Page 95 of Off the Grid

Her hands feel like heaven. Firm but soothing as she kneads and presses and works the muscles in my back.

“Let’s throw caution to the wind. Run away with me, Tori. I promise we could have a good life.”

Her laugh rings out—no doubt her husband and four kids would disagree with me—and then she falls silent. Someone else has entered the room.

“Go away,” I mutter and wave a hand in the direction of the door.

A throat clears. Anya. “A few things,” she says.

“Buzzkill.”

She chuckles. “Your phone?”

Shit. “Yes. Thanks. I didn’t think to bring it. Should I worry about the texts you’re seeing on there?”

“No. Do you want me to read them to you?” Her feet make noise as she moves farther into the room.

“Only the clean ones,” I tease.

“Right. Your mum said ‘Great job working for the team. That’s how it’s supposed to be done.’ Wills said, and I quote, ‘Sorry about the car. We’ll drink in your honor tonight.’”

“Of course he will.”

“And Dee texted.” She pauses. “She said ‘Maxim said to tell you, it wasn’t your fault. Shit happens. Not to worry, he’ll stay injured longer so you can redeem yourself.’”

I smile. I genuinely fucking smile because that’s Maxim. He sounds like he’s back. “Awesome.”

“Oh, and he said he wants to see you soon.”

I lift my head up to look at her. “He did?”

She nods. “He did.”

My smile turns into a grimace as Tori hits a particularly sore spot and I put my head back down.

I let my mind drift.

No points today.

But not a DNF. I fought the motherfucking car. I made a good showing with what I had.

I’ll take that as a rite of passage. As my own personal win.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Camilla

“I’m going to trip and break my ankles in these.” I look down at the strappy heels on my feet and know I’m going to have one—most likely several—of those moments where you lose your balance and look like a five-year-old wearing your mother’s heels. Your foot goes one way, your ankle the other, and then you fall face first to the ground.

That will be me.

Just give me a few more minutes.

“Rule number one of being fashionable? Suffering is a must,” Isabella says with the wave of her hand.

“Awesome. Please, remind me why I agreed to this again?” I ask, wishing my water was wine, but one of us has to go back to work after our lunch date.