Excerpt from “Just a Bit Crushed”

 

Chapter One

 

His assistant wore a sheepish expression.

Cameron Richter sighed inwardly. That look on Bianca’s face never meant anything good. It usually meant she was about to tell him something he didn’t want to hear.

“Just tell me and get it over with, Bianca,” Cam said in a clipped voice, grimly wondering whether he was about to get dragged into yet another sponsor event. He fucking hated Thursdays. It hadn’t always been this way, of course. But when you were a Formula One driver, Thursdays before a race weekend meant enduring an endless parade of PR obligations Cam had no patience for.

Of course, it was part of the circus. Part of the job. But sometimes he wished he could just focus on driving and ignore everything else. Unfortunately, he couldn’t, not when he was the reigning World Champion and the face of McLaren.

“You’re going to hate it,” Bianca said.

Cam snorted. “Not an encouraging start.”

Bianca gave him a tight smile. “I’ll start with the good news: the IWC photoshoot has been postponed until next month.”

Before he could exhale in relief, she added, “Now for the bad news: you have to meet and greet a VIP, give him a hot lap around the track, and maybe show him around if there’s still time.”

“Great,” Cam muttered under his breath, grimacing. There was nothing he hated more than playing glorified chauffeur to some daddy’s boy who knew nothing about Formula One but had deep enough pockets to get the premium VIP experience. If Cam was chosen to be the one to give this guy a hot lap and show him around, that definitely wasn’t cheap. His time was precious. And expensive.

“Who is he?” he asked. He didn’t particularly care, but he’d need to at least know the guy’s name.

“His name is Scott Palmer. He’s the only son and heir of the owner of Palmer Corp.” Bianca glanced at her phone. “He’s twenty-eight, unmarried. He’s technically employed at his father’s company, but he’s always in Europe. He organizes some charity events and has his own—”

“So, a trust-fund baby,” Cam said, his lips twisting. “Basically like a Kardashian, right?”

Bianca sighed, giving him a pleading look. “Please be nice, Cam.”

“I’m always nice,” Cam said with a laugh.

She gave him an unimpressed look. “You made the last VIP you met leave the paddock immediately.”

“You shouldn’t foist them on me if you want them fawned over,” Cam said with a shrug. “I’m not going to change the way I am to appease some nepo babies who know nothing about Formula One.”

Bianca sighed again and shook her head. “He’ll be here at ten. Don’t be late, Cam.”

He gave a clipped nod. As much as he hated that part of the job, it was still part of his contractual obligations. God, he was really looking forward to renegotiating his contract next year.

 

***

 

The guy was… pretty.

There was no other word for it. Tousled dark hair, high cheekbones, light eyes—blue or gray—and skin so smooth it didn’t look real. He was tall and fit, and he practically oozed old money as he strolled gracefully through the paddock with Bianca, heading in Cam’s direction, his phone pressed to his ear.

Cam eyed him, his lips curling with derision. In his years in the sport, he’d met hundreds of celebrities, but something about this guy just screamed privilege. His gaze swept over the man’s tailored light-colored trousers and deceptively simple white shirt. Judging by the way it skimmed his torso, accentuating lean muscle and the curves of his pecs, the shirt was almost certainly bespoke.

Who the fuck wore white and beige on a rainy, muddy day in Spielberg, Austria? There wasn’t a speck of dirt or water on the guy’s clothes, even though it had just stopped raining. He looked like he’d stepped off a magazine cover.

“Hey, Cam,” Bianca said. “This is the guest I told you about, Scott Palmer.”

The guy smiled, flashing him a positively Hollywood smile and revealing his perfect white teeth. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said, extending his free hand for a handshake, a Rolex glinting on his wrist.

Reluctantly, Cam took the hand in his own and shook it. The guy’s palm was soft, his skin silky smooth, his fingernails well manicured. His own felt very rough and calloused in comparison. Cam tried not to grimace. He couldn’t imagine having anything in common with this guy. He was probably a model on the side or something. He certainly had the looks for it.

“Sorry, one moment,” Scott said, and brought his phone back to his ear. “Baby, I really have to go. I’m at the track already.”

Cam couldn’t make out what the caller said, but the voice was unmistakably male.

He stiffened.

So the guy was one of… those. Cam hadn’t been sure—hadn’t wanted to assume just because the guy was pretty and dressed like… that.

Frowning, Cam reached for his helmet and put it on. Whatever. It was none of his business. He could put up with the guy for the five minutes it would take to drive him around the track—if the guy finally bothered to stop chatting with his boyfriend and wasting Cam’s time.

His irritation spiking, Cam took the other helmet from his assistant and shoved it against the guy’s chest none too gently. “Let’s go,” he said curtly, and headed toward the waiting car. He pretended not to see the unimpressed look on Bianca’s face. Scott could follow. Or not.

He did, his long legs helping him catch up to Cam quickly. They were about the same height—six feet tall—but Scott was all legs and walked like he was on a runway.

“Sorry about that,” Scott said with a sheepish, pretty smile that only irritated Cam more. “Boyfriends can be so clingy.”

Cam said nothing and got into the driver’s seat. He waited for the guy to get in and scowled when he saw that he was still holding the helmet instead of wearing it. “Put on your helmet.”

“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you,” Scott said with a laugh. “I don’t want to ruin my hair.”

Unbelievable.

Cam shot him a flat look. “Put on your helmet,” he repeated, trying to keep his irritation out of his voice. “I don’t care if you’re worried about your pretty hair. We take safety seriously here. This may not be a Formula One car, but I’m about to drive you at one hundred and fifty kilometers an hour. So put. On. Your. Helmet.”

It seemed he’d failed to keep his irritation at bay, because Scott dropped his smile and did as he was told. “You’re no fun,” Scott said, pursing his full lips.

Dragging his eyes away, Cam started the car. “I’m not here to be fun.”

“You’re much more polite on TV,” Scott said. “No offense, but in real life you’re kind of a dick.”

“Aren’t most people?” Cam said with a rueful smile. “But telling you to follow basic safety protocols doesn’t make me a dick.”

“It’s not your words, dude,” Scott said. “It’s your tone. And the way you look at me.”

“What about it?”

“You look at me like I’m something… weird. And not a good weird.”

Cam’s hand tightened on the steering wheel. “I don’t think you look weird,” he said stiffly. “You look like a model. Are you?” He wasn’t really interested in the answer. It was just small talk. Small talk with rich folk was part of the job.

Scott let out a laugh. It was as irritatingly perfect as his smile. “What? No! I mean, I was offered modeling jobs when I was a kid—I was a very cute kid—but obviously my parents said no. The Palmers don’t do anything so…” He trailed off, and when Cam glanced at him, his cheekbones were slightly flushed.

“Plebeian?” Cam said, his lips twisting.

Scott pulled a face, somehow managing to look even prettier as he did so. “I don’t want to sound like a snob, but yeah, pretty much. My family owns half of New York. And Boston. Palmers don’t really work regular jobs, much less jobs like…” There was something almost wistful in his expression for a moment before it was gone, replaced by that already-familiar look of innate superiority. “It’s fine,” he said with a chuckle. “Can’t really complain that I was born into my family. I wouldn’t want to be the son of a farmer or something.”

Cam really wanted to stop the car and tell the pompous prick to get out. “My dad was a farmer,” he said flatly.

“I’m sorry,” Scott said after a moment, actually surprising Cam with his apology. “How long has it been?”

Cam frowned, bemused. Although his mother had been British, he’d grown up in Germany—when he wasn’t traveling all over Europe—and sometimes wondered if his grasp of English simply wasn’t sufficient. “What?”

“You said he was a farmer. How long has it been since his death?”

Right. The guy hadn’t actually been apologizing for his tactless remark. He thought his father was dead. “He’s very much alive. He just isn’t a farmer anymore, for obvious reasons.”

Scott flushed. “Right. Stupid of me. A millionaire son and all that.”

Cam hummed, looking straight at the track. In all fairness, not all Formula One drivers supported their parents, so that assumption might have been wrong. But it wasn’t. He could hardly refuse to support his father when Franz had worked three jobs for a decade so Cam could pursue this career.

The harsh reality was, getting to Formula One was ridiculously expensive, no matter how talented a kid was. Karting, junior formulas, travel, hotels, entry fees—all of it wasn’t exactly cheap. It was no coincidence that most drivers on the grid came from rich families. Cam was one of the few exceptions.

“Did you enjoy the hot lap?” Cam asked as he parked the car, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to try to be polite.

Scott chuckled, taking his helmet off. “It was—fine. Interesting. Not what I expected, though. You were much grumpier than you are in your interviews.”

“You watched my interviews?”

“Well, I’m a fan?” Scott said, his lips folding into a wry smile.

Cam tore his gaze away. There was no way the guy hadn’t had some work done on his face. Men didn’t have lips that pretty. They just didn’t. Too soft and pink and full. Downright feminine. They looked ridiculous on a man’s face.

Cam scoffed, getting out of the car and taking off his helmet. “Are you asking me? You don’t sound sure.”

“I mean, I am a fan,” Scott said, getting out of the car as well. “Like, yeah, I started watching Formula One only last December, but—”

“Let me guess, you came to the title decider in Abu Dhabi with some celebrities and decided that you’re a fan of the guy who won.”

Scott glared at him, but there was amusement in his eyes. Good. At least the guy had some self-awareness. “Hey, it was a great race,” he grumbled, honest-to-god pouting. “You were very impressive.”

Cam snorted. “Did you even understand enough about Formula One at that point to know that I was ‘impressive’?”

Scott rubbed the back of his neck. “Kinda? Your overtake on Beaumont was super cool. I didn’t understand everything that was going on, but everyone in the paddock club was so excited, so it infected me too.” He met Cam’s eyes and smiled. “And then after the race was over, you took off your helmet, and of course I became an instant fan.”

Cam struggled to keep his face neutral.

The guy was flirting with him. Blatantly.

To be fair, Cam was no stranger to fans doing it. Hell, he knew a good portion of his fans were women who supported him largely because of his looks and not his driving skills. He was fine with that. That was how Formula One always worked. Even teams preferred getting handsome drivers over plain ones, because handsome drivers meant more sponsorship, more attention, more fans, more support. Cam didn’t like that it worked that way, but he couldn’t exactly complain, since he was pretty lucky when it came to the looks department. At least he wasn’t the only handsome driver on the grid. Hell, Bastien Beaumont looked like he could give this guy a run for his money as far as supermodel looks were concerned.

So yeah, fans commenting on his looks or flirting with him was nothing new. But it was different when it was a male fan. And a gay male fan at that.

Scott laughed a little when the silence stretched. “I mean, surely you’ve been told you look like Pierce Brosnan’s Bond, right?”

Cam hummed and lengthened his stride, hoping the guy would take the hint and leave him alone.

He didn’t.

“Obviously Brosnan has blue eyes while yours are dark, but you’re the spitting image otherwise,” Scott said. “You sure your mom didn’t have a secret affair with Brosnan?”

“Are all Americans this tactless or is it just you?”

Scott laughed. “Ohh, the ignorant American card—I must have really annoyed you. You’re the fifth person who’s called me the American this morning. Until I got into Formula One, I had no idea how snobbish people in this sport were toward anything American. Which, like, I get, because this sport is primarily popular in Europe, and most drivers are from Europe—”

“There are some from Asia and Australia,” Cam said. Snobbish? Him? That was rich, coming from a guy who was dressed from head to toe in designer clothes and carried himself in a way that screamed old money and privilege.

“You’re a Brit,” Scott said with a grin. “British snobbery is the worst, I swear. It never seems to matter how much money my family has or how old our money is—you Brits have a way of making me feel about two inches tall.”

“I’m more German than British,” Cam said. “I grew up in Germany.”

Scott cocked his head to the side, studying him from under his absurdly long eyelashes. “I don’t see it. You don’t look German.”

“Didn’t realize all Germans looked the same,” Cam said dryly. “You don’t look American, either.”

Scott grinned. “Yeah, I’m afraid I wasn’t blessed with all-American good looks. Not blond and wholesome enough.”

Cam scoffed. The guy knew perfectly well how good he looked. He was just fishing for compliments. Flirting again.

“You can drop the pretty smiles, mate,” Cam said evenly. “Not interested.”

Scott blinked once, twice, before laughing sharply. “Wow, you have a hell of an ego, mate. I wasn’t coming on to you. I like smiling at people. It’s not flirting.” When Cam shot him a look, Scott shrugged. “I’m serious. You aren’t even my type.” He ran a hand through his wavy hair. “Like, obviously you’re very handsome, and I like looking at pretty things, but personally, I like them smaller and slimmer than me.” He smirked. “So no offense, but you do nothing for me. I like cute twinks.”

Cam looked at him skeptically. The guy was too…

“What?” Scott said, narrowing his eyes. “You thought that just because I dress well and know how to style my hair, I have to like taking it up the ass?”

“No,” Cam said, well aware that he wasn’t being entirely truthful. It was hard to believe that gay men wouldn’t want such a pretty thing under them.

“You’re a liar,” Scott said, chuckling. “You’re lucky I’m not one to take offense at gross stereotyping.” He shrugged. “You aren’t the first, nor will you be the last.”

Despite the guy’s lighthearted tone, there was something underneath it. It made Cam a little uncomfortable. Was he being a dick?

“I’m sorry,” Cam said stiffly. “I meant no offense.”

Scott shot him a look before his expression softened. He smiled. “It’s fine. I know this sport isn’t exactly the most open-minded. It’s rife with macho bullshit and stereotypes. I mean, I’ve seen the way you all treat Bastien Beaumont.”

Cam’s brows drew together. “What do you mean? We treat Bastien fine.” And Bastien was straight, as far as Cam knew.

Scott rolled his eyes. “Please,” he said with a scoff. “I’ve seen Drive to Survive, you know. You guys call him Belle. Just because he’s all posh and pretty and doesn’t dress like a dudebro like the rest of you.”

Cam grimaced. Scott did have a point. “To be fair, that nickname has been around forever and I’m not the one who came up with it.”

“It doesn’t matter who came up with it. My point is, this sport is full of homophobic, misogynistic rhetoric. You equate a well-dressed and well-groomed man with being feminine, or worse, a homo.” Scott’s gaze locked with his. “Look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong, champ.”

Cam cleared his throat. “All right, I can’t,” he admitted.

Scott grinned. “See? It wasn’t that hard to admit, was it?”

Pulling a face, Cam was about to reply when David, his race engineer, called out his name.

“Sorry, I have to go,” Cam said, glancing at his watch and frowning. He hadn’t realized how long they’d been talking.

“Okay,” Scott said. “See you around, I guess? Good luck this weekend.”

He didn’t need luck.

“Thanks. Are you going to be in our hospitality suite?” He frowned as soon as the words left his mouth. Why did he care?

Scott shook his head. “I was actually invited into Ferrari’s hospitality by a friend, so I’ll be watching from there.”

“Ah,” Cam said, still frowning faintly. It was probably for the best that the guy wouldn’t be around. He was very annoying.

Scott flashed him another nauseatingly pretty Hollywood smile. “I’ll still be rooting for you, champ.” He winked. “You aren’t that bad, for a homophobic dickhead.”

Cam snorted. “The feeling is mutual. You aren’t that bad for a—for a nepo baby.”

Judging by Scott’s narrowed eyes, he’d guessed what Cam had been about to say and very much wasn’t impressed. “I take it back,” Scott said, shaking his head. “You’re a massive dickhead.” Scoffing, he turned and stalked off toward Ferrari’s hospitality, somehow managing not to get a speck of dirt on his trousers.

“Who was that?” Archie’s voice came from behind.

Wrenching his gaze away from Scott’s retreating form, Cam glanced at his teammate.

“He’s a VIP I had to give a hot lap,” Cam said.

“Probably some fancy model, huh? Looks like one.”

“No,” Cam said curtly. “Just a rich American.”

“Huh,” Archie said before shrugging it off and looking at the sky with a frown. “You think it’ll rain tomorrow?”

Cam didn’t even glance at the sky. “Yes,” he said, suddenly wondering if Scott would still be sauntering around in his fancy pants if it rained.

His lips twisted. Probably. The guy was the definition of an empty-headed socialite: all glamour and beauty, with no substance. The kind of rich pretty boy who’d never had to work a day in his life. The kind who floated through the world on charm, family money, and a face that opened every door. He probably wore those pants on purpose, to draw gay men’s gazes to his—

“Cam, you’re late for the briefing,” his team principal called from behind him.

“Coming,” Cam said, frowning to himself before pushing the thoughts aside.

He had a Grand Prix to win.

He’d likely never see Scott Palmer again.

 

To be released on 30/07/ 2026

Copyright © 2026 Alessandra Hazard