My Contract With The GT Playboy

Fuck, I was late.

I hurried across the engineering building's entrance courtyard, clutching my bag while cursing every decision that had led me to this moment. My assessment had started twelve minutes ago, and I was still outside, sweating through my shirt and looking like someone who had just escaped a crime scene.

Fantastic.

I had spent weeks preparing for Aurelia Institute of Technology's GT Performance Partnership assessment, sacrificing sleep and surviving on coffee to qualify for a program that would pair selected mechanical engineering students with professional GT racers and their technical teams.

This was the opportunity I had been waiting for.

And I was about to lose it because my alarm had apparently decided that waking me up was beneath its responsibilities.

I checked my phone as I rounded the corner.

9:12 a.m.

"Wonderful," I muttered. "I hope my alarm clock develops feelings so I can hurt them."

The entrance was only a few steps away when the growl of an engine interrupted my internal breakdown.

A black sports car swept around the corner and stopped directly in front of the building, practically kissing the entrance steps with its ridiculously expensive bumper.

I stopped walking.

The engine fell silent, and the driver's door opened.

A tall man stepped out, dressed in a fitted black shirt and dark trousers. He adjusted his silver watch and ran a hand through his dark hair with the confidence of someone who had never been told no in his entire life.

Unfortunately, he was also annoyingly handsome.

Of course he was.

Because apparently, the universe had decided that making me late was not enough. It also wanted to test whether I could resist punching a pretty face.

"Excuse me," I called, approaching him. "Are you planning to move your car, or are we supposed to climb through the windows to get inside?"

He turned toward me, sliding his sunglasses down his nose. His eyes settled on my face, and his mouth curved into a smile.

"Good morning to you, too, sweetheart."

Sweetheart?

I nearly swallowed my tongue.

"Good morning," I replied with a smile that could have frozen boiling water. "I see you have mistaken the entrance for your personal showroom."

He glanced at his car, then back at me.

"Beautiful, isn't she?"

I looked at the vehicle, then at him.

"Which one? The car or your ego?"

His eyebrows lifted, and a quiet laugh escaped him.

"Oh, you're feisty."

"And you're parked like an idiot. We all have our strengths."

He pressed a hand against his chest as though I had wounded him. "That was cruel. We have barely met, and you're already insulting me."

"Give me another minute. I might discover something worse to say."

His smile widened.

I hated that smile and how effortlessly it appeared, as if irritating women was his favorite hobby.

"You're in a hurry," he observed, glancing at my bag.

"No, I always run around looking like I want to murder someone. It is part of my morning routine."

His gaze moved over my face. "Well, if you wanted my attention, you could have asked nicely."

I stared at him in disbelief. "Trust me, if I wanted your attention, I would find a more productive way to waste my time."

"Such as?"

"Filing a complaint about your parking."

He chuckled, pushing his sunglasses back into place. "You're quite pretty when you're angry."

My mouth fell open.

I genuinely had no idea how to respond to that level of audacity.

"Is flirting with strangers the only way you know how to communicate, or did you leave your personality in the car?"

"Depends," he replied, leaning against the door. "Are you always this interested in strangers, or am I special?"

"You're blocking the entrance. A traffic cone would receive the same attention."

He laughed again, and I decided that if he continued making that sound, I might actually lose my mind.

I checked my phone.

9:14 a.m.

"Oh, for God's sake!" I exclaimed, turning toward the building.

"Assessment?" he called after me.

I stopped and glanced over my shoulder.

His expression had changed slightly, although that irritating smile remained.

"How did you know?"

"You've checked your phone four times, and you look like you're about to cry or commit a felony. I made an educated guess."

"Congratulations. You have functioning eyes."

"Thank you, sweetheart. I like to think they're one of my better features."

"Would you like a medal?"

"Only if you'll be the one presenting it."

I rolled my eyes. "Move your car."

"Ask nicely."

I took a deep breath, reminding myself that I was a peaceful person who respected human life and had absolutely no interest in going to prison before graduation.

"Please move your ridiculously expensive car so I can get inside and save what remains of my academic future."

He pretended to consider it. "See? Was that so difficult?"

"Yes. It was physically painful."

He stepped away from the door, finally giving me enough room to pass.

"Good luck with your assessment."

I paused, momentarily caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice.

Then he added, "Try not to miss the next one, sweetheart."

And there went my last ounce of goodwill.

"I hope you crash into a puddle," I snapped.

He grinned. "Thinking about me already? That's sweet."

I walked away before I could say something that would permanently ruin my chances of graduating.

The reception area was almost empty when I rushed inside, and the clock above the front desk informed me that it was 9:15.

I was going to be sick.

A woman standing beside the assessment hall looked up as I approached.

"The assessment has already started."

"I know, and I am so sorry," I said, struggling to catch my breath. "There was a problem at the entrance, but I have prepared for this for weeks. Please, I really cannot afford to miss it."

She studied me before checking her clipboard. "Name?"

I gave it to her.

After a brief search, she sighed and pointed toward the open doors.

"Go to the third row. The written portion has just started, so do not interrupt the assessors."

Relief washed over me.

"Thank you. You are officially my favorite person."

I hurried into the hall and slipped into an empty seat, trying to make as little noise as possible.

At the front, several assessors sat behind a long table while a man introduced the professional racers participating in the partnership.

I pulled out my pen and focused on the assessment paper in front of me.

I could do this.

I had studied for this, and no amount of morning chaos was going to stop me from getting what I wanted.

"Before we begin," the lead assessor announced, "I would like to welcome our final guest, a professional GT racer and representative of Calloway Automotive Group. Please welcome Damon Calloway."

I slowly lifted my head.

My pen slipped from my fingers.

No.

Absolutely not.

The man standing beside the table wore a dark jacket over his fitted black shirt, his silver watch catching the light as he adjusted his sleeve.

Dark hair, beautiful eyes, and that infuriating smile.

The same man who had just called me sweetheart and treated my academic emergency like the highlight of his morning.

He looked across the room, and the moment his eyes found mine, his expression brightened.

Oh, this was a nightmare.

A very expensive, annoyingly handsome nightmare.

He took his seat beside the other racers, accepted a microphone, and leaned forward.

"Good morning, everyone. I look forward to working with you."

His gaze remained fixed on me.

"Especially those who made such memorable introductions before the assessment."

A few students chuckled.

I stared at him with the kind of hatred usually reserved for people who stole your lunch and denied it while chewing.

He winked.

He actually winked.

I tightened my grip on my pen.

The assessor continued explaining the program, but I barely heard him. My brain had become occupied with a much more pressing issue.

Damon Calloway was a professional GT racer, an heir to one of the biggest names in the automotive industry, and apparently the most irritating man alive.

And if I got selected, I would have to work with him.

Wonderful.

Just absolutely wonderful.

Damon leaned toward his microphone again.

"I hope everyone is ready to handle a little pressure," he said, his mouth curving into a knowing smile. "It can be quite difficult for some people."

His eyes met mine.

I smiled sweetly back at him, even though my fingers were practically strangling my pen.

Fine. He wanted to play games?

We could play games.

I would get into this program if it killed me, and once I did, I would make sure Damon Calloway regretted every single second he had spent being an arrogant, flirtatious nuisance.

He could keep his expensive cars, his stupid smile, and his ridiculous little pet names.

I was going to beat him at his own game.

And judging by the way he continued watching me with that smug expression, he already knew I was going to be trouble.

The bastard looked delighted.