Page 31 of Over the Limit

Lachlan.

Yes, I paid attention to his race much like I pay attention to all the drivers’ races. It’s my job to know where they place and what the story of the race is—because every race does have its story. Its hero. Its villain. Its highlights. Its lowlights.

I’ve avoided him since Friday morning.

Almost as if I felt guilty for something when really, we didn’t do anything wrong.

And yet, haven’t I waited for someone—one of his crew members or one of my co-workers, both of whom who were in the same hotel—to ask questions? To say that they saw us and wonder what the hell we were doing?

Get back to work, Blair.

“We’re heading back your way,” Gina says over the two-way radio I have clipped to my waistband.

“I’m ready for you,” I reply and head to our staging area of sorts. A small part of me is sad for our families to go home and for today to be over. The part of me that loves this job and the joy it brings others. Then there’s the side of me who’s ecstatic that this is my last task to finish out as an outreach coordinator and now I can jump wholeheartedly into the masquerade ball.

I get lost in those thoughts, in the possibilities they present, and then realize that my group should have been here by now. I’ve lifted my radio to call Gina about the same time I step outside the hospitality suite.

And I lower the radio when I take in the sight across the walkway from me. Lachlan is standing there. He has a baseball hat on to no doubt cover his sweaty and helmet-mussed hair. His arms are crossed over his chest and his smile’s brighter than the sun as he engages with the kids from my group. They laugh. They ask questions. They take a group picture that Lachlan initiates.

I watch the interaction, thrilled for the kids while trying not to compare his actions with Rossi’s. They’re two completely different men . . . and yet the comparison is right in front of me.

Both men had shitty days. Both men fell short of their potential. Both men have to finish out their duties for the day even when I’m sure they don’t want to.

The difference though? One of them completely and selfishly discounted me while the other tucked away disappointment with his finish and sacrificed his time—and gave these kids a chance of a lifetime: meeting a Formula 1 driver.

As if on cue, Lachlan looks over the heads of the crowd and sees me standing here. Our gazes lock and I swear my heart jumps into my throat. He stares for a beat longer than necessary before he gives the slightest of nods and returns his attention back to the kids in front of him.

But I remain rooted to the spot, staring, wondering why a stupid glance has my heart racing when it shouldn’t. When we’ve made eye contact numerous times before. Why does it feel so different?

He spends a few more minutes with them, calling on kids who timidly raise their hands to ask questions, before his PR minder pulls him away. They head toward me, their chatter incessant and excitement through the roof.

He did that for them and I’m so very grateful for it.

“That was so cool of Evans to do,” Gina says as the last of the families make their way out of the paddock.

“I know. Those kids got one-on-one time that they’ll never forget.”

“No doubt. And it looks like you’re about to as well.”

“What?” I ask but follow the lift of her chin to where Lachlan is standing at the edge of our hospitality suite, hands in front of him holding his baseball cap, eyes looking our way.

My smile is as automatic as my first step toward him. But then I pause. How presumptive of me that he’s here to speak to me. “Um,” I say to myself more than anyone as I stop in that suspended state of awkward indecision over what to do.

“Hi,” Lachlan says, offering a cute little wave, and makes clear his intention that he is in fact here for me.

Why does his mussed hair make him even more attractive? And why does the fact that he took his hat off to talk to me hit me differently?

Because you come from a military family where taking off your hat is a sign of respect.

“Hi. What are you doing here?” I ask and then say what I really mean to say. “Thank you so much for talking to everyone earlier. You really made their day. It was super cool of you to take the time after a tough race.”

“Not a problem.” He shrugs. “If it weren’t for a driver taking the time like that, I probably wouldn’t be standing here.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He glances around and then back to me. “Thanks for letting me hang with them for a few minutes. It was a good reminder to me of where I came from and how even during tough seasons like this one, I’m damn lucky to get to do what I do for a living.”

I angle my head to the side and study him. “You know you’re not normal, right?”