Page 33 of Over the Limit

With that he turns on his heel and strides away toward the Apex building farther down the paddock.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Blair

“You look stressed.”

My smile is automatic. Chills chase over my body, and I look up from my desk—and the various notepads with to-do lists on them—to see Lachlan standing in my doorway.

Twelve days. That’s how long it’s been since I saw him last and nope, the time hasn’t seemed to do a damn thing on dampening my visceral reaction to him.

I’m an idiot to think that it would.

“Hi. Why are you . . . what are you doing here?” I ask as my surprise gives way to gratitude.

He’s the last person I expected to see in my office. I’ve been lost in the details for hours. Details that when I took this job, I naively underestimated would take me away from the sights and sounds of the track—the ones that I love wholeheartedly. And yet here I am on the Friday of race week and not once have I had the chance to make the short distance from my portable office, across the walkway, to the garages to see any of the testing live.

I can hear it—that’s inescapable—but I haven’t seen it.

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but I do kind of have some business on the track over there,” he teases as his grin warms my office.

“You do?”

“I do.”

“Oh. Right. You’re raking the gravel again.”

He chuckles. “How’d you know? Being on the gravel crew is a very important position. Nice and smooth. No tire ruts from those dipshit drivers who can’t keep their cars on the track.”

“You’d think it would be a simple task. The keeping the car on the track part.” It’s hard to keep a straight face, but this banter, which we seem to fall into so easily—just feels so natural.

“You’d think, but for those pretentious pretty boys out there, they’re so busy looking at themselves in the mirrors, they miss the curves in the track.” He winks and I laugh.

“And ruin your damn gravel.”

“And ruin my damn gravel,” he repeats, our smiles wide and eyes locked as we pause in silence for a moment.

And then, strangely, nerves hit me. It’s in the twist of my stomach and the jitter of my hands as I suddenly feel the need to straighten my desk, stand up, and take a drink.

“So, Lachlan, what brings you here . . . to the bane of most drivers’ existences?” I ask because any trip to my office means I’m asking them to participate in something more than they already are required to. Most avoid me.

“I figured you were knee-deep in planning. Treading water in unfamiliar waters. And that . . . I don’t know. That you could use some stress relief.”

“That’s thoughtful of you.”

He holds a brown paper bag up by its handles. “I brought you flowers.”

“Flowers?” I stare at him like he’s crazy as he sets the bag on my desk in front of me with a big thunk.

“Flowers,” he reiterates.

My tongue feels thick in my mouth as I struggle with what to say. It won’t go over well if Rossi happens to walk in here and see flowers from another man—his teammate no less.

And at the same time . . .

“Go on,” he encourages.

I rise from my seat and peer into the bag prepared to see daisies or roses or something with petals. Something that I’ll have to thank him for but acknowledge that I can’t accept—not just because of Rossi’s reaction but because of the warring emotions accepting them would make me feel.