Page 28 of Over the Limit

Heavy shit to think about on a tired mind that’s competing with an exhilarated body.

I close my eyes and drift off for a beat. Kindness—his smile, his eyes, his questions—is what I think about when it comes to Lachlan Evans.

He asked about my paintings. Not just about them, but he wanted to see them. And then he called me on my lie about not having any pictures of them.

My grin returns as I hug my arms across my chest and replay the conversation. As I remember how I almost showed him the most private part of me because I felt the sincerity in his words.

When has Rossi ever asked that? He’s been in and out of my place hundreds of times, and I can’t remember the last time he said a word about my art. Not the half-finished painting sitting on my easel. Not the stacks of completed canvases leaning against the wall.

If it isn’t about racing, he simply can’t see it. Which means, he rarely sees me.

And that’s not to say that Lachlan is better or would be a better boyfriend. It’s just that . . . screw it, Blair. Why are you talking Lachlan down to make Rossi seem better? Why are you justifying and invalidating the things you deserve?

Shit.

I never expected to have these mixed emotions after a single night of conversation.

It’s just the newness of it that makes me feel that way. The same way I probably felt with Rossi all those years ago.

I’m far from naïve. I know that the grass isn’t always greener . . . but the grass beneath my feet isn’t being watered anymore. It’s being neglected. Overlooked. And maybe I just didn’t realize it until recently . . . when I’ve taken time to compare our relationship with others. And now, compare it to spending time with a man who simply wants to be my friend and celebrate my wins.

But what does that mean, Blair?

With a sigh, I force my eyes open and stare back at the same ceiling that last night drove me downstairs.

He never texted me last night. Not when he got back to the hotel. Not when he saw the champagne bottle sitting at his door, which was still there when I passed on the way to mine. Not when he remembered that he’d promised to celebrate with me.

The temptation to knock on his door was strong, but the reality I’d have faced when he didn’t answer—when I confirmed that he never returned to his room last night—was stronger.

Isn’t that telling enough?

Maybe I need to take a step back and reevaluate things. Maybe we’re at that phase we hit every so often that forces us to take a break.

I love Rossi.

I always will.

But right now that love feels very different than it used to. More one-sided. More platonic. More of an in like than an in love.

Change the perspective.

Maybe for my sake, that’s what I should be doing.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Blair

“Thank you. This is a day Carter will never forget. One I’ll never forget,” Carter’s dad says as he blinks away the tears welling in his eyes.

“Mission accomplished,” I say as I release his hand and pat him gently on the back. “That’s the hope with this program. Now, let’s get you guys over to where the excitement is.” I motion to Gina who is standing on the far side of our viewing platform. “Gina is going to take you over so you can see the podium celebration. Sound good?”

A cheer goes up from the ten children, ages eight to fourteen, and their families. The ones I’ve been coordinating this event with for the past few months. My last official duty—one that was important to me to complete—before I jump wholeheartedly into the masquerade ball.

“Thank you, again,” another mother says in broken English as she passes by with her daughter’s hand in hers and a grin on her lips.

“My pleasure.”

I accept a few more thank-yous as the families follow Gina. The emcee’s voice echoes over the speakers beyond as he fills time and works up the crowd waiting for the podium celebration.