a hot lap,” Cam said.
“Probably some fancy model, huh? Looks like one.”
“No,” Cam said curtly. “Just a rich American.”
“Huh,” Archie said before shrugging it off and looking at the sky with a frown. “You think it’ll rain tomorrow?”
Cam didn’t even glance at the sky. “Yes,” he said, suddenly wondering if Scott would still be sauntering around in his fancy pants if it rained.
His lips twisted. Probably. The guy was the definition of an empty-headed socialite: all glamour and beauty, with no substance.
The kind of rich pretty boy who’d never had to work a day in his life.
The kind who floated through the world on charm, family money, and a face that opened every door.
He probably wore those pants on purpose, to draw gay men’s gazes to his—
“Cam, you’re late for the briefing,” his team principal called from behind him.
“Coming,” Cam said, frowning to himself before pushing the thoughts aside.
He had a Grand Prix to win.
He’d likely never see Scott Palmer again.