I don’t hesitate. Immediately my hand is up in the air and the instructor stops mid-sentence, pointing to me with a smile.

“Um, my boyfriend’s scared,” I say as Harley guffaws from beside me while everyone laughs at his expense. “Can we ride together while one of y’all drives?”

“Of course.” The instructor offers Harley a dubious once-over before making a note of something on his iPad.

“Thanks, Murph,” Harley murmurs sarcastically from beside me, nudging me with his elbow. “I owe you one.”

I smile, and he winks at me before focusing his attention back on the instructor.

***

I rub a hand over Harley’s back while he leans over the trash can in the pit, bringing up whatever’s left in his stomach. Kevin and Seth are in hysterics, laughing and pointing at him and almost falling into a heap on the gravel. I flash them each a warning glare as Harley continues to retch and groan with every contraction of his belly.

“Here’s some water.” Nash hurries over, holding out an icy cold bottle.

“Thanks.” I take it from him as I continue patting Harley’s strained back. “He’ll be fine. I think it’s just the heat,” I lie, knowing full well his upset stomach has little to do with the heat and everything to do with the sharp corners we just endured in the flying stock car. And it’s all my fault. I’m the one who was yelling at the driver to go faster once I got the taste for it after the first lap. All the while Harley was in the back seat, squealing like a 12-year-old girl.

Harley stands, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his race suit before offering Nash a curt nod. Pushing his hair back from his sweat-beaded forehead, he flashes me a sheepish glance as soon as Nash leaves us. He takes the water from me. I smile knowingly, squeezing his arm before turning and heading back to the rest of the guys as they gather around the shiny race car for a group photo. I make sure to keep to the side of the group, but the moment I move next to Nash’s friend, Jake, Nash turns, his eyes finding me, and he makes a scene, running from his place front and center to grab my hand and pull me with him.

“I don’t want to be in the front!” I hiss, flashing the photographer an apologetic glance.

“You, me and Harley in the front.” Nash waves Harley over. “My two best friends.”

I watch as Harley jogs over, again pushing his hair back from his face, looking a little less gray. He moves to the other side of Nash, his eyes flitting to me a moment before he wraps his arm around his best friend’s shoulders and looks straight ahead toward the camera, smiling with his trademark dimples on show. I reluctantly snake my arm around Nash’s waist, but when he returns the action, I jump slightly at the feel of his hand resting so low on my hip, his pinkie finger in dangerous proximity to my butt. I try so hard to convince myself that it’s just an innocent slip of his hand—just an accident—but he makes no effort to move his hand and, in fact, he goes so far as to squeeze my hip ever so slightly.