Page 20 of Over the Limit

“True.” I glance around the sparsely populated bar and then back to her. Nope. Definitely no Rossi anywhere. “This hotel has always been protective of the drivers when we’re here. Added security at the doors. Key cards must be shown so only guests can come in. Access to private elevators.” I shrug. “So it’s nice that I can just sit here and . . . be.”

“Why though?”

“Why am I sitting here?” I ask and she nods. “Because I get nervous before testing.”

She laughs, but then stops herself when she realizes I’m being honest. “Seriously?”

I nod. “Yep. It doesn’t matter how many hundreds of times I’ve been on the track or behind the wheel, I get nervous. I think it’s a good thing. It means I’m not too comfortable. It means I respect the sport and what could happen to me at any given time. And damn, it’s a fucking cool reminder that I get to do this every day.”

Her grin widens and her eyes spark with wildfire. “It is pretty cool.”

“What about you, Tinkerbell?”

“Tinkerb—” I motion toward her green slippers with the fuzzy white ball on the top. “A gift from one of my sisters.” She lifts one of her feet to show them off.

“Very classy. As are your pajama pants.”

She looks down at her black leggings with various dog faces all over them, lips pursed, and shrugs before meeting my eyes again. “You’ll find I don’t much care about what people think.”

“That makes two of us.”

“I learned a long time ago that listening to the outside noise tends to kill confidence, and I refuse to let anyone dull my sparkle.”

Jesus. This woman. She’s something else, drawing me in when I really need to step away.

“And what is your sparkle, Blair?”

“For one, I got a promotion today.” Her words start out excited and then fade off, almost as if she’s embarrassed that she just said that.

“Really? That’s huge. Congratulations. I think.” I pause. “Why are you not out celebrating?”

“There’s no need to. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“I call bullshit. Every victory in life—no matter how big or small—deserves to be celebrated. There are no guarantees that there will be more to come.”

“Agreed, but like I said, it’s no—”

“I won’t hear differently.” I smack my hands on the bar top for emphasis. “What’ll you have?”

“Nothing. Seriously. C’mon.”

“A toast is in order.” I motion to the bartender who moves our way. “A bottle of champagne please. Your best.”

“Lachlan.” My name falls like a chastised child from her lips. “You don’t need to . . .”

I grab her hands to stop her protest . . . and the action stops the words on her lips all right, just like I swear it does my fucking heart.

What is this shit? This sudden buzz is like an undercurrent. My heart pounding like a kick drum. The flash of heat where our skin touches.

The hitch of her goddamn breath.

I hear it and it means she either felt that jolt of lightning strike too or she thinks I’m a fucking prick since she has a boyfriend.

My smile is cautious as I let go of her hands and turn toward where the bartender is pouring two glasses of champagne.

“Tell me about the job.”

“Well, it’s not exactly a promotion.” She worries her hands up and down her thighs. “It’s a chance to prove myself.”