Chapter 19
I’ve gotten into a car accident and I’m lying on an examination table.
That’s the only explanation for the bright light cutting through my eyelids all the way down to my retinas, the pounding that feels like someone taking a sledgehammer to my skull.
My throat aches with thirst, like I’ve been sitting in the sauna for too long.
The beep-beep-beep of my alarm brings me back to earth.
I open my eyes—more difficult than it should be, because they’ve been glued together by the copious amounts of gala makeup I apparently failed to take off—and find myself lying face down on top of my pink duvet, an empty canister of Salt & Vinegar Pringles I have no recollection of devouring next to me.
When I touch my tongue to the roof of my mouth, it’s starchy and dry with stale potato chip powder.
Nice one, Justine.
I push myself off my bed, the room spinning in a dizzy arc.
Last night was not the first time I’ve gotten drunk, but it is the only time I’ve imbibed enough to have only a fleeting memory of the final portion of the night.
Whispers of thumping music, dancing with Roz, giggling with Savannah, and shots with Pat and Sasha all whirl through my mind, but my brain can’t seem to piece anything together.
I reach for my phone to see if anything on it will give me a hint, but it’s completely dead.
I plug it in, but before it can load, there’s a click and muffled whoosh from outside my bedroom.
Someone entering the apartment.
Crap. Mom was due back from London this morning. While she’s never had an issue with me having a drink here and there at work-sanctioned events, she won’t look kindly on getting blackout drunk.
I guzzle the full bottle of water someone—probably Drunk Me, in a spark of brilliance—left on the nightstand, then stumble toward the living room, past the after-party jeans lying on the braided rug and the sneakers Drunk Me for some reason thought belonged on the top of the wardrobe.
“Mom?” I open my bedroom door.
Except instead of my mother back from London, it’s Cameron. Standing in the middle of our kitchen-dining area, looking freshly showered and like he went to bed at nine o’clock when some hazy hint of recollection makes me certain he stayed out as late as I did.
“What are you doing here?” My voice comes out more hostile than I intend. Him smiling down at Chloe is the last concrete memory I have.
“No need to bite my head off.” He rolls his eyes. “Came to drop this.” He tosses a McDonald’s bag onto our kitchen peninsula. The sight of fast food makes me realize how ravenous I am.
“Wait…,” I say, hangover brain slowly processing that none of this is normal.
Not the delicious scent of sausage and hash browns wafting through the apartment, not Cameron leaning against our kitchen partition like he’s been here before.
“What are you doing here? Did I… did we…?” Scenarios, equally terrifying and thrilling, flash through my mind.
He sighs. “You don’t remember vomiting on my trousers, do you?”
“No way. You’re lying,” I say automatically, but as the words come out of my mouth, the sharp memory of my stomach clenching and unclenching, the relief of having released their contents somewhere—anywhere—comes back to me.
I want to crawl back into bed and never come out again. Drunk Me was supposed to be having so much fun that Sober Me wouldn’t have to notice Cameron and Chloe flirting.
Clearly, Drunk Me overshot.
“Trust me, if I was going to lie, it’d be about something a lot more exciting.” He turns to go.
“Hold on.” I reach out and grab the edge of his soft cotton sleeve. “Why did you bring me this? It’s, like, my favorite breakfast ever, so thank you, but why?”
He glares down, his eyes softening slightly. “That’s what your drunk arse said at three a.m.” At my confused look, he sighs. “After you threw up? We split a cab with Pat. You were banging on and on about how much you loved Egg McMuffins—sausage, not bacon—the entire way back.”
Half of me is relieved he didn’t end up going home with Chloe or any of the other girls circling him last night. The other half is horrified.
“Do you remember anything?” He looks exasperated, borderline amused now.
“Not after the third shot, no.”
“What am I going to do with you? Do you want me to enlighten you?”
“Maybe after I get some food in my stomach.” I unwrap the Egg McMuffin and sink my teeth in. The salt and grease taste better than anything I’ve ever had, including the gala food, which was catered by a three-Michelin-star restaurant from London. “This is heavenly,” I moan between bites.
I hoover down both my McMuffin and the accompanying hash brown before stopping to take a gulp of orange juice. It’s only then that I notice Cameron’s just sitting on one of the stools at the counter, gaping at me.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Kwong, but I’ve never seen anyone destroy Maccy D’s like that before.”
I swallow my remaining mouthful. “Is that a bad thing?”
“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. And I get the feeling he’s talking about a lot more than me gobbling McDonald’s like it’s my last meal on earth.
I cross my legs and sip the remaining OJ as daintily as I can, trying my best to retain what’s left of my dignity.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what else happened?” Cameron’s still watching me.
“Do I want to know?” My instincts tell me Drunk Me succeeded in having fun, despite—or perhaps because of—the condition I found myself in this morning.
“You let down your hair big-time. At one point you were doing body shots off Sasha.”
The thought of physically touching Sasha anywhere, much less with my mouth, makes me want to throw up my entire breakfast combo. “You’re messing with me.”
“Alcohol has made people do stranger things.”
“I would know if I did. I’m pretty sure I’m allergic to that jerk—if I did do body shots, my mouth would be covered in hives right now.” I make a duck face and puff out my lips grotesquely to emphasize the point.
“Lovely. Fine, no, you didn’t do body shots.
But you were downing drinks with him like best mates at a stag do.
” He shows me his phone, revealing a flash-blurry photo of me and Sasha, our arms draped around each other’s shoulders like besties while holding empty champagne glasses to the camera.
I vaguely recall a game of never have I ever, played over the shouting-level volume of the music, dissolving eventually into some kind of big heart-to-heart.
Dear god. Am I friends with Sasha Devin now?
The next photo is a selfie of Cameron, Chloe, Sasha, and Georgios. Chloe is turned into Cameron, her hand pressed possessively against his chest in a way that makes my throat dryer, if that’s even possible.
“Check this out.” He zooms in on a corner.
It’s me in the background, face contorted in disgust while I hold a bottle of Hendriksen I’ve clearly just taken a sip of.
Looks like no amount of alcohol will make beer taste better.
The expression on my face is 100 percent zany, 0 percent cute and delightful.
“I think this is seconds before you decided to vomit on me.”
My eyes drift back toward Chloe and Cameron looking like a picture-perfect couple. I try my best to keep my voice casual. “So, are you and Chloe, like, a thing now?”
Cameron snorts. “Nice diversionary tactics.” He’s still zoomed in on my face. “I’m gutted I missed this live. Justine Kwong, party animal.”
“Har-har.” I roll my eyes, grasping for a way to bring the subject back around to what I really want to know. “If you guys went out, you could double-date with Pat and Savannah.” The words jab my heart. “She’s super sweet and really pretty.”
“Yeah, she’s cool. I don’t know if she’s my type, though.”
Before I can ask what precisely is his type, he leans over. My breath constricts.
“Here.” His thumb dabs the side of my mouth, fingers warm and gentle. “You’ve got tomato sauce on your face.”
My eyes drift to his lips. When I look back up, I realize he’s staring at me, too.
“That’s better.” He tucks a strand of limp hair behind my ear, then rests his hand there.
Goose bumps prickle all over my arm. There’s a weird little lilt in my stomach that has nothing to do with the tequila still sloshing around in there.
I want this. I want him. Mess and all.
I shut off all the parts of my brain screaming, What in the name of Lewis Hamilton are you doing?, and press my lips against his.
For a second, he’s absolutely still, and I wonder if this is going to go down as the biggest embarrassment of my life.
Moving in on a guy when my breath is still rank with last night’s booze and this morning’s hash browns—at least I could have picked someone who I don’t have to continue seeing four times a week if things blow up in my face.
Then, his mouth parts, leaving me breathless and dizzy. His hand moves to the back of my neck, tugging me gently closer. I turn to face him fully, torso pressing into his, fingers running through his gloriously thick hair.
With a groan, he pushes his stool back and gets up so he’s standing between my legs.
His other hand slides down to my lower back, pulling me in so there’s practically no space between our bodies.
He bends down, moving his lips to my neck, and I feel like I’ve died and been transported into the heavens.
Kind of like winning the race that clinches a major championship, except different. And—I’m starting to become convinced as he moves his mouth back to mine—almost better.
“I’ve wanted to do this for ages,” he whispers. “All I could do to keep from fighting Dietrich last night.”
The thought of Cameron getting all caveman is possibly the most thrilling thing that’s ever happened to me. “Really?”
“Why,” he says, lifting his head and looking down, “does violence make you so chuffed?”
“I’m not chuffed,” I say, struggling to conceal my smile.
He taps me gently on the nose. “Anyone ever tell you you’ve got the talent of a homeless poker player?”
“You did. And your metaphor still makes zero sense.”
“Let me be clear for your sad lack of imagination: You are such a bad liar that if you were to play poker, someone would eat you out of house and home.”
“Okay, fine. I am a little happy,” I admit. “But just so you know, I’m not into Dietrich.” It feels especially important to clarify this, even if Cameron—thank god—doesn’t know about my long-running fangirl crush.
“Good,” he says. “I’m not into Chloe, either.”
Then his lips are on mine again. My heart sings, beating so joyously I’m surprised he doesn’t feel it thumping against my rib cage. He likes me. He likes me. He likes me.
My phone chooses that moment to go off in my bedroom. I ignore the buzzing. The caller doesn’t give up, though, and calls again. After the third round, Cameron leans back. “I think you’d better get that. Someone wants to talk to you very badly.”
I go to my phone reluctantly, already knowing it’s Mom.
No one else calls like I’m the fire department and she has nine cats stuck in a tree.
I cringe at the sight of my own reflection in the bedroom mirror.
Smudged mascara and messy hair make me look like a raccoon in need of an intervention. I don’t know how Cameron kissed me.
“Hey, Mom,” I say weakly.
“I’m on my way back—on the train now. I just got an email from Lou Wilson’s assistant. He wants to schedule lunch after Spa for the two of us. I think they want to talk terms!”
“Oh my god,” I gasp. I had a hint as to where Lou was going at the gala, but to have the follow-up be so swift is breathtaking. Any more good news this morning and I might just combust with happiness.
“I’m being tutted at for talking, so I’ll go, but I’ll see you in a bit!” Mom trills, then hangs up.
There’s a knock on my bedroom door. Cameron’s eyes are wide and concerned, his lips still flushed from kissing. “All okay?”
“I think they’re going to offer me the F2 seat!” I blurt before realizing who I’m talking to.
“Oh. Congrats.” His voice is strained, and it gives me a cold, hard wake-up call as to who—and what—we are to each other.
“There’s nothing confirmed yet,” I backtrack.
He gives me a forced grin that breaks my heart. “Stop being modest. The way Lou was looking at you last night, I’m surprised he didn’t whip out a contract at the dinner table.”
“There might be other F2 teams looking for next year,” I say quickly.
“Yeah, maybe at Neptune.” He snorts, naming the team that consistently finishes dead last and has never sent a driver on to F1.
“You’re the most well-rounded driver in the series. You’re not going to have any trouble getting to F2, I know it.” I can beat Cameron on a good day, but all the years he’s spent on European circuits gives him an edge I can’t top without some wild luck.
A month ago, I would have rather chugged a gallon of broccoli juice than admit this. I’m shocked at how easily the words flow off my tongue now.
Cameron laughs wryly. “I don’t know how I feel about having your sloppy seconds, though your Quali pace is astonishing.”
He’s sidestepping and making light of things, but I can’t tell how truly happy he is.
If I heard the Orbital F2 seat was looking like it’d go to someone else—even if it was someone as talented, as hardworking, and as fantastic of a kisser as Cameron—it would certainly make me want to grab Mom’s Swarovski Tigger figurine off the bookshelf and throw it against the wall.
“You think I’m the fastest qualifier on the grid?”
“After me, of course.”
We smile at each other, the tension thawing a tiny bit. He grabs my wrist and pulls me toward him.
“I bet,” I whisper when our lips are inches away, “I qualify higher at Spa.”
“If I pretend to agree, will you let me kiss you again?”
I nod, and he leans in. It feels almost as good as the first time.
Almost.