Shite, did he just?
Okay then.
“I love you too.”
His breath catches.
“I’ll be happy for you, too, you know. If you win.” I brush my fingers through the back of his hair, tugging him a little closer. “But don’t think I’m not gonna give you a fucking chase, baby.”
He chuckles and pulls my chin guard down to get to mylips, leaning in and tilting his head like he’s about to kiss me. His mouth brushes close enough that my breath stutters. I lean back instinctively, flicking a glance toward the UCI official at the start gate who’s watching us.
Luc laughs at the face I’m making, full of mirth. “I’ll tell the world if you let me. I’m not ashamed of this or us. Or you.” His gloved hand drifts down and brushes against mine. “You’re my man. Everyone should know that. Just like everyone should know Alaina’s ours.”
I stare at him. At this idiot who barreled into my life like a French hurricane, tossing everything upside down, with no intention of ever leaving. Who annoyed the hell out of me every time we spoke, and who I once swore I’d never let close because getting close meant getting hurt.
Now he’s the reason I’m standing here with hope in my chest and laughter on my lips. He’s one of the reasons I don’t feel like a pariah anymore. He’s loud, messy, and infuriating, but he’smine.
Fuck it.
I grab his face and kiss him deep, fast, and shameless, making him hum against my lips, and when I pull back, he’s glowing like a fucking sunrise.
“Try to keep up,Payne.”
“Only if you give me something to chase,Delacroix.”
The official clears his throat and steps forward. “Sixty-nine, you’re up.”
“I still can’t believe you picked that number,” I mutter, shaking my head. “You’re such a walking cliché.”
Luc’s grin turns wicked as he tugs on his helmet and snaps his goggles into place. “I’ll show you how cliché I can be after the finish line.”
I choke on a laugh. “Christ on a bike.”
“Nope. Just Luc.”
He starts rolling forward, hips swaying like he knowsexactly what he’s doing to me. He glances over his shoulder, voice a low purr. “Try not to think about doing my number while you’re riding.”
I watch him drop in, heart pounding, blood singing.
One more run.
Let’s-fucking-go, Delacroix.
The crowd goes wild for him, a wall of chainsaws, cowbells, and cheers sounding, and before I know it, it’s my turn.
Everything Dad and I have bled and broken for—carried on our backs for an entire fucking season—all comes down to this.
I roll forward, eyes locked on the line ahead as the wind cuts across my pads and tries to crawl under my skin. It’s colder up here than it should be, or maybe that’s just my nerves trying to jump out of my body.
My fingers twitch around the grips as I try to even out my short bursts of breath into something more controlled. I flex my legs once, twice.
The official nods, and the countdown starts.
Three.
Two.
One!
