Chapter 17
Everything about the Orbital gala makes an appearance on my Least-Favorite Things list: a high-maintenance dress where I have to sit in one very specific position unless I’m willing to give up breathing; heels so thin and tall, I risk snapping my ankle anytime I take a step; and jewelry so heavy, my earlobes feel like they’re doing dead lifts.
Thankfully, Mom left for London first thing, so at least I don’t have to deal with her buzzing around while I’m getting ready. She was already so over-the-top, she booked the most expensive stylist in town, and that was before Dietrich invited me to go with him.
“Here we are.” The stylist holds up a mirror so I can see the back of my head reflected in the vanity. “What d’you think?”
She’s done some sort of fancy twisted side braid with a delicate silver filigree ribbon woven in. My makeup is heavy, though somehow still fresh and dewy. I look shockingly good, like someone who belongs at a gala dinner where there’ll be separate knives for seafood and fish.
“This is amazing,” I breathe, silently thanking Mom for however many hundreds of pounds she shelled out for this.
Given what happened last time I was late for Dietrich, I make sure to get to the lobby of my building at least five minutes before he’s supposed to pick me up.
On the way down, I mentally run through the list of conversation topics Mom wrote up for me—ask sponsors about their children (because rich people love talking about their kids), ask sponsors about their philanthropic initiatives (because rich people love talking about their money and foundations are the only classy way to do it), and, when in doubt, smile and nod.
The elevator doors open, and I immediately spot Cameron standing near the lobby entrance, dressed head to toe in black tie.
My heart hammers against my chest. Then prickling nerves set in, because I realize I haven’t told him I’m going with Dietrich.
Not that we’d be expected to keep each other posted on gala plans; we didn’t even kiss last night.
Still, the sense of unease sets over me, jangling against the part of me going gaga over the sight of Cameron in a tuxedo.
He doesn’t spot me at first. He’s talking to a gorgeous older woman who is definitely his mother, judging by her luscious brown hair and the long lashes framing her deep coffee eyes.
“Hey.” His eyes widen when he finally sees me.
“Hey.” Self-consciousness seeps over my body. I hope he doesn’t notice my baby-giraffe-learning-to-walk gait, courtesy of the sky high Louboutins Mom bought me for the occasion. As I’m mincing closer, one of my toothpick heels catches on the edge of the lobby carpet and I stumble forward.
Strong arms catch me inches before I hit the ground, and the next thing I know I’m tilted forward, pressing into Cameron with both hands on his chest, gripping the lapels of his tux for purchase. He looks down, his eyes as dark and close as they were last night outside this very lobby.
He swallows. “You clean up nice, Kwong.”
My ears are on fire and my brain is screaming to take a step back, to stop gawking like an idiot, but I can’t tear my eyes away. “Thanks. You do too.”
He gently helps me upright, taking a disappointing step back.
“Heels really are ‘no pain, no gain,’ aren’t they?” Cameron’s mom chuckles.
I jump. I’d completely forgotten she was here. I sincerely hope she doesn’t judge me for drooling all over her son right in front of her.
“You must be Mrs. Evans.” I blush, holding out my hand. “I’m Justine, Cameron’s teammate.”
She smiles, her dimples identical to her son’s. “I’ve heard all about you—you made quite the impression on my mother-in-law.”
“Mum.” Cameron rolls his eyes. She gives him a shrug back. “Speaking of, where’s yours?” He looks around the lobby nervously.
I shake my head, extra grateful Mom wasn’t here to witness whatever just went down. “She already committed to an event out of town.”
“Oh, are you going alone, then? Do you want to come with us?”
My face bursts into flames again. I have no trouble throwing myself around hairpin turns, yet I can’t find the courage to utter four little words: I’m going with Dietrich.
I draw in a quick breath to fortify myself, but before I can get the sentence out, a black limousine pulls to a stop in front of our building. Dietrich steps out, a bouquet of pink roses and baby’s breath in his hand.
Cameron looks from me, to Dietrich, then back to me.
“I see,” he says, jaw flexing. “Enjoy your night.”
Then he offers his arm to his mother and sweeps out of the lobby without a second glance.
“Are you all right?” Dietrich asks when we’re halfway to the gala.
“Perfectly!” I say quickly, giving him two thumbs up.
Totally, completely all right, except I’ve been wondering if Cameron is mad at me the entire ride so far.
He technically doesn’t have grounds to be—not like we’ve said anything or done anything (again, we haven’t even kissed!).
Am I just fooling myself into thinking he could possibly care?
Not that I should be doing anything about it even if he did like me.
And on top of all this, Dietrich is sitting next to me looking like a daydream in his tuxedo.
I don’t even know where I stand in my own feelings anymore.
“It’s just—you are being unusually silent.”
I don’t know what it means that he thinks I don’t shut up on a normal day. “Is that a bad thing?”
He laughs, his bright blue eyes lighting up. “You’re funny.”
Based on the copious number of rom-coms I’ve watched this summer with Roz, funny is the second-worst attribute a boy could assign to you, right behind great personality. Somehow, I only feel a fraction of the devastation I should at this unflattering label.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks.
Cameron bobbles up in my mind like a buoy among sea waves.
“The gala,” I lie. “I’ve never been to one. It’s a little nerve-racking.”
“Don’t worry, it’s quite boring. You can keep me from falling asleep during the speeches.”
How unromantic. I smile weakly. Despite the fact that Dietrich is pure perfection, we’re riding in a Rolls-Royce Phantom, and I’m holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers—everything I would have wanted two weeks ago—it all feels disappointingly mid.
There’s a red carpet spread in front of the OTC, complete with a navy backdrop emblazoned with repeating Orbital logos in white.
It’s not quite Hollywood—there’s only Britt, her interns, and the hired photographer and videographer greeting guests as they arrive—but it’s still the most glamorous thing I’ve ever been to.
The event itself is held in The Avenue. Some magical event-planning fairy has moved all the vintage race cars normally on display and replaced them with linen-covered tables arranged in front of a temporary dais.
Apparently they used to leave the cars out as decor, but a few years ago a drunk sponsor tripped and broke the rear wing of the ORB-25, so that was the end of that.
We’re swarmed the moment we enter. Or at least, Dietrich is. I’m just stuck next to him, being ignored while everyone tries to get his attention.
I nudge Dietrich. “I’m gonna go say hi to Roz.”
“I’ll see you at the table.” He gives me a nod, then turns politely back to the platinum-level sponsor who hasn’t stopped talking about the Ashmolean renaming a collection in his family’s honor this entire time.
I break out of the circle—insultingly easy because people are more than happy to step into the spot I occupied—and make a beeline for Roz, who’s just entered. She’s gone all out in a sky-blue bodycon dress that matches her hair.
“You look amazing,” I tell her. “Love the new dye job.”
Roz beams. “Shut up, you look gorgeously hot yourself.” She grabs my arm and spins me, checking out my floor-length dress (navy, to match Orbital’s branding). “Love the off-the-shoulder. Dietrich must be drooling. How’s it been, living the dream?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“That doesn’t sound promising.” Roz wrinkles her nose. “D’you think you could pull your dress a little lower, show more cleavage? Ooh, or maybe higher, and more leg.”
“No, it’s not that.” I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, but something is missing. Something that makes my stomach flutter, that makes me smile like my face is breaking when we laugh, some unspoken thing that makes me feel electric and warm when we’re together.
“All right, then, keep trying. The sisterhood is rooting for you!” She takes out her phone and shows me the comments under a clip of Dietrich and me arriving at the gala, posted by the official Orbital account.
They’re all along the lines of Yaasssss Queen go get the King!
and I’m so glad he’s with a racing girlie [flexed bicep emoji].
I grin reluctantly. It’s flattering to know there’s a whole community out there rah-rah-ing this whole thing with Dietrich as some sort of statement for women in racing—all the other F1 drivers’ wives and girlfriends are usually models or actresses—but I’m not sure what that would even prove.
All it does is make me feel anxious about letting everyone down.
Cameron walks by with his mother in tow, and my heart does an odd little flip. Mrs. Evans waves, but Cameron stares straight ahead like he doesn’t see me.
Before I can noodle too much over whether he purposely ignored me, servers thread through the crowd, gently prompting the guests to take their seats.
Roz and I separate, her heading toward the back for the F3 table, me making my way toward the temporary dais near the front of the hall.
Dietrich’s already sitting, up to his elbows in diamond-level sponsors and other VIPs Mom would salivate over if she were here.
There’s a sponsor sitting in the seat with my name card. I clear my throat to politely indicate he’s in my chair, but the guy’s yammering away to Dietrich and doesn’t notice. I reach out and tap him on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, sir, I think you’re in my seat.”
He frowns, clearly irritated at the interruption.