Page 124 of Over the Limit

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Blair

The valley is laid out before me. It’s varying shades of green with an occasional house sprinkled in.

A fairy tale.

That’s what I used to call this valley. A place I could imagine a fairy tale taking place. One I’d create in my own imagination full of love and family and a prince of my dreams.

One I used to imagine as Oliver Rossi.

Funny how you grow up and things change.

Even funnier how you resist those changes so damn hard and then in the blink of an eye realized they were exactly what was needed.

Lachlan. The composer of my own personal music.

I miss him.

I love him. Like truly, deeply love him in a way I didn’t know was possible. In a way they do in fairy tales.

All of the above.

I smile softly as the breeze picks up and gently tickles through my hair.

“We spent a lot of time out here on this damn rock.”

I startle at the sound of Rossi’s voice and even more that he’s here. That he’s back home. I turn to see him walking toward me, the shock still settling in. “What are you doing here? I don’t understand.”

A parental ambush.

But . . . the thought dissipates just as quickly. My parents wouldn’t interfere. Ever. My conversation with my mom said just as much, and I hate that that was my first thought.

“I came home for a day to visit an old teammate from my karting days. He’s in the hospital. Hospice.”

“Oliver. I’m so sorry to hear that.”

He shakes his head and waves a hand at me like he doesn’t want it to derail this discussion. “On the way back to the airport, I stopped by to say hi to your parents. They always were good to me, but I could tell by the look on their faces that something was up. They were surprised to see me. Then they said you were here too . . . small world, huh?”

“Very.” I struggle with how to feel. Here he’s talking to me like he’s running into an old friend while I’m still trying to process what he did to Lachlan.

I don’t care what the FIA says. I know Rossi. I know his temper. I know what I think happened.

“I knew I’d find you here.”

“Good. Great.”

“You’re mad.”

My laugh is anything but amused. “Mad doesn’t begin to describe how I feel seeing you.”

“Look.” He hangs his head. “I’m here to try and make things right. To put things to bed. To just . . . close this door so I can move on.”

“Does that moving on include crashing into say . . . anyone I might date that you don’t like?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Not fair?” I screech. “You could have fucking killed the both of you. Are you insane?”