Page 120 of Over the Limit

“To?”

“Home. Your parents keep telling you to come home and maybe that’s what you need. A reset. Some time for yourself before the big gala. Some time to be with your family, just a few days—enough time to enjoy but not too much to get sick of them.”

“Lachlan. That’s . . .” Just what I needed. My heart melts in a puddle at his feet. “The perfect way to get me out of the way so you have more time with Zola,” I tease. My smile is wide, and my heart suddenly feels lighter.

“That’s exactly my plan. A Zola-fest of a weekend,” he says as I stand up between his thighs and slide my hands around his neck.

“Thank you,” I whisper and then kiss him. “You are always so thoughtful.” Another kiss. “So considerate.” This one a little more intense than the last. “So very mine.”

His lips spread into a smile against my lips. “It feels good to say it, doesn’t it?”

“So very mine.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Lachlan

“Talk to us,” Cruz Navarro says as he sits across from me at the bar.

“I’m not saying shit,” I say and toss a poker chip on the table we’re sitting at. “I call.”

“If you’re not saying shit then it is serious,” Spencer Riggs says.

I lift my middle finger to the whole table. There are six of us drivers here at our monthly—or at least we say it’s monthly, but it never is during the season—poker game. We’re in a private room somewhere in the back of the Casino de Monte-Carlo. The same room, the same server, the same dealer as always.

People who act like we’re nobody. Just how we like it.

And people who know if they keep their mouths shut about us being here, their tip will be ridiculous. And that we’ll continue to come back.

This is the most normal we get to be. And it’s always a fucking good time.

“Okay, so you aren’t talking about your woman—for now—so let’s talk about the other topic we’re all avoiding,” Navarro says.

I lift my eyebrows and play dumb. “The weather?”

Laughs bark out around the table. “Funny,” Riggs says. “And Navarro, he may be avoiding it, but we aren’t.”

“Rossi,” Finnegan says.

“Rossi,” I murmur and bring a drink to my lips.

“Is it true?” Riggs asks.

“Is what true?” Fuck. Maybe going drinking with the guys wasn’t the best idea. Lies and alcohol don’t always mix.

“The part where he blamed the accident on the car when it looked a hell of a lot like it wasn’t the car,” Laurent states.

“The FIA fined him for impeding,” Finnegan says.

“They did,” I muse, not wanting to impart any opinion here. If I give one, then I have to explain why Rossi pulled the bullshit stunt he did.

Bullshit stunt? More like reckless driving that we’re both so fucking lucky we walked away unscathed from.

Were there problems with his car? I have to believe the authorities—that yes, there were. That yes, he had issues. Do I have to wholeheartedly believe there wasn’t malice or intent that played a part? The further away from the incident, the more I question that.

Would he really let emotions take over? Would he really risk his ride for next year? Would he really risk killing either or both of us?

I know that I wouldn’t. But would he?