Page 18 of Over the Limit

Restless and stir-crazy—knowing it’s a combination of the day I’ve had, Rossi’s broken promise, and being on the road—I take a page out of my old playbook. I head downstairs to read for a bit somewhere other than the suffocating confines of my hotel room.

CHAPTER FIVE

Lachlan

I smell her before I see her.

The subtle floral scent she wears is a hint in the air.

It’s like everything about her has imprinted in my damn mind in a few short days, and now I can’t get her out of my head.

Either that or I’m going fucking crazy.

I’ll go with the latter theory rather than prove myself wrong. I don’t look behind me. I don’t check and see if one Blair Carmichael with the mesmerizing eyes and arresting smile is sitting anywhere in the bar behind me.

Because it doesn’t matter whether she is or whether she isn’t. All that matters is that she’s a no-go zone for me—beyond the track limit. A term my brain should more than understand.

But hell if my beer holds my attention like it did moments ago.

Shit. I sigh and run a hand through my hair. I had my reasons for coming down to the bar. Disappointment in my season so far. Stress over not knowing where I’m going to land next year—or God forbid, if I’ll land somewhere at all. It’s been weighing on me. The constant pressure of the unknown takes its toll.

A cold glass of beer and the soft chords of the piano being played in the lobby—both a way to help me get to sleep a little easier tonight.

And yet now I can’t stop wondering if she is or isn’t here. Is she with Rossi? Are they snuggled up together sharing a drink and some quiet time?

The thought sits like a boulder in the pit of my stomach when I know damn well a week ago, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought.

But now I know she wanted to fly.

Now I know she purses her lips when she’s thinking of how to answer me.

Now I know those eyes of hers ask questions and express emotions she doesn’t think anyone else can read.

I swirl the glass of beer in my hand, determined that once I finish it, I’ll head up to my room and out of here.

She’s with Rossi.

Stop thinking about her.

She’s off-limits.

Stop wondering if there weren’t a Rossi in her life what could be . . .

Because he is.

And that’s the cold, hard truth of it.

Turn around to see it, Lach. Them together. Laughing. Talking. And maybe in this quiet bar, where Rossi isn’t being swarmed by adoring fans, maybe they’ll be cuddling close. Sharing a kiss.

When you’ve reminded yourself of the truth, grab your drink and go the fuck upstairs and wipe thoughts of her from your mind.

I take a sip and prepare myself for a punch to the gut. But the one I’m expecting doesn’t come when I turn around.

It’s a much different one. One that laces desire with want when I see the damn woman curled up in a chair in the far corner of the bar. She has printed leggings on and a pair of green slippers with a white puffy ball on top on her feet. A paperback is in her hand, and she’s seriously invested in whatever story it’s telling.

Fucking hell. Every muscle in my body tenses and each nerve becomes keenly aware of that rush of . . . whatever it is that courses through me.

Nope. I take a large swallow of my beer.