Page 17 of Over the Limit

That I wanted to actually celebrate?

I want to sit and let the champagne’s bubbles tickle my nose as I laugh and just be for a little bit before the chaos of tomorrow begins again.

I knock. Again. But I don’t hear Rossi shuffling about inside or his rumbling voice telling me to hold my ponies. His ridiculous attempt to sound like me—American—but forgetting that the saying is really hold your horses.

It’s race week and his team curfew is in full effect. He should be here. I knock once more.

The door beside his hotel room opens, and a rumpled head of blond hair peeks out. It’s one of his crew members. “Hey, Blair. Rossi’s out. You didn’t hear it from me, but I think he’s still at the club. Luxe, I think.”

Luxe? Yep. That’s one of his favorites.

So much for celebrating. Well, with me at least.

“Thanks.” I offer a pathetic smile. “I appreciate it. Sorry if I woke you.”

“No problem.”

His door clicks shut and I’m left alone with a bottle of bubbly that no longer sounds appealing and disappointment heavy in my heart.

Fact of the matter is I could be the clingy girlfriend and show up at the club. But that’s not me. That’s not us. We’re not stuck together at the hip. We live our lives just like we always have, and so the fact that he completely forgot to say anything to me hurts. A lot.

It reminds me of Saturday night when I felt cast aside. When I’d wanted to leave the party, but he’d seemed incredulous.

Rossi’s gorgeous face falls and his eyes widen. “I—um . . . you want to go?” he asks like I’m crazy.

“It’s been a long week of prep.” And I don’t feel like yelling above the music to talk anymore. I shouldn’t have to explain myself to my boyfriend with everyone around us listening.

“But this is fun. I’m having fun. Aren’t you?” His hand slides to my lower back and he pulls me against him in a rare show of what he’d consider affection, something he normally reserves for in private.

“Yes. Sure. But we had plans.” Just like we always do before race week. Or rather more like—like we used to before race week.

His smile falters and eyes narrow. “C’mon, Blair. Don’t get like that. It’s not that big of a deal if we skip it this once.”

“Uh-huh.” More like this would be the third race in a row. Not the first time. And by his sigh of exasperation, I know he knows it but would never admit it.

“Look. I don’t want to go yet. It’s been stressful and this is . . . exactly what I need.”

This. This meaning the adoration and attention. The people hanging on his every word and thinking that whatever it is, it’s the greatest thing ever uttered.

In classic Rossi fashion, if he’s not getting it on the track, this is what he craves.

It’s never what I need, but I’ve learned that my needs never come first. Rarely matter. I nod. “Got it.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder and try to shake the disappointment that hits harder than I expected.

I shouldn’t be hurt. I know plans change. Hell, they always change in this crazy, travel-heavy life we live.

Maybe Rossi and I are on a downward swing. It wouldn’t be the first time we hit a bump and needed a break. Hell, while our relationship has been full of them over the years, our friendship beyond that has never wavered. Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow . . . or accept.

Russ mouthing I love you across the patio to Skylar floats through my mind. My dad turning off my mom’s alarm clock without her knowing so that she can sleep in to express his love and gratitude for her does too.

Different loves. Little ways to show it.

With a sag of my shoulders, I set the bottle down against Rossi’s door—maybe it will jog his memory about the text he sent when he returns—and head back to my room. But sleep eludes me. No matter how long I stare at the ceiling or run checklists in my head over what I need to do, the clock on the hotel nightstand doesn’t seem to move any quicker.

Midnight.

A whole nine minutes have transpired since the last time I looked at it, and I have nothing to show for it. Not a minute of added sleep. Not a second more of clarity. Not a life-changing epiphany. Not a knock on the door from Rossi after returning and realizing he screwed up.

Instead, I’ve acquired an astute knowledge of how the shadows move across the ceiling of my hotel room while pondering why footsteps in hotel hallways sound so much louder at night.