Page 7 of Over the Limit

“Thank you for keeping me company.” I nod and then slide into the passenger seat.

He holds out a peppermint candy. “A small token of appreciation for your time. To remember me by.” He winks and I roll my eyes.

How on earth is this man still single?

“As if I could forget the backward-flying hummingbird.” I smile and take it. Just before he shuts the door, I say, “Lachlan?”

“Hmm?”

“To see the northern lights dance across the sky.”

His eyes narrow. “What?”

“Where I wanted to fly,” I say and then shut the door. It’s the strangest thing. I haven’t thought about that in years. Why now? What made me think of that now?

Our eyes meet through the closed window, a ghost of a smile on his face as he nods.

“You good, Blair?” Emilio asks from the front seat, my eyes still on Lachlan’s.

“I am. Thank you for picking me up.”

“Not a problem at all,” he says as he puts the car in gear and pulls away from the curb.

I know Lachlan Evans.

Everyone does. I’ve seen him in the garage—it’s hard not to when we literally travel to the same cities month after month during the season—and I’ve interacted with him for work. We know each other but don’t know each other.

Yet as we drive away, I find myself looking back at the shadowy figure in the night, standing there, staring after the car.

And I think about him, hummingbirds, crinkly peppermints, and northern lights long after I should.

There’s something about Lachlan that struck me differently tonight—his unabashed honesty. His quiet charm. His subtle humor. How strange that we’ve never really chatted before.

I focus on his shadow until it blends as one with the night.

Although, I guess the fact that I’ve been dating his teammate could be the reason for that.

CHAPTER TWO

Lachlan

“You want to explain why you’re thrashing around here like a bull in a china cabinet?” I ask, not bothering to even glance at Rossi where he keeps picking up shit and then tossing it back down unceremoniously.

This is my garage, not his. My space, not his.

And yet in clear Rossi fashion, he’s making it his. By his continuous sighs and gravelly grumbles, he’s clearly in need of attention. Or a sounding board. Or possibly even a punching bag.

All of which I don’t care to be right now.

It’s fucking annoying. Especially when I’m trying to run every damn inch of the track through my head. Where to let up, when to brake, which stretch I can accelerate, and what chicanes will be the most cumbersome.

And the person with whom I’m currently vying for my job—my greatest distraction.

“I’m not,” Rossi mutters.

“You are.”

“I have every right to be.”