Chapter 4
British Grand Prix
“Darling, are you listening?” His mother’s voice made him drag his gaze away from his phone.
“Of course, Mom,” Scott said with a distracted smile.
His mother gave him a long-suffering look. “No phones at the dinner table,” she reminded him gently.
“Nothing wrong with that,” Scott’s dad chimed in, without looking up from his phone. “As long as it’s business, not whatever young people get up to these days.” His tone wasn’t harsh. It was amused, even.
But Scott’s stomach still knotted up. He knew his parents loved him.
He was incredibly lucky to have such doting, loving parents—it was actually pretty rare in their circle.
Most of his friends’ parents were either divorced or treated their children like shit.
Scott’s parents had a strong marriage and spoiled him rotten in comparison.
But. He felt the gentle, unspoken criticism and disapproval every time his dad commented on his lifestyle.
Scott knew he wasn’t the son Patrick Palmer had hoped for.
He was too... frivolous. Too unlike him.
His dad wasn’t a raging homophobe, but “traditional” was probably the kindest way to describe his views.
He would have preferred an heir who married a nice girl from a nice family and gave him a couple of grandkids to spoil.
But all he had was Scott, for better or for worse.
“I’m full,” Scott said, pushing his chair away from the table and getting to his feet. “I need to pack. I’ll be taking the family jet, Dad.”
His dad frowned. “You’re leaving the country again? I thought you’d be attending the board meeting tomorrow.”
Scott shrugged, tugging at his collar. It felt like it was choking him. “I don’t think you need me there. I’ll just be in the way. Besides, I was invited to the British Grand Prix by the Formula One champion. It would be rude to turn the invitation down.”
He strode out of the room before either of them could say anything.
God, he couldn’t fucking wait to leave.
***
England greeted him with a dreary, rainy day.
Low gray clouds hung over the countryside as the chauffeur drove him from the airport toward Silverstone.
Scott rested his temple against the cool glass, watching the raindrops race one another down the window.
Between the overnight flight from New York, the time difference, and the endless drive from Heathrow, every muscle in his body ached with exhaustion.
He should have slept on the plane, but he never slept well on flights, no matter how luxurious the private jet was.
Instead of sleeping, he’d spent most of the journey absentmindedly reading articles about the upcoming British Grand Prix and wondering whether Cam Richter actually expected him to show up after sending him a paddock pass out of the blue.
Not that it mattered. Scott had every intention of making full use of that obscenely expensive invitation.
Besides, there was something strangely entertaining about Cameron Richter. The man seemed perpetually annoyed by Scott’s very existence, but somehow kept drifting back into his orbit. Scott couldn’t quite figure him out, and that alone made him worth teasing.
The hotel finally came into view. People in various Formula One team kits hurried through the drizzle with umbrellas, while photographers lingered near the entrance in hopes of spotting someone famous.
Scott suppressed a yawn as the chauffeur unloaded his luggage. He hoped check-in would be quick.
That hope was soon crushed.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Palmer,” an apologetic-looking receptionist said. “But because of the Grand Prix, there are no rooms available.”
Scott frowned. He was used to hotels being “sold out” on Formula One weekends, but usually it was nothing his VIP credentials and money couldn’t solve. The top hotels almost always kept a few rooms in reserve for people willing to pay any price.
“My family is one of the biggest shareholders in Hilton,” Scott said reluctantly.
He didn’t like playing this card, but needs must. There were simply no other hotels around Silverstone.
The track was in the middle of nowhere. Every hotel in the neighboring towns was sold out.
He’d have nowhere to stay if he couldn’t get a room at the Hilton.
The receptionist winced. “I know, Mr. Palmer, and I’m truly sorry, but we’re fully booked. Most of the hotel has been blocked off by the Formula One teams. Short of booting out other guests under dubious pretenses, there’s nothing we can do.”
“Oh,” Scott said, trying not to show how upset he was. After the long transatlantic flight and the long drive to the track, he was beyond exhausted. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Let me know if you’d like me to find you a car back to London,” she said sympathetically.
Scott hesitated. That seemed like the only logical choice at this point, but he dreaded having to endure a two-hour ride to the track and back to the hotel every day during the weekend. The traffic was supposedly terrible during the Grand Prix.
Biting his lip, he looked down at his phone. “I’ll let you know if I need it,” he said before walking over to a couch and sitting down.
He stared at Cam Richter’s number in his contacts. They hadn’t actually texted or talked since Austria. In fact, the invitation to Silverstone had taken him completely by surprise. He’d stopped expecting anything after a week of radio silence.
It would be pretty presumptuous to text someone Scott barely knew and ask for his help.
But...
The man had invited him to this race. Scott hadn’t forced him to get him a VIP paddock pass.
Catching his lip between his teeth, Scott typed a text.
Scott: Hey! Thanks for the invite. I’m at the Hilton, but they’re fully booked. :( Do you maybe have any idea where I could stay?
Was it too casual? Too formal?
Scott nearly groaned aloud, frustrated by his own uncharacteristic doubts.
The thing was, he wasn’t sure how to feel about Cam Richter.
It wasn’t as though he had a crush on the guy or something.
Frankly, it would have been easier if he did.
Scott got crushes pretty often. As his cousin Will was fond of saying, Scott fell in love every other month.
But Cam really wasn’t his type at all, no matter how objectively handsome he was.
Even if he weren’t straight, he gave off such a top vibe it was a huge turnoff.
Scott liked his sweet, spunky bottoms who spread their legs for him and wailed on his dick.
Domineering, homophobic Formula One champions as tall as Scott was were about as far from Scott’s type as it was possible to get.
Scott should have disliked the guy. He didn’t know why he didn’t, why he enjoyed talking to him and teasing him—why his thoughts had strayed to Cam Richter more than once over the past few weeks.
He wasn’t even that big of a fan. Like, he could appreciate Cam’s racecraft and blistering, dominant performances on track like any guy who was into sports, but Scott really hadn’t been watching Formula One long enough to be a die-hard fan of any driver.
His phone buzzed with a new message, snapping him out of his confusing thoughts.
Cam: are you at reception?
Frowning, Scott confirmed that he was.
There wasn’t any reply for a few long minutes. Cam wasn’t online anymore.
He’d been left on read.
“Dick,” Scott muttered under his breath.
“That’s not a very nice thing to say to someone who got you a VIP pass worth thirty thousand pounds,” said a dry voice.
Scott’s head jerked up. He broke into a crooked grin. “It is a dick move to leave people on read,” he said, his smile widening when Cam rolled his eyes.
“Are you staying here?” Scott asked, eyeing the casual clothes Cam was wearing: a faded gray T-shirt and dark sweatpants.
He somehow managed to look good with day-old stubble and wearing clothes Scott wouldn’t be caught dead in.
It was deeply unfair how some men could effortlessly pull off that look.
“Yes,” Cam said, eyeing Scott’s clothes too, his expression somewhat pinched, as if there was something deeply offensive about them.
Looking away from Scott, he glanced around and gave a strained smile, probably for the benefit of the people in the vestibule gawking at him with hopeful expressions.
They hadn’t approached yet, but Scott doubted it would last. People didn’t pay overinflated prices for the Hilton during a race weekend if they weren’t huge Formula One fans.
“Come on,” Cam said, turning around and walking away briskly.
Scott got to his feet and followed him into the elevator. “Where are we going?” he asked, stepping closer and touching Cam’s bicep.
The muscle flexed at his touch, and the other man stepped back a little.
Scott narrowed his eyes. “Are you afraid to catch my gayness or something?” he said lightly, more amused than offended.
Cam shot him a tight look. “Of course not,” he said tersely. “I was just startled.”
“Right,” Scott drawled, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “You’re so jumpy because a racing driver used to driving at 220 miles an hour gets startled so easily.”
“I’m not jumpy,” Cam said, stepping forward into Scott’s personal space as if that proved anything, his dark eyes boring into Scott’s.
Scott swallowed, a little unnerved, if he were being honest. Although they were close in height and build, Cam Richter had an unsettling sort of intensity about him that made it seem as though he were physically much larger.
And, well, Scott didn’t delude himself about which of them was stronger.
Although he kept himself in shape, he was no match for a professional athlete who had to withstand huge G-forces every race weekend.
The elevator doors opened on the top floor, breaking the odd tension.
“Come on,” Cam said, laying a hand on Scott’s shoulder and steering him forward.
“Are we going to your room?” Scott asked, more than a little surprised. “Aren’t you afraid people might get the wrong idea?”
Cam scoffed, using his keycard to open the room and let him in. “Everyone knows I’m straight. I’m not as insecure about my heterosexuality as you seem to think.” He shut the door behind them. “I can have gay friends.”
“Aww, are you saying we’re friends?” Scott said with a grin.
“Right now you’re an annoyance,” Cam said, but his eyes were smiling. “You can stay in the other bedroom of my suite until they find a room for you.”
Scott’s eyes widened. “Really? You’re a lifesaver, dude!” He slung his arms around the driver and gave him an obnoxiously loud peck on his stubbled cheek.
“Don’t call me dude,” Cam said, his body rigid against him. “And it’s nothing.”
Scott dropped his obnoxious smirk and gave him a more sincere smile. “It’s not nothing,” he said, patting Cam’s chest. “You’re letting a near-stranger into your personal space on a stressful race weekend. I really appreciate it.”
Cam cleared his throat and stepped back. “It’s nothing. Just... don’t be too loud when I’m resting, and I’ll barely notice you’re around.”
“I promise,” Scott said, doing his best to look earnest. He’d never been particularly good at blending into the background or being quiet, but there was a first time for everything, right?