Page 55 of Jackrabbit

Yanking his wrist free, Colt scowled. “You can’t—”

“I’m your coach,” Beau interrupted. “Not only can I, but I’m damn well obligated to. That’s my job here.”

“Your job.” Those green eyes flicked away from Beau, but not fast enough to hide the hurt in them. “Right. I’ll try to remember that.”

Then he slipped into the bathroom and shut the door. The lock slid in with a click.

Shit.

Goddamn complicated, that’s what this was. His job. It was his job. But even he had to admit they’d crossed enough lines that the two of them were on a whole new playing field.

They hadn’t talked about the morning after the race—not about the sim, the pool, or Colt waking up sleep-mussed in Beau’s bed at ten. They’d eaten breakfast, Beau had given him the day off, and that had been the end of it.

But he’d held that man in his lap while he fell to pieces, and now he’d reduced what was between them to a job. Which was all it should be. Except that Beau had lain down to sleep Sunday night and pressed his face into his pillow, and when he’d smelled Colt, his heart had ached. Nothing about this was professional.

Beau put his hands on his hips and tipped his head back, his jaw tight. Then he rolled his shoulders and headed out into the garage.

Camila had her hands buried under a hood, and she gave him a questioning look.

“I’m taking off.” Beau hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “And I’ll be back soon to take Colt, too. Keep him outta trouble for a bit, will you?”

“Yeah.” Nodding, Camila set her hands on the shop towel she had draped across the front of the car. “Thanks, Merc. For looking out for him.”

“Mhmm.” Beau shut the shop door, then his office, and left before Colt was out of the bathroom.

***

Work was slow, which meant Colt’s brain was going fast, fast, fast. He'd watched the video someone had tagged him in more times than he could count, a compilation of every stupid move he'd made on Saturday. Just for a little cherry on top, whoever had made the video had added the theme song from Jackass to it.

Fingers drumming against the desk, Colt glanced at the clock. Three fifteen. The shop didn't close for hours, which meant he couldn't go use Beau's sim for hours, which meant he was just standing around wasting space and trying not to think about the way it had felt to hear those words out of Beau’s mouth.

“It's my job,” Colt sneered in an exaggerated southern accent as he picked at a piece of tape stuck to the side of the desk. “Your job. Sure. Only job I've ever heard of where someone ends up in your bed during the work day is—”

The bell over the door jingled, and Beau walked in looking annoyingly hot in a dark green tank top and black exercise shorts that hit him mid-thigh. Which made Beau either oblivious or fucking mean, because Colt didn't need to add this knowledge to his growing catalogue of Beau.

Reading glasses, happy trail, thick fucking thighs. Fuck.

Stop looking. Not your job.

That did it. Hard to give yourself an inappropriate hard-on when you were busy being pissed.

Colt picked up the clipboard where he kept a running list of daily tasks and looked for something to do. Unfortunately, he'd already blown through the list half an hour ago. He could pretend to read, though, avoid Beau's gaze until he went back into his office at least.

A hand plucked the clipboard from his grip, and he was given Beau's gym bag instead. He looked down at it, then up at Beau.

“Get changed. We're going out.”

“Out where?”

The urge to look inside the bag was high. Ignoring curiosity wasn't his strong suit. But he set the bag down on the desk anyway.

“Out.”

“Sorry, I've got work,” Colt said as he crossed his arms. “You know. Myjob.”

Beau's jaw ticked, and he let a breath out through his nose. “I know you're mad at me. Get changed anyway.”

“Oh, good.” Colt snatched up the bag and turned toward the bathroom. “So you haven't gone full robot-regression.”