Page 16 of Racing Hearts

I spin, searching for my dancing partner. When I’ve made nearly a full revolution, I find him moving with the music, a surprisingly respectful distance back.

And, damn, he’s gorgeous.

His green eyes, his tight jawline. The way his hair falls forward as he moves, and the way he shakes his head to pull it back. Those shoulders—so wide I don’t know if I’d be able to get my arms comfortably around them, but I’m suddenly extremely interested in trying. Obviously, I noticed all of this before. It’s electric now, though. Air fizzes around him, pulses with his energy.

I step toward him. Our eyes lock. He hesitates, so I reach out, green lines zigzagging the expanse of my skin. He catches my wrist, thumb pressing to the skin just below my palm, and draws me into his body.

I release myself into the hard planes of his torso. Our bodies zipper together and we move as one. We’re so close that I can smell him—sandalwood and citrus. Our knees lock together: mine, his, mine, his.

His palm goes flat on my low back. Through the thin fabric of my shirt, my skin prickles under the feathery touch of his fingers. I’m reminded of the way they engulfed my wrist when he took my hand yesterday.

The music changes. Hard bass melts into a smooth rhythm, guiding us in a synchronized harmony. His hand hitches up my shirt and his fingers trail across the smooth skin at my low back. The touch sends shivers chasing one another along my spine.

In return, I twine an arm around his neck. He instantly escalates, running his knuckles down my bare arm. My skin melts in the wake of his touch. I arch into him, threading my fingers into his hair at the nape of his neck. A low, guttural sound escapes his throat. Heat pools between my legs.

My forehead is in line with his throat. His breath warms my cheek. I twist, my nose bumping his jawline. Music fires around us, intoxicating and smooth. His eyes drop to my mouth and I tip my face upward, edging closer to his lips.

Then he inhales sharply, so loud I can hear it even over the thumping music.

“Are you sure?” he whispers.

He draws himself back.

Heat vacuums out of my limbs, and collects in my cheeks instead. I recoil, stumbling away from the all-consuming moment. Embarrassment rushes to fill the space left by the warmth of his body. What the hell am I doing?

I don’t do this. I never do this.

“I—” My head is spinning. I don’t even know this man’s name and I just tried to make out with him in the middle of a dance floor? “I should go.”

“What?” His eyes are unfocused as he pushes his hand into his hair. “I’m just not—”

“It’s okay!” I blurt out. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you some other time.”

It’s a lie and we both know it. Tomorrow, I’ll fly back to California. He’ll go wherever he goes. Either way, we’ll definitely never see each other again.

Before he can say another word, though, I turn and flee.

Six

63 Days Until Pan Ams

The next morning, I repress the urge to gag as our airplane bumps and swoops over the Atlantic. Shoved in the narrow seat with earbuds jammed in my ears, I suck liquid from a gallon jug of water squeezed between my knees. It does nothing to drown out the pounding in my head, the ache in my chest, or the lurch of embarrassment I get every time I think about last night.

Those green eyes forging a tunnel right into my soul. The citrus smell. And…the sharp inhale when I angled my face upward.

What the hell was I thinking?

I wasn’t. That was the whole problem.

This is the exact reason I have rules. Limits. Without them, a single misstep can turn into a catastrophe.

That said, I hardly have the emotional bandwidth to focus on embarrassment, because I have deep, penetrating sadness to deal with, too.

With tears threatening my eyes, I spend my last evening in the training center packing up everything I own. My array of unisuits and a handful of favorite photos and medals fit into two large suitcases. The rest of my belongings get stashed into a comically small storage container.

Early the next morning, I try to hold it together as I say my goodbyes. When I tell the athletic trainers I’m leaving, they blink in shock before filling my backpack with free samples of Tiger Balm and medical tape. The hulking weight room coach, who rarely shows emotion except to pump his fist when I add a plate to my weight belt, engulfs me in a bearlike hug before gruffly informing me that he’s always admired my discipline. In the cafeteria, one of the chefs insists on making my favorite, most nutrient-packed omelet and writes NOT GOODBYE, YOU’LL BE BACK in ketchup around the edge of the plate.

Saying goodbye to Sofi is the worst, of course. She insists on accompanying me to the airport and white-knuckles my hand until I reach the end of the security line. Even then, she doesn’t let go until the TSA agent has shouted “Next!” for the third time.