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“Well, I’m glad I was able to satisfy your curiosity so easily,” I banter back. “But if you need to know more things, I’m here to answer all your questions. You should be comfortable with someone who is going to rummage through your wardrobe.”

He quirks a brow. “Why? What do you think I have hidden in my wardrobe? Skeletons?”

I can’t help but giggle at that. “Literal skeletons or figurative ones?”

“Literal skeletons would be problematic.”

“Yes, that would be creepy. But don’t underestimate figurative ones.”

“Do you want to know a figurative skeleton of mine?”

“Will you give one up?”

“That depends. Will you give me one in return?”

I swallow. This could go so many ways. Serious. Funny. Even sexy.

Do I take this dare from Mason?

I think of how I’ve repressed my feelings for him all season, since that first race in Australia. I never thought I’d get this chance. To truly be alone with him. Get to know him.

And I never ever thought he had even thought about me as anything other than his rival’s assistant or a Collings.

I can play this safe and redirect. Make another joke. Or I can play the game.

One look at the sexy man sitting across from me and I know how I’m going to answer. “That depends,” I say.

“On what?”

“You have to give up a skeleton first.”

“Okay. I’m in.” Mason pauses for a moment, as if he’s sorting through said skeletons and deciding which one to pull out.

“You might have noticed this one, so it might not be fair,” he begins. “But my dad has never been to one of my F1 races.”

“I had noticed that,” I say softly. “Why is that? Do you not get along?”

A rueful smile passes over Mason’s face. “My dad only shows up for winners.”

Now I’m confused. Mason is having a terrific season, and he’s second to Xavier in the Driver’s Championship standings. Granted, I don’t think he’s going to catch him—Xavier has been dominant this season, and my brother has also thrown a spanner into the works with his wins, but Mason is one of the best drivers on the grid.

“My father put a lot into my F1 career,” he says, absently running his finger around the rim of his pilsner glass. “Money, I mean. But you probably know that.”

I nod. Mason’s father owns a successful hedge-fund company in London, and they are an incredibly wealthy family. I know he’s funded Mason’s career, which is a struggle for a lot of young drivers because the sport is incredibly expensive.

“Well, he believes in winners. As in titles,” Mason says, and I notice the light dims from his eyes a bit. My heart catches. “He told me he made an investment in me. Like one of his acquisitions. He’s not coming to watch me race until he knows it’s worth his time. A complete return on his investment.”

Mason picks up his lager and takes another drink. He puts the glass down and forces a smile on his face. “There you go. A skeleton for you.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say. I can’t imagine either of my parents being not only unsupportive but putting a ridiculous expectation like that on my shoulders. And when I think of it this way, I get mad. “Does your dad understand how impossibly hard it is to become an F1 driver, let alone a world champion?”

“In his mind? No. He made the investment because I showed promise. Now he wants me to deliver. My mum comes when she can. She’s been great. And you know Ruby, of course.”

Ruby Clark is Mason’s sister, who is finishing her last year of uni. She comes to races during the summer with his mum, and it’s obvious she adores Mason the same way I adore Caleb.

“What does your mum think of what your dad does, though?” I ask.

Our waiter chooses this moment to reappear, and I wish he’d disappear, as I want to know more about Mason’s family. “Your starters will be out momentarily,” he says. “Are you ready to order your entrées?”