Just a Bit Crushed (Straight Guys #16)

Chapter 1

His assistant wore a sheepish expression.

Cameron Richter sighed inwardly. That look on Bianca’s face never meant anything good. It usually meant she was about to tell him something he didn’t want to hear.

“Just tell me and get it over with, Bianca,” Cam said in a clipped voice, grimly wondering whether he was about to get dragged into yet another sponsor event.

He fucking hated Thursdays. It hadn’t always been this way, of course.

But when you were a Formula One driver, Thursdays before a race weekend meant enduring an endless parade of PR obligations Cam had no patience for.

Of course, it was part of the circus. Part of the job. But sometimes he wished he could just focus on driving and ignore everything else. Unfortunately, he couldn’t, not when he was the reigning World Champion and the face of McLaren.

“You’re going to hate it,” Bianca said.

Cam snorted. “Not an encouraging start.”

Bianca gave him a tight smile. “I’ll start with the good news: the IWC photoshoot has been postponed until next month.”

Before he could exhale in relief, she added, “Now for the bad news: you have to meet and greet a VIP, give him a hot lap around the track, and maybe show him around if there’s still time.”

“Great,” Cam muttered under his breath, grimacing.

There was nothing he hated more than playing glorified chauffeur to some daddy’s boy who knew nothing about Formula One but had deep enough pockets to get the premium VIP experience.

If Cam was chosen to be the one to give this guy a hot lap and show him around, that definitely wasn’t cheap. His time was precious. And expensive.

“Who is he?” he asked. He didn’t particularly care, but he’d need to at least know the guy’s name.

“His name is Scott Palmer. He’s the only son and heir of the owner of Palmer Corp.” Bianca glanced at her phone. “He’s twenty-eight, unmarried. He’s technically employed at his father’s company, but he’s always in Europe. He organizes some charity events and has his own—”

“So, a trust-fund baby,” Cam said, his lips twisting. “Basically like a Kardashian, right?”

Bianca sighed, giving him a pleading look. “Please be nice, Cam.”

“I’m always nice,” Cam said with a laugh.

She gave him an unimpressed look. “You made the last VIP you met leave the paddock immediately.”

“You shouldn’t foist them on me if you want them fawned over,” Cam said with a shrug. “I’m not going to change the way I am to appease some nepo babies who know nothing about Formula One.”

Bianca sighed again and shook her head. “He’ll be here at ten. Don’t be late, Cam.”

He gave a clipped nod. As much as he hated that part of the job, it was still part of his contractual obligations. God, he was really looking forward to renegotiating his contract next year.

***

The guy was... pretty.

There was no other word for it. Tousled dark hair, high cheekbones, light eyes—blue or gray—and skin so smooth it didn’t look real.

He was tall and fit, and he practically oozed old money as he strolled gracefully through the paddock with Bianca, heading in Cam’s direction, his phone pressed to his ear.

Cam eyed him, his lips curling with derision.

In his years in the sport, he’d met hundreds of celebrities, but something about this guy just screamed privilege.

His gaze swept over the man’s tailored light-colored trousers and deceptively simple white shirt.

Judging by the way it skimmed his torso, accentuating lean muscle and the curves of his pecs, the shirt was almost certainly bespoke.

Who the fuck wore white and beige on a rainy, muddy day in Spielberg, Austria? There wasn’t a speck of dirt or water on the guy’s clothes, even though it had just stopped raining. He looked like he’d stepped off a magazine cover.

“Hey, Cam,” Bianca said. “This is the guest I told you about, Scott Palmer.”

The guy smiled, flashing him a positively Hollywood smile and revealing his perfect white teeth. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said, extending his free hand for a handshake, a Rolex glinting on his wrist.

Reluctantly, Cam took the hand in his own and shook it.

The guy’s palm was soft, his skin silky smooth, his fingernails well manicured.

His own felt very rough and calloused in comparison.

Cam tried not to grimace. He couldn’t imagine having anything in common with this guy.

He was probably a model on the side or something. He certainly had the looks for it.

“Sorry, one moment,” Scott said, and brought his phone back to his ear. “Baby, I really have to go. I’m at the track already.”

Cam couldn’t make out what the caller said, but the voice was unmistakably male.

He stiffened.

So the guy was one of… those. Cam hadn’t been sure—hadn’t wanted to assume just because the guy was pretty and dressed like... that.

Frowning, Cam reached for his helmet and put it on. Whatever. It was none of his business. He could put up with the guy for the five minutes it would take to drive him around the track—if the guy finally bothered to stop chatting with his boyfriend and wasting Cam’s time.

His irritation spiking, Cam took the other helmet from his assistant and shoved it against the guy’s chest none too gently. “Let’s go,” he said curtly, and headed toward the waiting car. He pretended not to see the unimpressed look on Bianca’s face. Scott could follow. Or not.

He did, his long legs helping him catch up to Cam quickly. They were about the same height—six feet tall—but Scott was all legs and walked like he was on a runway.

“Sorry about that,” Scott said with a sheepish, pretty smile that only irritated Cam more. “Boyfriends can be so clingy.”

Cam said nothing and got into the driver’s seat. He waited for the guy to get in and scowled when he saw that he was still holding the helmet instead of wearing it. “Put on your helmet.”

“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you,” Scott said with a laugh. “I don’t want to ruin my hair.”

Unbelievable.

Cam shot him a flat look. “Put on your helmet,” he repeated, trying to keep his irritation out of his voice.

“I don’t care if you’re worried about your pretty hair.

We take safety seriously here. This may not be a Formula One car, but I’m about to drive you at one hundred and fifty kilometers an hour. So put. On. Your. Helmet.”

It seemed he’d failed to keep his irritation at bay, because Scott dropped his smile and did as he was told. “You’re no fun,” Scott said, pursing his full lips.

Dragging his eyes away, Cam started the car. “I’m not here to be fun.”

“You’re much more polite on TV,” Scott said. “No offense, but in real life you’re kind of a dick.”

“Aren’t most people?” Cam said with a rueful smile. “But telling you to follow basic safety protocols doesn’t make me a dick.”

“It’s not your words, dude,” Scott said. “It’s your tone. And the way you look at me.”

“What about it?”

“You look at me like I’m something... weird. And not a good weird.”

Cam’s hand tightened on the steering wheel. “I don’t think you look weird,” he said stiffly. “You look like a model. Are you?” He wasn’t really interested in the answer. It was just small talk. Small talk with rich folk was part of the job.

Scott let out a laugh. It was as irritatingly perfect as his smile.

“What? No! I mean, I was offered modeling jobs when I was a kid—I was a very cute kid—but obviously my parents said no. The Palmers don’t do anything so...

” He trailed off, and when Cam glanced at him, his cheekbones were slightly flushed.

“Plebeian?” Cam said, his lips twisting.

Scott pulled a face, somehow managing to look even prettier as he did so.

“I don’t want to sound like a snob, but yeah, pretty much.

My family owns half of New York. And Boston.

Palmers don’t really work regular jobs, much less jobs like...

” There was something almost wistful in his expression for a moment before it was gone, replaced by that already-familiar look of innate superiority.

“It’s fine,” he said with a chuckle. “Can’t really complain that I was born into my family.

I wouldn’t want to be the son of a farmer or something. ”

Cam really wanted to stop the car and tell the pompous prick to get out. “My dad was a farmer,” he said flatly.

“I’m sorry,” Scott said after a moment, actually surprising Cam with his apology. “How long has it been?”

Cam frowned, bemused. Although his mother had been British, he’d grown up in Germany—when he wasn’t traveling all over Europe—and sometimes wondered if his grasp of English simply wasn’t sufficient. “What?”

“You said he was a farmer. How long has it been since his death?”

Right. The guy hadn’t actually been apologizing for his tactless remark. He thought his father was dead. “He’s very much alive. He just isn’t a farmer anymore, for obvious reasons.”

Scott flushed. “Right. Stupid of me. A millionaire son and all that.”

Cam hummed, looking straight at the track. In all fairness, not all Formula One drivers supported their parents, so that assumption might have been wrong. But it wasn’t. He could hardly refuse to support his father when Franz had worked three jobs for a decade so Cam could pursue this career.

The harsh reality was, getting to Formula One was ridiculously expensive, no matter how talented a kid was.

Karting, junior formulas, travel, hotels, entry fees—all of it wasn’t exactly cheap.

It was no coincidence that most drivers on the grid came from rich families. Cam was one of the few exceptions.

“Did you enjoy the hot lap?” Cam asked as he parked the car, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to try to be polite.

Scott chuckled, taking his helmet off. “It was—fine. Interesting. Not what I expected, though. You were much grumpier than you are in your interviews.”

“You watched my interviews?”

“Well, I’m a fan?” Scott said, his lips folding into a wry smile.