Camila had no idea. She’d never attended a dirt bike race before. She’d been binge-watching them all week, though, and it appeared that everyone wore casual, summer, camping clothes. Tank tops or T-shirts and cut off shorts and flip-flops, mostly.
Easy enough—and, frankly, a summer wardrobe she was quite comfortable in—except no one else out there was flying in to surprise a guy she still wasn’t sure actually felt the same way about her as she did about him.
She could text him, of course, but Tommy’s own words about focusing to ensure his own safety echoed in her ears. Better that she wait and keep the surprise for after he was done racing. Plus, she reasoned, if he did tell her he wasn’t interested in the same thing she was, at least she could say she’d seen him race before moving on with her life.
All of which still did not help with her wardrobe concerns.
She finally texted Philip, the only person she knew who had figured out she and Tommy had some sort of relationship.
If I were to fly out to surprise Tommy at his race in Minnesota, what should I wear?
Philip sent back a bunch of laughing emojis, followed by a wholly unhelpful response: Who cares? Although I’d definitely pack a box of condoms. Or two.
Out of desperation, she texted her sister, who immediately called back.
“I knew it. Elliot totally owes me a massage.”
“Your weird sex fetishes aside, what should I wear?”
“Massages aren’t weird, although they are definitely sexy. And Elliot is pretty good at them.”
“Not helpful.”
Maddy sighed. “Those white denim shorts and an off-the-shoulder top. And text me when he proposes.”
Yeah, right. First, she had to get there. No, first, she had to find an off-the-shoulder top that looked good with her favorite white shorts.
Then she had to talk Tommy out of retiring. And then hope he still was interested in possibly, hopefully starting a relationship with her.
Her next setback came at the airport. Chuck had indeed booked her a ticket, but her flight didn’t leave until Saturday morning. He assured her she didn’t need to worry, that she should go to the airport Friday evening and ask to be put on standby for the next flight out to Minneapolis-St. Paul.
Which, of course, didn’t work.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but the flight is full,” the skinny, dark-haired gate attendant informed her.
“How about the next one?”
The attendant smiled. “The next flight is the one you purchased a ticket for.”
“Fantastic,” Camila muttered as she trudged away.
She was back bright and early the next morning, not necessarily bushy-tailed but certainly ready to board the plane and get to Minnesota. She had things to do, racers to talk out of retirement, decisions to make about her life.
Four hours later, she signed for her rental car and casually asked how long it would take to get to the motocross raceway.
“You mean the one in Millville?” the gum-smacking attendant asked.
Camila nodded. “Yes, that’s the one.” In truth, she had no idea if there was more than one in the state. But she knew, from stalking Tommy online, that he was racing today—probably any minute now—in Millville.
“It’s about an hour and a half from here.”
Camila’s mouth fell open. The attendant grinned and slid her paperwork across the counter.
“Your car is in space twelve. Go through that door and follow the signs. Enjoy your visit.”
Fantastic. She was going to miss the race.
Chapter Fifteen
Tommy did it. He won. He was now so far ahead of the guy in second place in the standings that he’d really have to screw up to lose this season. And if he won it all, he’d go out as the racer with the most championships in the history of the sport.
Suddenly, he had something worth racing for again.
Not that this was going to change the decision he’d made.
His name was called over the loud speaker, announcing him as the winner, and two curvy, half-dressed beauties handed him a trophy. He grinned and raised it above his head while the cheer of the crowd roared in his ears.
Then he stepped down into the media circus. His pit crew rushed him. Somebody popped a cork and then icy, fizzy champagne was poured over his head. It was, frankly, welcome, because he was sweating like a damn pig and covered in dust. He couldn’t wait to strip out of his uniform and take a refreshing, cold shower.
“You’re on par to become the reigning champion for the fifth year in your career,” one of the journalists shouted, shoving a microphone in his face. “How’s that feel, Tommy?”
What a stupid question. How the hell did he think it felt? “Pretty damn spectacular.”
“Assuming you win the championship,” another journalist called out, “what’s next? What can you possibly do to top this?”
“Win for a sixth year,” he piped up. Christ, these people asked the dumbest questions. Except, to be honest, this one was a good lead-in to his big news.
“Although I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he added.
“What does that mean?” one of them asked.
“It means I’m going to retire after this season.”
The crowd of reporters went nuts, all shouting at once, peppering him with question after question without giving him a chance to answer the one before.
“No,” someone yelled.
“Yes,” he reiterated.
“No. Seriously, no!”
Wait, that voice sounded familiar. Tommy scanned the faces of the news crews, trying to figure out who kept insisting he wasn’t going to retire.
And then he saw her. Dark, curly hair streaked with blond. Smooth skin like smoky quartz. He’d actually come across a gem almost the exact shade of her skin recently, and suddenly he wanted to return to that store so that he could gift it to her.
She wore this brightly colored,
