Chapter 2

If there was one thing worse than having Damon Calloway in the same room as me, it was having him there while I was trying to prove that I deserved to be there.

Unfortunately, the universe had never been particularly interested in my happiness.

I stared at the assessment paper in front of me as the lead evaluator explained the rules. We had forty minutes to answer technical questions before discussing our conclusions with the professional racers participating in the program.

Apparently, they wanted to know whether we could do more than memorize textbooks.

Personally, I thought they should also test our ability to tolerate irritating people. I was already gaining valuable experience in that department.

"Candidates will have forty minutes to complete the written portion," the evaluator announced. "Afterward, you will discuss your answers with our guests."

Forty minutes.

I could work with that.

I bent over my paper, determined to forget about the man sitting at the front of the room.

Unfortunately, forgetting Damon Calloway was difficult when his smug existence was practically impossible to ignore.

I worked through the questions, checking my calculations before moving on. By the time I reached the final problem, my confidence had returned.

Maybe I would survive this after all.

When the written portion ended, the evaluators collected our papers and divided us into small groups for the practical assessment.

I ended up at a workstation with two other students, a computer displaying vehicle telemetry, and a certain professional racer whose presence immediately ruined my mood.

Damon stood beside our workstation, holding a tablet while the evaluator explained our task. We had to analyze the data from a simulated race, identify the cause of the driver's declining performance, and recommend adjustments.

Simple enough.

Until Damon looked at our group and smiled.

"Try not to panic," he said. "I promise I'm much nicer when people know what they're talking about."

I looked up from the screen. "And I promise I'm much nicer when people stop talking."

The student beside me suddenly became very interested in his keyboard.

Damon placed a hand over his chest. "You keep hurting my feelings. I'm beginning to think you have a personal problem with me."

"Have you considered that your personality might be the problem?"

He grinned. "I've noticed you've been paying a lot of attention to me."

"Because you keep opening your mouth."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart."

I turned back to the screen before I did something that would get me permanently banned from the institute.

The data showed that the car was losing time through several corners, and the front tires were overheating.

"The driver is probably pushing too hard through the corners," I explained. "I'd check the tire pressures and suspension settings first."

Damon tilted his head. "Would you?"

I glanced at him. "Do you have something useful to contribute, or are you here to decorate the room?"

His mouth twitched.

"Look at the driver's steering and throttle inputs. He's correcting too early and accelerating before the car has settled. That could explain the extra strain on the front tires."

I examined the figures again.

Annoyingly, he had a point.

However, admitting that immediately would have been a terrible decision for my pride.

"The setup still isn't helping," I argued.

"I didn't say it was perfect. I'm saying you shouldn't blame the car before considering the driver."

"And I'm saying you shouldn't talk so much before considering whether you have anything useful to say."

He smiled. "See? We understand each other already."

I wanted to throw my pen at him.

Instead, I studied the data again. "If we change the suspension without checking the driver's inputs, we might improve the handling without fixing the actual problem."

His smile faded into something more thoughtful.

"Exactly. So, what would you do first?"

"I'd compare the driver's inputs with a clean lap and check the tire pressures before making any adjustments. Changing everything at once would make it difficult to know what actually worked."

Damon nodded. "That's a better answer."

I raised an eyebrow. "Thank you. Your approval means absolutely nothing to me."

"Of course not."

"It doesn't."

"Would you like me to say it again?"

"I'd like you to develop a hobby."

He laughed under his breath.

When the evaluator approached our workstation, I explained our conclusion and recommended checking the driver's inputs before changing the car's setup.

He listened before nodding. "Good. You've considered both the driver and the mechanical factors instead of focusing on one explanation."

I smiled.

Finally, some appreciation for my suffering.

"Thank you," I replied.

Once the evaluator moved to another group, Damon leaned against the desk.

"You know, you're pretty good at this."

I eyed him suspiciously. "Are you feeling unwell?"

He frowned. "Excuse me?"

"You just complimented me. I thought you might have a fever."

His mouth curved into a grin. "Would you prefer it if I insulted you instead?"

"Honestly, I'd feel more comfortable."

"Fine. Your attitude is terrible."

"And your face is distracting."

The words escaped before my brain could stop them.

My eyes widened.

Damon slowly turned toward me, his grin spreading until I wanted to crawl under the desk and start a new life.

"My face is distracting?" he repeated.

I pointed at him. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"Your face is saying plenty."

He leaned closer. "I had no idea you were paying that much attention to it."

"I was studying the symptoms of excessive arrogance."

"And what did you discover?"

"That it's apparently incurable."

He laughed as the evaluator instructed us to continue with the remaining questions.

I turned toward the computer, grateful for the interruption.

Unfortunately, my relief didn't last long.

Damon stepped behind me to examine the figures, leaning over my shoulder.

Suddenly, he was much closer than necessary.

I stiffened.

"Do you always invade people's personal space, or am I receiving special treatment?"

He glanced down at me. "Would you prefer that I stand across the room and shout my observations?"

"That would be a wonderful start."

"Noted."

He made absolutely no effort to move.

I turned my head slightly, only to discover that his face was closer than I expected.

For one ridiculous second, I forgot what I had been about to say.

His eyes flicked toward mine, and his smile returned. "Something wrong, sweetheart?"

"Yes. You're obstructing my view."

He glanced at the screen, then back at me. "Really?"

"Tragically."

He straightened, laughing quietly.

I hated him.

I hated him even more because he was good at his job.

As we worked through the remaining questions, he pointed out details I'd overlooked, and I challenged a few of his conclusions. We disagreed occasionally, but we managed to reach reasonable answers.

He understood racing in a way that went beyond textbooks, and I had to admit that his experience showed.

It was irritatingly impressive.

By the time the assessment ended, I'd almost forgotten that I was supposed to dislike him.

Almost.

"Well," Damon said as I gathered my things, "that was enjoyable."

I slung my bag over my shoulder.

"For you, perhaps. I spent an hour arguing with a man who thinks personal space is a suggestion."

"And yet, you kept talking to me."

"Because you kept being wrong."

He grinned. "You could always ask for my number. We could continue our arguments over dinner."

I stared at him. "Would you rather eat dinner with me and get poisoned or swallow your own car keys?"

He pretended to consider the question.

"Dinner with you. At least I'd get to look at something pretty before I die."

I shook my head and headed for the exit. "You need professional help."

"And you need to stop pretending you don't like me."

I glanced over my shoulder.

"I'd rather spend an entire weekend doing suspension calculations than spend another hour with you."

His grin widened. "Is that a promise?"

"It's a threat."

"Even better."

I rolled my eyes and left before he could say anything else.

Outside the building, I finally allowed myself to breathe.

The assessment had been harder than I expected. Although I'd answered most of the questions confidently, a few still bothered me. I kept replaying my answers, wondering whether I'd overlooked something important or made a stupid mistake.

And then there was Damon, who had somehow managed to challenge me, annoy me, and impress me within the same hour.

Honestly, what was wrong with that man?

I adjusted my bag and headed toward the courtyard, trying to push the assessment out of my mind.

But one question continued to follow me.

Had I done enough to qualify for the program?

I'd spent weeks preparing for this opportunity. The thought of failing at the final hurdle made my stomach twist.

If I'd messed this up, I was going to need several days, an unreasonable amount of chocolate, and possibly a new personality.

Until the results came out, there was nothing I could do but wait. And hope that I hadn't just ruined my future.