Page 74 of Over the Limit

The clerk lifts her eyebrows and stares at me as confusion owns me. “Um, two coffees please. And . . . a mixed assortment of these,” I say pointing to various bakery items. All of which look good. None of which I know if Lachlan likes or even eats.

“Of course. One moment.”

“Thank you,” I say and walk to the end of the case to inspect some of the other items on the menu. I’ve passed this shop dozens of times but have never had the need to stop in here. Rossi’s place was always professionally stocked, and I knew where everything was. At Lachlan’s, I felt like I’d be snooping if I were to open cupboards and look for something to make.

“Blair?”

I freeze at the voice behind me. Oh. Shit.

I turn to face Rossi. It’s the first time we’ve been alone together since we broke up weeks ago. And it feels familiar and strange at the same time.

“Hi.” Oh shit. My order. Two coffees. A dozen pastries. This early on a Sunday morning. “How are you?” I ask with both caution and concern.

“Good. Been better.” He scrubs a hand through his hair and I can see it now. The exhaustion. The confusion. The unshaven scruff. The things that only someone who’s known him the better part of a decade might be able to see. “You?”

I shrink hoping he doesn’t see the exact opposite in me. The happiness. The relief. The . . . everything that Lachlan has made me feel. “I’m okay. Just busy. Just focusing on my work.”

“Yeah. Right. The masquerade ball.” He lifts his eyebrows up and shifts on his feet.

“Right.” I try to keep the bitterness from my tone, but it’s there, front and center. “Things turning around with the cars?” I ask like I don’t know. Like we’re strangers.

And the awkwardness kills me while the guilt comes in waves.

“Ma’am? Your order. Two coffees and—”

“Yes. Great. Thank you.” I stare at the box of baked goods and the two coffees when clearly, it’s just me standing here. “It’s for—they’re for—a meeting. For the gala.”

“On a Sunday?”

“Yes. The countdown is on, and I still have so much to do,” I ramble.

“Here? In Monaco? Why not in Nice by your flat?”

I blink blankly at him and lie. “It’s a neutral spot.”

He just nods slowly, his eyes holding mine and distrust firing in them. “Got it.”

“When do you leave for Hungary?” I ask, changing the subject as subtly as I can.

I’m sure he notices.

“Monday. Just like every other race I’ve gone to over the past how many years?”

I glance down to my twisting fingers and then back up to him. “This shouldn’t be this hard,” I whisper softly.

He nods. “Yeah well . . . you got what you wanted, right?”

I suck in a breath, the sting real. My nod is contrite. “There’s no right way to answer that, Oliver. No one wanted this. No one wanted either of us to be hurt. No one wanted—”

“You’re hurting?” His eyes narrow as he stares at me.

“Change is hard. We grew into different people.”

“No shit. You changed and—”

“We changed,” I correct but I have a feeling he’s not going to hear me. He never did. “And you’re proving my point.”

“Got it. Great. Enjoy your coffees and your”—he glances over his shoulder as if he’s expecting to see whoever the second coffee belongs to—“meeting.”