Page 91 of Speed Crush

His jaw is shadowed with travel scruff, and his mouth curves like he knows exactly where I’m parked—and exactly what I’ll be thinking when he gets here. When he locks eyes with me through the windshield, he grins.

That grin. The one that makes my knees weak from thirty feet away. The one that makes my stomach flip and makes my thighs press together automatically.

He jogs the last few steps, opens the passenger door, and before I can say anything, he leans in and kisses me across the center console. Not a hey-babe peck. A full-body, breath-stealing, head-spinning kiss that says,mine.

His hand grips the back of my neck, the way he always does when he’s about to ruin me. His mouth is hot and greedy, lips parting mine like he’s starving and I’m the only thing on the menu. I whimper—actually whimper—and his groan rumbles straight into my chest.

For a second, I forget we’re in a public parking lot. Forget that I’m supposed to be the composed one. Sanity leaves the moment the pressure of his tongue brushes against mine.

“Hi,” he murmurs against my lips, voice rough and velvet. “Missed your mouth. Missed this sweet taste.”

It shouldn’t undo me like this, but it does. The sound of his voice. The weight of him beside me. The way his touch doesn’t just settle on my skin—it settles in. The past month felt endless. I didn’t realize how empty I’d been feeling until he filled that space again like only he can.

He finally pulls back, eyes hooded, gaze sweeping over me like I’m the next lap he wants to devour.

Then he climbs into the car and shuts the door, slow and cocky, like he knows exactly what he just did to me. “You look too kissable even when I’m so jet-lagged.”

I drag in a breath, dazed. “I can say the same about you. You smell like F1 danger and taste like hot sin with a side of time-zone confusion.”

He chuckles, deep and satisfied, the kind of sound that coils low in my belly. "You always did have the cutest and filthiest compliments."

I laugh, eyes still side mirror before pulling out. “You hungry-hungry... … or just hungry for me?”

“Both,” he teases back. “But I've a bad hankering for something greasy and American since I got on the plane. Can we stop for a burger?”

“Hmm... thought you were describing me—grease monkey, all-American, and served up hot just for you.” I bat my lashes, feigning innocence, then drag my bottom lip between my teeth before giving him a slow side glance. “You want fries with that, or just me on the menu?”

We end up at a corner booth at Waylon’s Burger Shack with fries between us, and that soft, slanted spring sunlight streaming through the windows—brighter, warmer, like the season’s finally shifting. The scent of grilled onions and salt perfumes the air.

It’s familiar. The kind of greasy comfort that makes you think everything might be okay. Noah’s across from me making unholy noises with his first bite, and honestly, it’s obscene. But it’s also stupidly endearing. He devours that burger like it’s Michelin-starred steak and I’m already imagining the Yelp review he’d write if he weren’t so busy moaning. Even this. My heart's still trying to catch up to the way his thigh brushed mine under the table. It’s nothing. But also everything.

“Baby, this is what I've been craving.” he says with his mouth full.

I smile, wrapping my fingers around my milkshake, “I should be offended. But I'll forgive you because you look so happy.”

He wipes his mouth with a napkin and then reaches into his coat, pulling out a thick envelope. “Okay. Now for real—I've been tasked to bring this to you.”

I take it. The logo on the corner: Fagioli Motorsports.

I open the envelope. Read it. Then freeze, eyes scanning the lines again, like they might rearrange into something less insane.

“This is… this is…”

“A formal invitation,” Noah beams, his blue eyes catching the rays of the afternoon sun.

“From Fagioli Squadra Tecnica. June, this is like an academy, an in-house, industry-recognized training and mentorship program for future engineers, mechanics, and systems analysts!"

His voice is racing—fast, excited, with contagious energy. My eyes dart between the letter in my hands, and his glowing face, trying to keep up. “You’d be working with Raf and other seasoned engineers and mechanics. Real sessions. Real builds. Hands-on everything.”

I'm breathless just listening to Noah, and he's not done. “Dante saw what you did in the track garage. Remember what he said about 'impressive Cedar Falls ladies?' I think this is what he had in mind then! Raf also said your instincts were sharper than most of the juniors they’ve worked with.... Darling, they don’t offer this to just anyone.”

My heart is thudding, trying to take it all in. The words on the page blur while I focus on Noah’s face—lit with pride, so sure of me—and I feel it again: the disbelief, the awe. Yet still, my first rational response is, “I still have to finish my school year.”

Thankfully, Noah didn't think it was a wet blanket. He just nods and takes my question at face value. Like he knows me enough to expect me to say that—and he had already thought it through.

“They know. That’s why it states the training will start in July. They’re willing to work with your schedule—wait for you to finish your school year here and have time to move to HQ. No pressure. Just… the door is open.”

My throat tightens. “So... this is real?"

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